Smuggler's Moon sjf-8

by Bruce Alexander

  She had seen enough to know that there was no point in remaining there. Half-crawling to avoid the lowest branches of the pine trees, she left the body and turned back down the path toward the house. Just then, from far below, she heard Mr. Fowler’s voice calling her name. She ran to meet him and told him what she had found. Quite shocked she was at the effect her news had upon him. He was not angered at her, as she thought he might be; he seemed, rather, to be quite terrified at what she had told him. Instructing her to wait for him on that bench by the brook, he hastened up the path without so much as a look back at her. Yet he surprised her by stopping at the outbuildings, banging on the doors, and rousting four men from them. Together they ascended the path and disappeared round a bend.

  Though she waited long, this time she did not stray from that bench in the garden. She kept place for what seemed a century yet must have been near an hour. When Mr. Fowler returned, he came alone. She reflected that perhaps the four who had gone up with him had remained to bury their comrade-somehow she was sure that the dead man at the chalk mine was one of them. He advised her to go to her room upstairs, for he was off to inform Sir Simon of this terrible crime, and then he must fetch the magistrate from town. All this made perfect sense to her, and so she left him at the back door and went to the room, where he had sent her. She was so overcome by what had happened that when she lay down upon the bed to rest, she fell asleep. When she awakened, she found that she had been locked inside. No matter how loudly she called, and no matter how fiercely she rattled the door, there was no response.

  “Was that when you began to weep?” I had asked her then.

  “You’d weep, too,” said she, ”if you were locked up for three or four hours.”

  “It is not in my nature to weep,” said I, which was both a lie and a rather priggish thing to say.

  “Well, that is just one of the many ways in which we differ.”

  “It was all probably done in error, anyway. The little maid who cleaned the carpet before your door seemed most mannerly, but she may simply have been careless and turned the key by mistake.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that none of this is out of the ordinary? A murdered man? His body moved from where it was discovered? The finder punished by imprisonment?”

  Clarissa did have a way of putting things in the most dramatic way possible-”punished by imprisonment,” indeed!

  “Well … no, of course not. It’s all most extraordinary.” I paused to give the matter some thought. Yet after turning the matter this way and that in my mind, I could but pose a question: ”Why should they have moved the body? I rode next to Will Fowler on the trip from Deal, and I daresay he was most surprised when he was informed that the body which had been in one place was now in quite another. Why should they have moved it?”

  “Well, it seems clear to me,” said she. ”Since I found the corpus practically at the entrance to the chalk mine, Sir Simon wished to keep visitors away from it. If they were to see it, they might well wonder what went on in there and might start asking questions.”

  “Yes,” said I, ”Sir Simon denied to Mr. Sarton that there was anyplace in all his property where the dead man could, while alive, have managed to cover himself, his clothes, and his shoes so thoroughly with chalk dust.”

  “He denied it? Well, there’s your proof right there on the floor.” She gestured to the chalk-covered carpet upon which we were standing.

  “I should like to get up there and see for myself just what is in that old chalk mine.”

  “So would I,” said she. ”It must be something more valuable than chalk, something worth guarding.”

  “Guarding? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? The fellow was simply bristling with arms of every sort. The poor man was obviously guarding something. He was a sentinel, a guard. He had a pistol tucked in his belt, as well as a dagger, and a great long musket by his side.”

  “You mean there beneath the bushes and the trees? I wonder whoever killed him didn’t take them as a prize of war.”

  “Whoever killed him must have had a lot to carry away,” said she.

  “By the bye, you said nothing of pistols and muskets when you told me all this the first time.”

  “I didn’t? Just an oversight, I assure you.”

  “Be sure you include it when you tell your tale to Sir John.”

  As it happened, that did not take place until a good deal later. Fearing that Clarissa might suffer a relapse and begin behaving oddly once again, I made my excuses to her and slipped out of her room as swiftly as decently possible. I took a moment to listen at the door to the room shared by Sir John and me, and I satisfied myself from the sound of his snoring that he slept soundly still. Then did I make my way quietly downstairs to the library where, for over an hour, I read uninterruptedly in A Sentimental Journey. Perhaps my interest in the book flagged, or perhaps I thought it time to go back upstairs and listen at the door to our room once more. In any case, I left the library and ascended to the first floor where, to my surprise, I found Will Fowler in the corridor between our two rooms. He was moving briskly in my direction.

  “Ah, there you are,” said he, having obviously recovered his assurance. ”I’ve been looking for you. I tapped upon your door and, getting no answer, I stuck my head into your room and saw Sir John sleeping. I hope I didn’t disturb him.”

  He seemed to be talking with greater animation than was necessary, and a bit more rapidly, as well. I wondered what errand had brought him up to this part of the house.

  ”What will you, Will?” I was not punning upon his name, reader. It simply came out so.

  He cleared his throat and spoke forth in his grand manner: ”I wish to inform you and all of your party that much as Sir Simon would like to have your company upon this evening, he has been detained in Sandwich by certain affairs of business. He cannot dine with you at seven, but he trusts that Jacques will do as well for you tonight as he has ever done in the past. Will you be good enough to pass this on to Sir John and to the young miss, as well?”

  “You may consider it done,” said I to him.

  Then did he add in a somewhat nervous manner: ”And do please pass on to her my hope that she is well recovered from her shocking experience of this morning. Has she talked of it?”

  “I shall tell her, right enough,” said I, ”but she is a brave girl and made of stronger stuff than you might suppose.”

  Then, thanking me, he took his leave and made for the stairs. I watched him go, wondering what it was made him uneasy. He seemed a decent sort of man. Dissimulation did not come naturally to him.

  I listened at our door, and hearing none of the sounds of sleep, entered the room. Sir John, still in bed, did rise up beneath the mound of covers, his hair tousled and his jaw set pugnaciously. He called my name.

  “Yes sir, it is I, Jeremy.”

  “You’re the second who has come in the last few minutes. And neither of you had the decency to knock upon the door first. I feigned sleep to find out what he might do-nothing, so far as I could tell. Yet he stayed an unconscionably long time. He seemed to be looking for something, though what it might have been I cannot suppose.”

  “Nor can I,” I declared.

  As I helped him dress, I informed him that Will Fowler had been the intruder, that I had encountered him in the hall, and told of the announcement he had made regarding dinner. I also let him know a bit about Clarissa, yet I did not attempt to tell her story. I did mention, though, that for some reason, someone seemed to have locked her in her room.

  “Locked her in?” exclaimed Sir John.

  “Yes sir.”

  “All this seems to be much too mysterious and threatening. I’d thought we might enjoy some pleasant country air out here in Mongeham. Yet now we have a body turning up then moving about-not on his own, I’m sure. Clarissa is locked in her room, and somebody comes snooping about in ours. No, I don’t like this a bit.” He paused, then asked, ”Is it still light out?
”

  “Yes, but not for much longer.”

  “As soon as you have me looking fairly presentable, go across to Clarissa’s room and see if she would like to take a stroll with us and tell us her tale. I’d like to loosen up this hip a little. We should be able to work that in before dinner.”

  And that was how it was done. Perhaps intimidated by Sir John’s official manner, she restrained herself from digressing quite so often as was her usual. What had taken her half an hour to tell me, she told him in half the time. A good thing, too, for we were back in the house and seated at table by seven.

  No doubt Jacques did just as well preparing the meal for us three as he had the night before when his master was present. It is simply that, because of all that had happened that day, I remember it not quite so well. Nor do I remember the same plenitude of wine-simply a good claret for the meat and a white wine of some sort for the fish: a bottle of each to share among the three of us.

  So we were all sober, at least, when we climbed up the stairs, having spent no less than two hours at table. Sir John suggested we adjourn to Clarissa’s room that we might review our situation. He had been quiet through dinner, indeed we all had been. Yet now he spoke forth and revealed what had been on his mind.

  “I believe we must take defensive precautions. There is not much we can do, but we can at least lock our doors. Clarissa, you have the key to your room now, do you not?”

  “Safe in my pocket,” said she.

  “Then you must use it. Lock it and stay inside till it be morning.

  “I shall also want you to go with us tomorrow to the magistrate’s in Deal. We have all been invited for dinner tomorrow evening, so we are to remain there the better part of twelve hours.”

  “So long?” asked Clarissa. ”Whatever shall I find to do there?”

  “Jeremy will show you Deal, a charming place, or so it was said to be at one time. You will be happy to do so, won’t you, Jeremy?”

  I sighed. ”If you ask it, Sir John, it will be done.”

  FIVE

  In which plans are made and a grand feast is eaten

  Because we returned to Deal in Sir Simon’s coach with its curiously limited capacity, I was once again forced to ride up top beside the driver, who was once again Will Fowler. If I had thought it difficult to extract information from him when last we rode together, it proved absolutely impossible on this occasion. In response to my questions regarding the identity of the dead man, the time of the discovery of the body, and Clarissa’s reaction to the event-I studiously avoided all mention of the chalk mine-he would say nothing, nor would he so much as shake his head, yea or nay. He ignored me. Yet the expression upon his face answered me far more eloquently than any verbal response he could have made: he appeared frightened quite out of his wits. I knew that, since I rode with him last, he had received a severe dressing down from his master for allowing Clarissa to go off discovering on her own.

  I had witnessed Sir Simon’s return somewhere round midnight. The barking of the dogs had wakened me. I went to the window, which overlooked the front of the house and witnessed, by the light of the torches burning on either side of the front entrance, the arrival of three horsemen. The one on the proudest mount was Sir Simon. He handed the reins to a stable boy and hopped down from the saddle. A man whom I recognized from above as Will Fowler came out to meet him, and immediately Sir Simon fell to upbraiding him most aggressively. Though the window was shut, and I was thus prevented from hearing the words he used, he made his anger plain with his sharp gestures. First he pointed at poor Will as he moved toward him, then shook his finger at him, and finally shook his fist so vigorously under his nose that I felt sure he meant to strike him. Yet he did not go so far as that-not in my sight, in any case-though I cannot say what may have come to pass inside the house. This alone would have frightened the fellow. Who could say what verbal threats were made?

  Fowler drove even faster than on our past occasion. I held tight to the seat as before, but twice, as we leaned round curves, I feared I might lose my grip and go hurtling off into the ditch which seemed to run along every road in Kent. Yet I managed to hold on till at last we went charging down Middle Street and came again to a halt at Number 18. We three assembled on the walkway before the magistrate’s house. Before ever we could move to make our presence known to Albert Sarton, he threw open the door, all smiles, and welcomed us as friends. Clarissa was presented to him by Sir John. And agreeably, he even shook the hand which she thrust out at him.

  “I shall look forward to interviewing you, Miss Clarissa,” said he. ”But just now I shall talk to Mr. Fowler. Perhaps all of you would do well to wait for me in my courtroom. It is the large chamber to the right and across the hall from my study.”

  “We shall be happy to do so, Mr. Sarton,” said Sir John. ”I welcome the opportunity to witness you in this role, as well.”

  “I have but one case,” said Mr. Sarton, ”involving four men, a misdemeanor.”

  “Just as well, for I think you’ll agree that there is naught so boring as a whole morning spent in court on misdemeanors.”

  At that Mr. Sarton burst out laughing. ”You’re quite right, sir. Many times have I thought it, yet until you spoke up just now, I had not the courage to say so.”

  It was at that moment I decided I really liked the man quite well. He left us with a wave of his hand, scrambled up to the top of the coach to the place I had as my own until some moments before, and faced Mr. Fowler.

  “Well, let’s inside, shall we?” said Sir John. ”Jeremy, give me your arm. You won’t mind bringing up the rear, will you, Clarissa?”

  And so, in the order described by Sir John, we made our way into the large room used by Mr. Sarton as his courtroom. There were sufficient chairs to accommodate about a dozen visitors. They faced a plain deal table not unlike the one Sir John himself used at Number 4 Bow Street. A man whom I took to be Mr. Sarton’s court clerk sat at the table next the empty chair which awaited the magistrate. To one side sat the prisoners in the charge of a constable. We were just sitting down when I noticed something quite striking about the prisoner farthest from me: he had but one arm. How many one-armed men could there be in Deal, after all? That is, how many could there be besides Constable Perkins? It was curious how much, in general, the prisoner otherwise resembled Mr. Perkins; his clothes, for instance, were quite like those in which the constable was dressed when last I had seen him on the day before. And there was something about the way he held his head …

  Good God! It was Mr. Perkins!

  It could have been at just that moment-that, in any case, is how I remember it-that Clarissa fell into a fit of coughing. I glanced over in her direction, but then my glance was held by her, for I saw most immediate that she had loosed the chorus of coughs simply to get my attention. Now that she had it, she was signaling wildly, pointing ahead toward the prisoners, rolling her eyes in consternation, then gesturing toward Sir John as she heaved her shoulders in a great shrug. She was asking, in effect, if we should tell Sir John of the unfortunate situation in which Mr. Perkins found himself. All I knew to do was shrug back to her in response. How had he gotten into such a pickle? I looked back at our constable and found him staring at me. I pointed at Sir John. Mr. Perkins hesitated a moment, and then nodded most soberly. Thus he urged me to tell Sir John of his predicament.

  I know not if he then expected the response he got from his chief when I whispered all-I certainly did not. It did not take long to tell Sir John, yet even before I had quite finished, he had begun to giggle. The giggle turned to laughter which he tried to suppress, yet without success, for in a moment more he had thrown back his head and was laughing in great guffaws. I turned to Mr. Perkins, hoping to signal to him my confusion and helplessness, but I found him in the same state as Sir John-unable, that is, to stifle the laughter within him. The other prisoners, seeing no humor in their situation, exchanged puzzled looks at his behavior. The Deal constable liked Mr. Perkins’s behavior n
ot in the least and came over to him and admonished him sternly.

  This then was the scene when Mr. Sarton entered his courtroom and his clerk did solemnly order: ”All rise.” And all the rest of us did scramble to our feet.

  (Sir John had long ago dispensed with this bit of ceremony at Number 4 Bow Street, and so I was taken somewhat by surprise, though no more than by what followed.)

  Once Mr. Sarton was firmly settled in his seat at the table, the clerk urged all to be seated, and the session was begun.

  It seemed that the charge against all four of the men was public drunkenness and brawling. All four were obliged to give their names, then the three prisoners who were unknown to us chose one of their number to speak for them. His name was the only one of the three I now remember. It was Samson Strong, a difficult one to forget. He did, in a sense, live up to his name, for though not tall, he was thick through the shoulders and chest-but no more so than his two companions. He did not present a trustworthy appearance.

  “Where did all this difficulty take place?” asked Mr. Sarton.

  “In Alfred Square, m’lord.”

  “I am but a magistrate and do not deserve so august a title. Call me ‘sir.’ That will do.”

  “Yes sir, m’lord … sir.”

  “Hmmm, well, where specifically did it take place?”

  “More or less at the Turk’s Head, sir.”

  “I might have known. Most of the trouble in Alfred Square begins or ends there. I’ve a notion to close that place down as a public nuisance.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Tell your story.”

  “Well, we three, who are old friends and well known each to the other, we was sittin’ together at the Turk’s bar, havin’ an ale together when this fella here-”