“They’re fond of his apple crumble,” I said. “He made it for them as a reward for good behavior during the storm.”
Steve has the support of a villager, a coworker, and his employers, and he makes special treats for Jemima and Nicholas. It sounds as though he’s well on his way to redemption. Why, then, would he lose his temper with a French tourist?
“Monsieur Renault seems to have a knack for infuriating people,” I informed her. “He’s the reason the tour group was stranded here. Apparently, he vanished just before they were due to leave Shepney, and he didn’t show up again until it was too late for them to get out of town.”
What an inconsiderate thing to do. He must have known that the storm would make it imperative for them to leave on time. It would have served him right if they’d left without him.
“They may leave without him anyway,” I said.
Has he done something else to irritate them?
“He has,” I said. “While the rest of the group is camping out in the inn’s public parlors, he’s sitting pretty in a guest room.”
How did he come by a guest room? I thought they were in short supply.
“He reserved his ahead of time,” I said, “so he could take a nap while the group explored Shepney.”
Bus tours can be tiring, but I suspect his foresight hasn’t endeared him to his compatriots.
“Quite the opposite,” I confirmed. “He must have nerves of steel, though. Almost everyone in the dining room was giving him the stink eye this evening, but he didn’t seem to care, and he held his own in his argument with Steve.”
I wish you’d understood more than three words of the argument.
“Sorry, Dimity,” I said, “but I was listening through a closed door and they were talking very fast. Le prix, un escroc, and a string of emphatic nons were the only words I could make out.”
The price, a crook, and no! It’s not much to go on.
“According to our waitress, Steve routinely bars guests from entering his domain,” I said. “I can’t help wondering if he had a special reason to bar Monsieur Renault. Remember the white packet?”
The white packet filled with an unknown substance?
I hesitated, then said cautiously, “What if the unknown substance is drugs?”
Then Monsieur Renault would be a very dangerous man indeed.
“He’d pose a particular danger to an ex-con,” I said pensively. “I don’t think they’re allowed to hang out with drug dealers.”
Steve’s parole may require him to avoid contact with criminals of any kind. But if Monsieur Renault is a drug dealer, why hasn’t Steve reported him to the police? At the very least, I would expect him to tell the Hancocks that they’re harboring a felon.
“The police can’t reach Shepney until the floodwaters recede,” I said, “so there’d be no point in notifying them right now. As for the Hancocks . . .” I frowned into the middle distance for a moment, then looked down at the journal. “Maybe Monsieur Renault has something on Steve.”
Are you suggesting that Monsieur Renault is a blackmailer as well as a drug dealer?
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said. “Christopher thinks Steve’s found his true purpose in life at The King’s Ransom. If there’s a shameful secret in his past—a secret that would put his job at risk—he might do just about anything to hush it up.”
How would Monsieur Renault have discovered Steve’s shameful secret?
“They could have known each other in the bad old days,” I said. “They could have been partners in crime. Or Monsieur Renault could have heard about it from one of Steve’s cellmates or from an accomplice, if Steve had an accomplice. Criminals are probably as prone to gossip as villagers.”
As underworld gossip can have terminal consequences, I would expect criminals to be more circumspect than villagers, but I take your point. Do you intend to tell the Hancocks about the white packet?
“No,” I said, “not unless something else crops up. It’s okay to speculate about Monsieur Renault with you, Dimity, but I wouldn’t go to the Hancocks with nothing more than three words taken out of context and a glimpse of a packet that may or may not contain drugs.”
Unless I’m mistaken, Lori, you have just refused to jump to a conclusion.
“Will wonders never cease?” I said, grinning.
Apparently not. I, too, will reserve judgment on Monsieur Renault, but I’m in complete agreement with your decision to exclude him from your conversation with Bill. Your husband would not have been pleased to hear that you were staying in the same inn as a drug-dealing blackmailer.
“My sentiments exactly,” I said. “I didn’t tell Bill about Jemima’s dead lady, either.”
Why not? Were you afraid he’d tease you about your skittishness last night?
“He wouldn’t have understood my skittishness,” I said, “because I also didn’t tell him that I’m sleeping in a spooky, creepy, shadowy, dusty attic. And by the way,” I added defensively, “I wasn’t the only one who heard strange noises last night. Christopher heard them, too. We both heard my oak door creak and we both heard children laughing at half past two in the morning.”
I believe we’ve explained the creaking door adequately, Lori. As for the children laughing, your room and the bishop’s are situated near the Hancocks’ flat. You both must have heard Jemima and Nicholas.
“That’s what we thought,” I said, “but Jean swears that her children were asleep at half past two. She blames the storm for the sounds we heard.”
How does the bishop account for the laughter?
“He thinks we may have heard children on another floor,” I said. “His theory is that the sounds funneled up to us through gaps in the inn’s walls.”
It’s a reasonable theory. Old buildings often have architectural quirks. I once stayed in a house in which noises from the kitchen could be heard in the upstairs guest bedroom. I found it quite disturbing until I realized what was going on, just as you were disturbed by Jemima’s dead lady until you spoke with me.
“I’m still disturbed by Jemima’s dead lady,” I said, “but for a different reason.”
Was the bishop responsible for Jemima’s macabre flight of fancy?
“He had nothing to do with the dead lady,” I said. “Jemima heard the story from the rector’s son, a ten-year-old troublemaker named Trevor. I’m disturbed because Trevor won’t be punished for trying to frighten her.”
Is the rector reluctant to punish his son?
“No,” I said. “He’s unaware that his son deserves to be punished, because . . .” I took another deep breath and explained Shepney’s bizarre tradition of handing ghost stories down from one generation to the next. “The difference between Trevor’s story and the traditional stories,” I concluded, “is that the traditional stories were inspired by real people.”
I see what you mean, Lori. Captain Pigg, the gray lady, the maudlin drunkard, the singing boy, the sword-fighters, and the angry man in room thirty-two once lived and breathed. The same can be said of the black dog who wanders The King’s Ransom in search of his master. Trevor’s dead lady, however, is pure fantasy. Her ghost doesn’t exist because she never existed.
“I believe you, of course,” I said, “but the rector would think I was nuts if I told him that a real dead lady told me the truth about the fake dead lady.”
Yes, I’m afraid he would regard your testimony as somewhat unreliable.
“So Trevor won’t be punished because I can’t tell the rector why he should be,” I said. “Trevor wasn’t being a good little Shepney boy when he told Jemima about the dead lady. He made up the story because he wanted to scare her.”
I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion, either, Lori. It’s possible that Trevor told the story in good faith. He may have heard it from a village child who was trying to scare him. It seems unlikely th
at he’s the only troublemaker in Shepney.
“Anything’s possible,” I agreed. “But Trevor will remain my main suspect until I hear otherwise. Thankfully, Jemima doesn’t seem to be losing sleep over the dead lady. In fact, she was aware of the storytelling tradition before her mother was.” I shook my head. “Jean Hancock knows remarkably little about the inn or the village.”
There’s nothing remarkable about it, Lori. The poor woman is raising two children while running a demanding business in a new community. If she ever has a moment to call her own, I doubt that she spends it swotting up on Shepney’s history. You and the bishop, on the other hand, had all the time in the world to search the bookstore’s extensive history section for the answer to your question about the inn. Why didn’t you?
“We . . . I . . . uh . . .” My voice trailed off into embarrassed silence while I scrambled for a reply that didn’t make my foolish oversight seem like an imbecilic oversight. “The store was packed with people, Dimity, and the big guy fell off the step stool, and Horatio told us to come back tomorrow, and we wanted to talk with Jemima before evensong, and . . . and . . . I guess you could say we were distracted,” I finished weakly.
You’re not distracted now. I believe you mentioned a collection of books in the attic. One of them might contain information about the inn.
“There’s a bookcase,” I said, “but it looks as though it’s full of boarding-school novels.” I turned my head to scan the faded spines, then tilted the camping lantern to shed more light on the teak bookcase. The tilted lantern and my prone position allowed me to see a slender volume I hadn’t noticed before. “Hold on a minute, Dimity. There seems to be something wedged between Billy Bunter of Greyfriars and The Fifth Form at St. Dominic’s. I’ll be right back.”
I placed the blue journal on the octagonal table, got out of bed, and crossed to the bookcase. The slender volume I’d spotted wasn’t a book per se but a worn and faded notebook. Since it looked as though it might be fragile, I removed the books on either side of it before pulling it from the shelf and opening it. After turning a few pages, I brought the notebook back to bed with me, crawled under the duvet, and laid it gently on my lap. I took the blue journal from the octagonal table and held it open with one hand while paging through the notebook with the other.
“I think it’s a ledger, Dimity,” I said. “An eighteenth-century ledger, by the looks of it. The paper and the writing style are Georgian, and the entries were handwritten with a quill pen.”
Your background as a rare-book bibliographer is serving you well, my dear.
Aunt Dimity was referring to an informal position I’d once held at my university’s library. Though I didn’t have a degree in library science, I had a lot of experience handling rare books and manuscripts.
“Knowledge is never wasted,” I declared. I pulled the camping lantern closer and studied the florid handwriting. “The first entry is dated”—I gave a low whistle—“19 September 1741. The rest of the entry reads like an alcoholic’s shopping list: 61 gallons brandy, 120 gallons wine, 200 gallons rum, and 330 gallons g-geneva.” I stumbled over the last word and looked questioningly at the blue journal. “What’s geneva?”
I have no idea, but if it’s listed with brandy, wine, and rum, I imagine it’s another type of liquor.
I turned back to the ledger. “The second entry lists various amounts of tea and tobacco. The third entry is similar to the first: brandy, rum, geneva. The prices aren’t listed, but—” I broke off as a sudden insight occurred to me. “What if this stuff is priceless?”
Do you mean rare?
“No,” I said slowly. “I mean illegal. The ledger could be a record of smuggled goods, couldn’t it, Dimity?”
It could. I believe smuggling was a common occupation in East Sussex at one time.
“Smuggled goods would be sold on the black market,” I said. “The prices would vary, depending on the buyer, so they couldn’t be recorded accurately until the goods were sold.” I stared at the incomplete entries, thinking hard. “I believe I was mistaken, Dimity. The notebook isn’t a ledger. It’s an inventory.”
I follow your reasoning, but I wonder what prompted you to connect the notebook to smuggling?
“Joe Turner,” I replied. “And the rector, come to think of it. Joe reckoned that the inn’s name had something to do with smuggling, and the rector backed him up.” I laughed out loud as another insight struck me. “Smugglers would have transported liquor in wooden barrels, wouldn’t they? I’ll bet you anything that the barrel on the inn’s sign refers to smuggling.” My laughter died away when I realized that I’d solved only part of the riddle. “But I still don’t know why the inn is called The King’s Ransom.”
I suspect that Horatio Best will be able to give you a definitive answer.
“I’m sure he’ll give us a long one,” I said, “but it will probably be definitive. I’ll bring the notebook with me to the bookstore tomorrow. It’ll knock his flashy socks off.”
You may not have noticed, Lori, but tomorrow is fast approaching.
I looked at my cell phone and saw to my dismay that it was nearing midnight.
“I’d better call it a day, Dimity,” I said. “I’ll need to have my wits about me tomorrow. It’s not easy to keep Horatio from wandering off into digression land. I’ll let you know what we find out.”
I look forward to hearing the unexpurgated version. Sleep well, my dear. If you hear children laughing again, put a pillow over your head.
“I will,” I said, smiling. “Good night, Dimity.”
The graceful lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page. I closed the journal and the inventory and placed both on the octagonal table.
“Were you named after a smuggler?” I asked Captain Pigg.
His gleaming black eyes seemed to suggest that I was on the right track.
Smiling, I touched a fingertip to his pink nose, turned off the camping lantern, and pulled the duvet up to my chin. I had no trouble falling asleep.
A short time later, when the sound of a creaking door pulled me from a pleasant dream, I cursed the inn’s architectural quirks and followed Aunt Dimity’s sage advice.
Eighteen
Aunt Dimity’s advice worked. I wasn’t awakened by a sound the following morning. I was awakened by shafts of sunlight shining softly through the grimy dormer windows. The rain had ended at last. If the U-shaped stairs hadn’t been so treacherous, I would have tap-danced down them.
My laundered clothes were waiting for me in the powder room. After completing my morning routine, I decided to wear my hiking gear again. Though the sun’s return had lifted my spirits, I wasn’t convinced that it would shine all day. English weather was changeable at the best of times. In mid-October, it was downright flighty.
I toasted the cyclone’s departure with a cup of hot cocoa, stowed the slender notebook in my shoulder bag, gathered my rain jacket and the thermos, and went downstairs. The dining room was less romantic with sunlight streaming through the wall of windows, but no one seemed to mind. I detected a definite uptick in the general mood. Whether it was due to the sun’s presence or to Monsieur Renault’s absence, however, was debatable.
Christopher had beaten me to our table. To my relief, he looked as fresh as a daisy as he waved at me with a pair of menus. After informing me that power had been restored in the village, he selected oatmeal, fresh fruit, and coffee for his breakfast. I went for the roasted butternut squash omelet and a pot of black tea.
Tessa, who seemed to work twelve-hour shifts, came to take our orders and to relieve me of the thermos. She approached our table shyly, as if she still felt guilty for speaking out on Steve’s behalf, but we did our best to put her at ease. When she left, I asked Christopher if he, too, had heard a door creak in the wee hours. He had, but he’d noted a detail that had escaped my attention.
“I heard the door creak at hal
f past two in the morning,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked with a doubtful frown.
He nodded. “My travel alarm is quite reliable, and I was struck by the coincidence. I heard the sound of children laughing at half past two yesterday morning, and I heard your door creak at half past two this morning.”
“You didn’t hear my door,” I told him. “Gavin oiled the hinges to within an inch of their lives. They don’t creak anymore.”
“There must be another door in need of lubrication,” said Christopher.
“I hope the guest mentions it to Gavin,” I said. “I’d like to make it through at least one night without playing ‘What’s That Noise?’”
“A game in which we are involuntary and most unwilling participants,” Christopher commented.
“On a brighter note, take a look at this.” I pulled the notebook from my shoulder bag and passed it to him. “I found it last night, tucked away on a bookshelf in the attic. I think it’s a smuggler’s inventory. Joe Turner told me that smugglers owned East Sussex back in the day.”
“So they did.” Christopher turned the notebook’s pages with the light touch of a man accustomed to handling delicate documents. “It could very well be a smuggler’s inventory, Lori. I believe brandy, rum, and tea were among the most common goods smuggled into England in the eighteenth century.” He handed the notebook back to me. “I congratulate you. You’ve made a remarkable discovery.”
“The attic is full of treasures,” I told him, returning the slender volume to my bag. “If the Hancocks auctioned them off, they’d be rich enough to seal the gaps in the inn’s walls.”
“The notebook is certainly a treasure,” he agreed.
“I’ll turn it over to Jean and Gavin,” I said, “but not until after I’ve shown it to Horatio Best.”
“I must admit that I’d like to hear his thoughts on it,” said Christopher.
“I’m sure we’ll hear his thoughts on a whole lot of things,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I had a thought about the inn’s sign last night. It occurred to me that the wooden barrel could symbolize the barrels smugglers used to transport liquor.”
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