“I suppose the gold coins in the barrel could signify the smugglers’ ill-gotten gains,” Christopher said thoughtfully.
“Brilliant!” I exclaimed, beaming at him. “Wish I’d thought of it. I have a feeling we’ll both receive top marks from Horatio for good guesswork.”
“Even if we go to the head of the class,” he said, “our guesses don’t explain the inn’s name. Who was the king? Who held him for ransom? Was the ransom paid? If so, by whom?”
“We have to leave something for Horatio to do,” I said airily.
Our breakfasts arrived. Christopher’s oatmeal looked like oatmeal, but my omelet was another culinary masterpiece. The butternut squash was cooked to tender perfection with a sprig of rosemary and an inspired drizzle of maple syrup. Though Christopher finished his simple meal before I finished my feast, we left the inn in plenty of time to get to Best Books by ten.
* * *
—
As we strode down the high street, I saw an elderly woman standing stock still with her face turned toward the sun. Her beatific smile said everything that needed to be said about Shepney’s release from the cyclone’s rainy grasp.
She wasn’t the only sun worshipper. Though most of the shops were open, they were less crowded than they’d been the previous day. The sidewalks, by contrast, were as congested as a freeway at rush hour. It looked as though everyone in the village was celebrating the sun’s return with a leisurely promenade.
We hadn’t gone far when Christopher was accosted by an elderly man walking a yappy dachshund. While the two men chatted, I caught sight of an encounter that made me wish I could lip-read. Monsieur Renault and a red-haired woman stood in a narrow passage between two buildings, out of the main stream of pedestrian traffic. They appeared to be having an intense, and intensely private, conversation. The redhead kept glancing over her shoulder, as if to make sure that no one was eavesdropping.
My eyes nearly started from their sockets when Monsieur Renault drew a bulky white packet from inside his trench coat and exchanged it for a manila envelope the redhead thrust at him. Monsieur Renault stuffed the envelope in his coat pocket and strode hurriedly down the passage. The redhead was still tucking the white packet into her purse as she stepped onto the high street and merged with the sun worshippers.
“Lori?” said Christopher. “We can proceed now. Mr. Braithwaite was simply confirming the time for tomorrow’s service.”
“Did you see . . . ?” I began, but I let the question trail off. There was no point in asking him if he’d seen what I’d seen. It was clear that he hadn’t noticed anything beyond Mr. Braithwaite and the yappy pup.
Christopher continued to greet and to be greeted by various villagers as we walked on. I smiled reflexively while my mind lingered on the white packet and the manila envelope. I couldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but I was fairly certain I’d just witnessed a drug deal.
St. Alfege’s bells were chiming the hour as we approached the bookstore. A pudgy hand flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN, and Horatio Best stepped through the doorway in his monogrammed bedroom slippers to call a cheery hello to a family passing by. It took him a moment to recognize Christopher and me, but he smiled broadly as the penny dropped.
“My friends with the question!” he exclaimed in his deep, resonant voice. “I’m so glad to see you again. Do come in!”
Horatio was dressed in his familiar frock coat and pinstriped trousers, but he’d accessorized them with obvious tributes to the change in the weather: a yellow bow tie sprinkled with sunbursts, a yellow pocket square, a yellow-and-white striped waistcoat, and lemon-yellow socks. His colorful attire and his even more colorful manner helped me to set aside my unsettled thoughts about Monsieur Renault and the redhead, and to concentrate on the task at hand.
In keeping with the solar theme, the purple-haired young woman at the checkout counter wore a butter-yellow pullover and a pair of gold sunburst earrings. Horatio introduced her to us as the irreplaceable Ursula before leading us to his lecture hall in the history section. While we resumed our perches on the four-legged stools, he lowered himself into his high-backed armchair.
“How may I help you?” he inquired.
It would have been polite to ask him if Dennis Dodd had recovered from his fall, but I had no desire to listen to a lengthy discourse on the dangers of diabetes, so I stayed on the straight and narrow.
“Why is The King’s Ransom called The King’s Ransom?” I asked.
“Therein lies a tale,” he said.
“I thought it might,” I said under my breath.
Christopher disguised a snort of laughter with a cough.
“The inn was originally known as The Crown,” Horatio began. “The name referred to its lofty position atop Shepney’s limestone ridge, however, rather than to the monarchy. As we shall see, the monarchy has not always been held in high esteem in Shepney.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Taxation,” Horatio answered with rare brevity. “From the Anglo-Saxon period onward, English monarchs have financed lavish lifestyles as well as a continuous series of wars by imposing taxes on their subjects. The taxes were particularly burdensome in rural areas, where the common people were desperately poor and frequently on the brink of starvation. To evade import and export taxes, as well as starvation, residents of coastal communities frequently resorted to small-scale smuggling.”
“How burdensome were the taxes?” Christopher inquired.
“They became increasingly so,” Horatio replied. “By the early eighteenth century, the import tax on tea added almost seventy percent to the tea’s actual cost.”
“Ouch,” I muttered.
“As higher and higher taxes were placed on a wider and wider variety of products, smuggling became more and more profitable,” Horatio continued. “When profits rose, small-scale entrepreneurs were replaced or absorbed by highly organized gangs running massive operations.”
“What sorts of things did they smuggle?” I asked.
“In East Sussex,” Horatio replied, “wool and sheep were smuggled abroad, where they were used to buy taxable goods, which were smuggled into England. Methods varied from place to place and from era to era, but I can, if you wish, paint a broad portrait of a typical eighteenth-century smuggling operation.”
“Please do,” said Christopher.
Horatio cleared his throat and settled back in his chair. “A fishing ship laden with wool would set sail from an out-of-the-way-port—a port unsupervised or inadequately supervised by the Crown’s customs service—and return laden with luxury goods such as brandy, tea, and lace. Small boats would ferry the illicit goods from the ship to the shore. The cargo would then be transferred from the small boats to packhorses and transported inland.”
“Where did they take the cargo?” I asked.
“The most common destination was London,” said Horatio. “It was the biggest market for commodities of all kinds. Contraband goods were distributed from warehouses along the Thames and sold through fences, that is to say, purveyors of illegally obtained property.”
“Sounds like a massive operation,” I conceded.
“I did not choose the words for dramatic effect,” Horatio informed me with genial tartness. “By the eighteenth century thousands of people living on or near England’s south coast were involved in smuggling, either directly or tangentially.”
“Thousands?” I said in surprise.
Horatio rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and tented his fingertips over his brightly colored waistcoat. “It may be helpful to think of a smuggling operation as an import-export business.”
“Horatio?” said a vaguely familiar voice. The irreplaceable Ursula had left her post at the checkout counter to track down her boss. “Mongolian throat singing?”
Christopher and I exchanged mystified glances, but Horatio understood
the cryptic query to be a request for help, which he instantly provided.
“Travel,” he said. “Third shelf from the top. Beige cover, black type.”
“Thanks,” said Ursula and departed.
“Where were we?” Horatio asked.
“We were thinking of a smuggling operation as an import-export business,” I said.
“Excellent.” Horatio tapped his tented fingertips together as he continued, “Local fishermen were paid to carry out the Channel crossings, but a large network of employees was needed to load and to unload the cargo, to transport it overland, to run warehouses and other storage facilities, and to sell contraband goods. The gangs also employed lookouts and spies as well as armed guards who protected not only the contraband cargo but those handling it.”
“Those people were directly involved,” I said. “Who was involved tangentially?”
“Nearly everyone who lived near the coast was involved,” said Horatio, “whether by choice or through coercion. Contrary to popular belief, the smuggling gangs of the eighteenth century had little in common with Robin Hood’s merry men. They were vicious thugs who engaged in murder, torture, theft, and extortion to achieve their ends.”
“What happened to those who refused to cooperate with the gangs?” I asked with some trepidation.
“They were beaten brutally,” said Horatio. “Informers were singled out for special treatment. They were subjected to unspeakable torture before they were put to death.”
“To serve as an example to others?” Christopher put in shrewdly.
“Precisely.” Horatio nodded. “By the mideighteenth century, the rule of law had been all but abandoned in coastal regions. The gangs were often better armed and more numerous than the dragoons sent to arrest them. Corrupt magistrates would sometimes order the arrest of an arresting officer, and jailers were easily bribed.”
“If you can’t arrest criminals or lock them up,” I commented, “law enforcement can get a bit tricky.”
“Collusion and corruption were rife in the customs service as well,” Horatio went on, “even at the highest levels. Some of the most prominent men in the kingdom—including prime ministers—stocked their cellars with wines acquired through the so-called dark trade.”
“Yet the era came to an end eventually,” said Christopher. “What brought about the gangs’ downfall?”
“A convergence of events,” Horatio replied. “The establishment of an effective police force, the creation of the coast guard, and the wholesale reform of the customs service diminished the gangs’ power. It must also be said that public opinion turned against them.”
“Horatio?” Ursula had returned. “Sir Francis Dashwood?”
“The Hellfire Club,” said Horatio. He stretched out a hand to remove a small yellow paperback from a shelf at knee level and handed it to Ursula.
“Thanks,” she said and left.
Horatio favored me with an interrogative look.
“Public opinion turned against the smuggling gangs,” I prompted.
“So it did,” he said. “As smugglers became more arrogant and more violent, they were no longer regarded as cheeky rascals picking the king’s pocket, or as impoverished men justly rebelling against iniquitous taxation. Victorian villagers viewed smuggling as a criminal enterprise that undermined morality, terrorized the innocent, and endangered the economy.”
“I’m pleased to hear that morality played a role, however small, in the gangs’ demise,” Christopher said drily.
“Morality was a contributing factor,” Horatio allowed. “By far the greatest factor, however, was the implementation of free-trade policies in the nineteenth century. When the government abolished or significantly reduced taxes on imports and exports, the smuggling gangs lost their raison d’être.”
“When smuggling ceased to be profitable,” I said, “the gangs went out of business.”
“Smuggling still occurs,” said Horatio, “and smuggling gangs still exist, but today’s smugglers do not sit in The King’s Ransom, waving carbines and cutlasses while they quaff flagons of ale and snap their fingers at the law.” He raised his eyebrows and looked from Christopher to me. “Have I answered your question?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“Not at all,” said Christopher.
Horatio looked baffled.
“You answered lots of questions we didn’t ask,” I explained, “but you didn’t answer the question we asked.”
“Which was . . . ?” Horatio coaxed with a perplexed frown.
“Why is The King’s Ransom called The King’s Ransom?” Christopher and I said together.
“I do apologize. I shall provide an answer forthwith.” Horatio folded his tented hands and rested them on his round belly. “The King’s Ransom was known as The Crown until its major expansion in 1732, at which point the new owner, a brash man named Godfrey Shuttleworth, renamed it The King’s Ransom. It was an inside joke, referring to the amount of gold that changed hands among the smugglers who used the inn for business as well as for pleasure. Godfrey boasted that each deal made under his roof was worth a king’s ransom.”
“So the inn’s name doesn’t refer to an actual king,” I said.
“Quite the opposite,” said Horatio. “Godfrey Shuttleworth was thumbing his nose at the king and at all those tasked with enforcing the king’s laws. He decorated the inn with carpets and draperies festooned with golden roosters. The roosters were a blatant reference to the coq gaulois, a symbol of France, and another in joke. The coq gaulois was Godfrey’s salute to those customers who paid their bills with money derived from goods smuggled to and from France.”
“The carpets are still festooned with golden roosters,” I said.
“French tourists still visit Shepney,” Horatio reminded me. “Godfrey created a new sign for the inn as well.”
“A wooden barrel filled with gold coins,” I said. “We wondered what it meant.”
“Wonder no more,” said Horatio. “The wooden barrel is, in fact, a half-anchor spirit cask, the vessel used by smugglers to transport contraband brandy, cognac, and gin. The gold coins represent their illicit profits.”
“Godfrey advertised his inn as a smugglers’ hangout,” I marveled. “The customs men must have wanted to wring his neck.”
“The honest ones did,” said Horatio. “The rest overlooked his brazen tribute to the dark trade in exchange for free drinks.”
“Why would smugglers hang out at The King’s Ransom?” Christopher asked abruptly. “Surely it would have been more convenient for them to patronize inns closer to the coast. The Mermaid Inn in Rye was, I believe, a favorite haunt of the notorious Hawkhurst gang. As you so kindly informed us yesterday, Rye was, at the time, a busy and prosperous port town.”
“Coastal inns were popular among smugglers,” Horatio acknowledged, “but Shepney’s elevation gave them a distinct advantage. Lookouts positioned in strategic locations, such as St. Alfege’s bell tower, could spot customs patrols long before they reached the inn. By the time the patrols rode up the hill, their quarry would be gone. Godfrey Shuttleworth made it possible for the smugglers to vanish, seemingly into thin air, and to appear again when the coast, so to speak, was clear.”
“How?” I asked.
Horatio smiled. “You may have noticed the inn’s labyrinthine interior.”
“It’s hard to miss,” I said.
“It served a purpose,” said Horatio. “When Godfrey expanded the inn, he created a maze of passageways and stairways in order to increase the time it would take to search The King’s Ransom. The customs patrols had neither the manpower nor, in most cases, the will to conduct a thorough search of every convoluted inch of the inn. Most gave up out of sheer frustration.”
“One can hardly blame them,” Christopher observed, as if he were recalling the long trudge to his room.
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br /> “Godfrey was also responsible for the network of bolt-holes and escape tunnels hidden throughout the inn,” Horatio continued.
“Horatio?” Ursula was back again. “Siamese fighting fish?”
“Hobbies,” Horatio informed her. “Second shelf from the top. Betta Fish Owners Manual.”
“Thanks.” Ursula was gone again.
“Bolt-holes and escape tunnels,” I said.
“Thank you.” Horatio paused to collect his thoughts before continuing, “Upon spotting a patrol, the lookout would send word to the inn. Guests wishing to avoid an unpleasant confrontation would dive into the nearest hiding place, secure in the knowledge that they were unlikely to be discovered by men already frustrated by the inn’s confounding architecture.”
“Do the Hancocks know about the inn’s secret passages?” I asked, recalling the creaking door that had twice disturbed my sleep. “If they don’t, they should be told. Hidden tunnels could present a security problem, not only for their guests but for their family.”
“I can assure you that the escape tunnels do not pose a security threat to the inn’s residents,” Horatio stated authoritatively. “The tunnels were permanently sealed when the inn was refurbished in 1897.”
“Good to hear,” I said.
“I believe I have provided you with the answer you were seeking,” said Horatio. “Have you any other questions?”
“Yes.” I drew the notebook from my bag and handed it to him. “I found it in the attic at The King’s Ransom. Is it a smuggler’s inventory?”
Horatio fell silent as he examined the notebook. After leafing through the pages, he pulled a small magnifying glass from his watch pocket and studied each page minutely. The glass was, I knew, a tool used by booksellers who dealt in rare books. Horatio studied the notebook’s faded covers as well, then tucked the magnifying glass into his pocket before pronouncing judgment on my discovery.
“Insofar as a cursory examination will allow,” he began, sounding more like a lawyer than my husband ever did, “I can confirm that it is indeed an authentic smugglers’ inventory.”
Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Page 16