by Robin Paige
And now that she’d had time to consider it, she was beginning to understand that a search of the area where Patrick had disappeared was not likely to do any good, anyway. If her intuition was right and the photographer had abducted Patrick, the boy wouldn’t be on the downs—he would be hidden somewhere, bound so that he could not escape and gagged so that he could not cry out. But where?
“My head aches so terribly that I can scarcely see,” Aunt Georgie said with a heavy sigh, after they had met with their third or fourth refusal. “I must go home, Kate. There’s nothing more I can do except pray for him.”
Kate put her arms around Aunt Georgie. “And I’m beginning to think that there’s no point in trying to search, even if we could get the men to do it,” she said, feeling a great weariness. “Anyway, it will be dark soon. Charles and Rud will return from Brighton shortly, and they will surely know what to do.”
But as she made her own way back to Seabrooke House, she was not at all sure that Charles and Rud would have any answers, or be able to offer any helpful suggestions. Patrick had been taken for an unknown purpose by a man who seemed to stand far behind the scenes, a man whose face she could neither remember nor describe with any clarity.
But she could remember Patrick, his freckled face, his fiery hair, his dancing eyes green as springtime. And his loss burned like a fire in her heart.
31
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;
The thief doth fear each bush an
officer.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE Henry VI, 3
Harry Tudwell’s misgivings about tonight’s undertaking had been growing deeper and darker over the past twenty-four hours. On the one hand, he was glad to have been advanced in rank—“promoted,” as the representative of the investors had so agreeably put it. He could scarcely wait to tell Trunky Thomas and the others that he had been chosen to take over the deceased Foxy’s position, and that from now on, the instructions from the investors would come solely through him. On the other hand, Harry could not rid himself of the ominous suspicion that the sinister man who had visited him was Foxy Smith’s killer, and that if he did not do as he was instructed, he would find himself ticked off as “superfluous,” as well.
Harry’s misgivings had darkened even further after he had been visited by that dandified lord in his Homburg hat, who claimed to represent the Crown and who wrote down everything Harry said in a fancy leather-bound notebook with a fountain pen. But even though the investors’ representative had warned him that Lord Sheridan might prove meddlesome, his lordship was clearly more interested in his stylish trouser creases than in digging up the truth, and Harry hardly thought that the toff posed any real danger. It was the Chief Constable in Brighton that Harry feared, and although there had been no sign of him since he took away Foxy’s corpse, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he and his men might be waiting when the ship came in that night.
Taken altogether, then, Harry was not in the highest of spirits as he began tonight’s work—a mood that was not brightened by the threat of a menacing storm blowing out of the southeast, over the Channel. But the leather traveling case had arrived safely, just as the investors’ representative had said, and Harry had kept to his office the entire day so that it would not go unguarded. As dusk fell, he took his bull’s-eye lantern and picked up the traveling case, carrying it down a seldom-used path to the beach, where he locked it into the first bathing machine. Then he located one of Trunky’s skiffs and pulled it onto the deserted shingle near the bathing machines. Having managed all of this without being detected, he climbed up the stairs to the top of the cliff.
There was a light in the window of Trunky’s shack and as he walked across the gravel, Harry wondered once again why the man had agreed to be the third lantern for tonight’s landing. Harry was sure enough of John Landsdowne’s loyalty, for their friendship went back to boyhood days, and even though the chemist had openly criticized him in that noisy meeting at the Black Horse, Harry knew John would never let him down. But Trunky Thomas was certainly no friend, and Harry had been surprised when Landsdowne had told him yesterday that Trunky had volunteered for signaling duty. It had even occurred to Harry that Trunky might have some sort of villainous intention in mind. Still, the loyal John would be there, so if Trunky meant to make a move, he would have to take on the both of them. Anyway, it seemed better to have Trunky with him and out of mischief when the ship came in. If the ship came in, Harry reminded himself, eyeing the waves licking at the beach and the angry lightning that flickered far out to sea. They were in for a blow, there was no doubt about it. The men would have to work fast to get everything unloaded and into the tunnel while the ship could still stand close off the shore without danger.
If Trunky had any malevolent ambitions, he gave no sign of them when he opened the door to Harry. Neither did he offer any friendly remark. They greeted one another with wary nods, took their lanterns and walked to the chemist’s shop to meet John Landsdowne. As the three walked back down the High Street to the coast road, Harry’s disquietude took on a new coloring. At this time of evening, the villagers should have been at table, wolfing down their suppers in preparation for the night’s work. Instead, they stood in their doorways or sat in their windows, silently watching the trio pass. Something in their guarded expressions gave Harry to suspect that they knew some secret to which he was not privy, but he passed this off as his nerves playing tricks on him. They were getting what they wanted, weren’t they? The ship was coming in, just as they had demanded. They had nothing to gain and everything to lose if there was trouble tonight. When the time came, in an hour or so, they’d be gathered on the beach, ready to unload the goods.
Still, Harry couldn’t shake the thought of the chief constable’s men lurking somewhere on the cliff, so as the three of them turned onto the coast road and began the uphill eastward climb, he said to John and Trunky, “Best be on your guard, boys. The Queen’s forces may be about tonight.”
Trunky snorted contemptuously. “Ain’t no forces hereabouts. Queen’s or any other. If there was, my men ’ud told me.”
“Trunky’s right,” John said. “Nobody’s ‘eard nothin’. It’s all clear for t’night.”
Harry smarted under the suggestion that Trunky’s intelligence network was superior to his, but he said nothing. For all he knew, Trunky was right—but that did not dispel the nagging feeling, growing stronger by the minute, that they were being watched. They walked the rest of the way to their signaling station, the old farmhouse on the cliff, arriving shortly after eight o’clock. It was full dark.
When the flint-walled farmhouse was built two hundred years before, it had stood a safe distance from the cliff. But the ocean had eaten away the land, and half of the building had vanished into the surf below. Open to the sea on one side, with three partial walls still standing to shield the lanterns from sight, it was an excellent signaling post.
Harry shuttered his lantern so that his eyes would grow accustomed to the dark and sat down on a fallen timber, staring seaward. The wind was gustier now and the lightning flickers were brighter, and he began to wonder whether the ship captain would respond to their signal or would decide to abort the landing. The three lanterns instructed the ship to put in at Rottingdean, where the villagers were waiting to unload it; if they showed only one lantern, the ship would shift course for Saltdean Gap, a quarter of a mile to the east, and the men would hurry to meet it. Two lanterns would send it even further east, toward Newhaven.
The three of them sat in an edgy silence for the better part of an hour. Once or twice Harry thought he heard something—a footfall, a scattering of rock—and got up to investigate but found nothing. Then John pointed to a single brief flash of light perhaps a mile offshore. “There ’tis!” he exclaimed. “Ship’s light.”
“Good thing, too,” Trunky growled. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if plans ’ad changed an’ nobody told us.”
Relieved that the ship had gotten this far i
n without incident, Harry stood up and prepared to unshutter his lantern. “Ready with your lanterns,” he directed briskly. “We’ll flash on the count of three, all together.” He began the count. “One... two ... three.” On the final count, he raised the shutter, sending out a gleam of light into the blackness.
The ship responded with another single flash. For a second, Harry stared, not quite taking it in. Then, “They’ve got it wrong!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “They’re going to Saltdean! Didn’t they see your lanterns?” He turned to his companions. “We’ll have to repeat the signal.”
But Trunky’s and John’s lanterns were still on the ground, shuttered, and their faces told the story. They had intentionally botched the signal.
“Wot d‘ye think you’re doin’?” Harry demanded angrily. “Why would ye send th’ ship to—”
“Take him!” Trunky commanded. Lansdowne seized both of Harry’s arms from behind, pushing him to his knees and swiftly lashing his wrists.
“You bastards!” Harry cried. “I trusted you, John! I—” Struggling furiously, trying to get to his feet, he felt the cold hardness of a gun barrel pressed behind his ear.
“Shut yer mouth,” Trunky said. “There’s a good chap.” He pushed Harry over on his side. “Tie ‘is feet, too, John, an’ stuff yer ’andkerchief in ’is mouth. Lively now, th’ men are waitin’ for us.”
“But why Saltdean?” Harry demanded, as John whipped a stout cord around his ankles. “It’s far ‘nough to th’ tunnel as ’tis. Why—”
“The tunnel?” Landsdowne laughed harshly. “We ain’t usin’ th’ tunnel tonight, ‘Arry. We’re takin’ th’ goods an’ movin’ ’em east, along th’ coast road to New’aven. There ain’t like to be any coast guards to th’ east.”
“John,” Trunky snarled, “you’re talkin’ too much. ’E don’t need to know our business.”
“You blighter!” Harry kicked out with his bound feet. “When I get free o’ this, I’ll show ye wot th’ business is all about! It won’t just be me, neither. Th’ investors will be after you.”
“ ‘Oo needs th’ investors?” Trunky’s tone was surly. “We’ll make more on our own than wi’ them.”
“But they paid plenty o’ money for wot’s on that ship,” Harry cried, “an’ ye’re stealin’ from ‘em.” He appealed to John. “ ‘Ave a care wot ye’re doin‘, John, ol’ friend. D’ye think they’ll take this lyin’ down? D’ye think—”
“I said shut up,” Trunky said savagely. A second later, Harry felt the shock of a blow to his temple and he was lost in black unconsciousness.
32
... In my heart
Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will—
We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside ...
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE As You Like It
While Amelia laid the tea things, Kate paced impatiently up and down in front of the drawing-room fire. Shortly, Charles arrived from Brighton, having dropped Kipling off at The Elms, but he had little to offer in the way of suggestions about finding Patrick, only a fierce exclamation of dismay.
“Kidnapped! But who the devil would—?”
“The photographer I saw by the barn was the same man we talked with on the Quarter Deck on Saturday,” Kate said intently. “Gray bowler, gray knickerbockers—I’m sure of it. And Patrick recognized him too. I don’t know how that man is connected to this awful business, Charles, but I’m sure he’s taken the boy. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”
Hurriedly, Charles finished the last of his sandwich. “Describe the man to me, Kate. Tell me everything that you remember about him.”
Kate closed her eyes and thought back to the encounter. “Gray bowler, gray knickerbockers,” she repeated. “I can’t recall anything about his face, except that he had very pale blue eyes. He spoke with a Continental accent, French, perhaps. And he wore polished black boots. I remember that, because he clicked his heels when he saluted, in a military way.” She frowned and opened her eyes. “Somehow, that detail seems important, but I can’t think why. Anyway, he made some sort of remark about the natives killing themselves by jumping off the cliff. And he said he liked Rottingdean because it was so quaint and peaceful. He said he was looking for accommodations in this vicinity.”
Charles sat silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then he leaned forward, his eyes alight. “A Continental accent? A military salute?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he clicked his heels together, like ... like that antiquarian we met on the road to Black Rock. The same antiquarian that Patrick overheard talking to Harry Tudwell in the stable office.” She stared at him. “Charles! The photographer and the antiquarian—they’re the same man!”
Charles took her hand in both of his. “Kate, my dear—”
She jerked her hand back. “Charles, you’ve got to believe me. I know it doesn’t make sense, but—”
“I do believe you, Kate,” Charles replied. “You have given me the one clue that just might make sense out of this whole damned muddle! If this photographer-cum-antiquarian has taken Patrick, it can only be because the boy can identify him. And if his identity is that important to the success of the game...” His voice trailed off and he sat, thinking.
Kate bit her lip. “Charles, I’m frightened. That man—do you think he will harm Patrick?”
Charles was grim. “I won’t lie to comfort you, my dear. Yes. I fear that he will harm the boy. He’s already killed one man. His future success in this country depends on his real identity—whatever that is—remaining concealed. He doesn’t want anyone to know his name or who he is, and if Patrick can tell—”
“Then we must find him!” Kate cried. “We must find the boy!”
“I’m sorry, Kate. I can’t help you.” Charles looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “I have to be on the cliffs in a half-hour. I have a feeling that tonight we’ll get to the bottom of all this, one way or another, and everything will come to light.” He paused, his eyes on her face. “I suppose you’ve told the constable that Patrick has gone missing.”
“Of course, but he’s useless,” Kate said bitterly. “Aunt Georgie and I talked to several of the villagers, too, about organizing a search, but they refused to be involved. She has gone back to North End House with a sick headache. I think she has given up.” Kate bit her lip. “How about Rud? Perhaps he could help.” But help how? she cried out to herself. She already knew that it would be fruitless to search the downs, for she was sure that the man had taken Patrick somewhere else. Where else—?
“I need Kipling with me tonight.” Charles stood and touched her face tenderly. “I am so very sorry, Kate. I know how deeply you feel about this. Please, have another cup of tea—or better yet, a glass of brandy. Try to be calm, and for heaven’s sake, don’t do anything rash. In fact, I am giving you an order: you are to stay in this house for the rest of the night. As soon as this venture is over, I promise we’ll turn the whole village out for a search.”
“But by then it will be too late,” Kate said despairingly. “And it is all my fault! If I hadn’t fallen asleep, if I’d kept a closer eye on him—” She began to weep.
In answer, Charles tipped up the decanter, poured a glass of brandy, and set it in front of her. Then he kissed her and was gone.
Kate was not a woman to yield easily to tears. She wept only for a few minutes, until it came to her that she was weeping more for herself than for Patrick, and more out of guilt than sorrow. Then she stopped weeping and swallowed the brandy Charles had poured for her, feeling its warmth go all through her. She sat back in the chair, leaning her head on the cushion, thinking. She refused to consider the possibility that Patrick was dead. He had to be alive, somewhere—and somewhere close by, most likely. If Beryl Bardwell had created a plot in which a child was kidnapped, where would the villain hide him? The old windmill, perhaps? The tunnel?
The tunnel! She jumped to her feet just as Amelia came into the room to clear away the tea things. “F
orget the dishes, Amelia,” she commanded. “You can clear up later. Just now, I need you to help me change.”
“Yes, milady,” Amelia said, blinking at the unexpected urgency in her mistress’s voice. “You’re going out this evening?”
“Yes,” Kate said. “Yes, indeed. I am going out.” She paused, frowning. She was not afraid to go by herself, but if there were difficulties, she might be grateful for help. And she would certainly require a light of some sort, and a weapon. And yet she needed to move swiftly, without being encumbered. “Is Lawrence available?”
“Why, yes, ma’am,” Amelia said, her eyes opening wide. “ ‘E’s in th’ kitchen wi’ Mrs. Portney, ‘aving ’is tea.”
“Good,” Kate said with satisfaction. “Lawrence can go with me. Now, come upstairs quickly and help me find some clothes.”
“Surely, milady,” Amelia said, following Kate into the hall. “Your green silk is fresh pressed. Will you be wearing it?”
Kate smiled. “I think not, Amelia. Stout boots and woolen trousers and a dark waistcoat will be more suited to the occasion.” To Amelia’s gasp, she replied firmly, “Now, come, and I shall tell you what I plan to do.”
33
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
—OSCAR WILDE The Importance of Being Earnest
Harry swam up out of the blackness, pain hammering like an angry smith at the anvil of his skull. He was face down. His arms, pulled tight behind him, felt as if they had been wrenched out of their sockets, and his wrists and ankles were bound with fire. His nose was stopped with dirt, his mouth stuffed with a wad of cloth, and he could scarcely breathe. Under the roaring that filled his ears, he thought he heard voices. He did not open his eyes. If they were going to kill him, let them get it over and done with. He didn’t want to see the gun.