The Deception at Lyme

by Carrie Bebris

  St. Clair placed his hand under hers and raised it to examine the idol. “An informant who claimed to have viewed the entire cache described all manner of items—pendants such as this one, figurines depicting various animals, jewelry, ritual objects, and more. Of the pieces I have seen myself, yes, this is representative of their style.”

  “Might turtles be among the animal figures?” she asked.

  “They could indeed. The idol Lieutenant Fitzwilliam turned over to me was a tree frog.” He looked at her earnestly, her hand still resting in his. “Miss Darcy, if you possess any intelligence on the subject, pray disclose it to me—even if it is only conjecture.”

  “Sir Laurence has kept at least some of the artifacts for himself. I have seen only one—a turtle figurine he gave to his sister. But he told me he has an extensive collection of art from around the world, and after all I have heard this morning, I am supposing it includes numerous relics from Central America. However, he is not given to excess—at least, not from what I have seen. He could not possibly intend to keep the entire hoard for himself once it is transported to England, could he? It sounds as if there is too much of it for any one person to enjoy simply for its aesthetic or historic value.”

  “Yet he cannot give it away to the British Museum as Lord Elgin has done,” Elizabeth said, “or attempt to sell it to the government, without exposing the illegal means by which he acquired it.”

  “No, but he could quietly sell pieces to individuals who share his appreciation and discretion,” Darcy said.

  “Private collectors.” St. Clair took the pendant from Georgiana and released her hand. “Of course. Sir Laurence doubtless has friends with the same interests he does, and has had time to develop an underground market of collectors eager to acquire the artifacts.” One could see the rapidity with which his mind was working through this newest possibility. “In fact, now that construction of the Black Cormorant is finished and the war is over, the ship can transport the objects to buyers not only in England but also in countries and ports previously inaccessible. He will easily earn back his investment and profit quite handsomely, even after Mr. Elliot and all the other participants are paid off.”

  “Not if we have anything to say about it,” Admiral Croft declared.

  St. Clair turned to Georgiana. “Thank you, Miss Darcy. I had been unable to physically connect Sir Laurence with the artifacts, and one cannot level accusations against a baronet—the Governor of Jamaica’s godson, no less—without evidence that cannot be dismissed or minimized. But if you have seen one of the artifacts among his possessions—”

  “Among his sister’s possessions,” she corrected. “At their house here in Lyme. The majority of his collection, however, is at Thornberry, his country house in Somerset.”

  “Admiral, is this enough for a search warrant to be issued?” St. Clair asked.

  “When combined with your testimony about Captain Tourner’s murder, I should certainly hope so. We shall want his Somerset estate searched, as well. Even then, the artifacts might be hidden.”

  “Is this the final bit of evidence you needed to proceed with all of the arrests?” Darcy asked.

  “There is one other main conspirator whom we have been unable to identify: the man who initiates contact with the high-level naval officers whose ships they have been using,” St. Clair said. “We know of individual corrupt officers, such as Tourner, who are part of the ring, but not the liaison.”

  “It is not Mr. Elliot?” Darcy asked.

  “Mr. Elliot does not have naval connections of his own, so I am unsure how he and Mr. Smith recruited new captains and other officers to their conspiracy—at least, not initially; once some were on board, those individuals might have made their own recommendations. Nor am I sure how Mr. Elliot or Mr. Smith came to learn of the cache of gold in the first place.”

  “Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Smith about other associates Mr. Elliot might have,” Mrs. Wentworth suggested. “She is not here now; she is on the Cobb—I heard the chair arrive for her—but she knows more about Mr. Elliot’s past than does anybody else, and when she learns he has been stealing from her all these years, I expect she will be more than happy to assist this investigation in whatever way she can.”

  Thinking back upon the information Mrs. Smith had already shared, it seemed to Elizabeth that one of Mr. Elliot’s most significant past associates had been missing entirely from this discussion.

  “Could the liaison have been Mr. Clay?” she asked. “The Smiths, the Elliots, and the Clays were very close friends. If two of the gentlemen were conspiring in a fortune-making scheme, would not all three? Mr. Smith owned the plantation, Mr. Elliot attended to the details … did Mr. Clay possess naval connexions?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Mrs. Wentworth thought a moment, then added, “But I recall Mrs. Clay once saying that she had known a great deal of the profession.”

  She did, Elizabeth thought. Biblically. And then another thought struck her.

  “Perhaps, Captain St. Clair, you have been unable to identify the man who acted as the conspirators’ naval liaison because that individual is not a man.”

  His brows rose. “I confess, that notion never occurred to me.”

  “According to Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Clay had affairs with numerous naval officers, before and after Mr. Clay’s death,” Elizabeth said. “What if one of them told Mrs. Clay of the treasure hoard? And what if she, in turn, told Mr. Elliot?”

  “Why Mr. Elliot?”

  “Of her closest friends, he was the one who possessed both the cleverness and the means to do something with the information.”

  “She also might have recognized in him a kindred scheming nature,” Mrs. Wentworth added.

  St. Clair nodded. “All right. Would she have confided her source to Mr. Elliot?”

  “Apparently, the only person among their set who did not know about her extramarital affairs was Mr. Clay, and even he might have been turning a blind eye,” Elizabeth said. “So, yes, for the purposes of our present discussion, let us assume she told Mr. Elliot. He definitely became aware of her naval paramours at some point, for he mentioned them in a quarrel that I overheard the night before Mrs. Clay died, and which I am certain was between the two of them. She was accusing him of unfaithfulness, and he—”

  Elizabeth stopped as parts of the argument suddenly returned to her mind. I saw you leave the Sheet Anchor with one of them, and later walking on the Cobb with the other … I thought the business had ended, but you have been carrying on behind my back.… never would have begun had I not been so foolish as to introduce you.… Where is my share of what they have received all these years?

  “The business” … Mrs. Clay’s “share” … a meeting at the Sheet Anchor—a pub frequented by sailors and Captain Tourner in particular. And Mr. Elliot’s response: You are hardly guiltless yourself. Unless you are an utter fool, you will keep your mouth shut.

  She gasped. All this while, she had assumed that Mrs. Clay and Mr. Elliot had argued about sexual infidelity.

  “I thought that Mr. Elliot’s assignations had been with other women.” She looked at Darcy. “But now, after learning of his smuggling enterprise—”

  She saw in Darcy’s eyes that he followed her reasoning. “I believe you are right. She was in fact referring to meetings with other members of the conspiracy.”

  Elizabeth turned to St. Clair and Admiral Croft. “Mrs. Clay was furious that ‘business’ she thought was over had continued without her knowledge. She said that she had made the introductions, and she wanted her share of the money they had received. I wonder if, when Mr. Smith died, Mr. Elliot told Mrs. Clay a similar lie to the one he told Mrs. Smith—that legal issues surrounding the West Indian plantation had forced them to stop or suspend the smuggling.”

  “What did Mr. Elliot have to say in his defense?” St. Clair asked.

  “That his recent meetings were none of her concern. But then she threatened to tell what she knew. Mr. Elliot warned her to k
eep silent, lest she incriminate herself along with him.”

  From somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. The hour was later than Elizabeth realized. Admiral Croft rose. “Time and tide waiteth for no man, and neither will the smugglers.” He began to slowly pace around the table again. “The course of our discussion has led us here: Mrs. Clay learned of the treasure from one of her naval acquaintances, and told Mr. Elliot about it. Mr. Elliot rigged up a plan to use Mr. Smith’s plantation to hide the treasure in sugar casks headed for England, and with Mrs. Clay’s help, he recruited officers to transport the treasure aboard their ships. Once the gold reaches England, it goes to Sir Laurence, who keeps some of it for himself and sells the rest to other collectors. The baronet has also financed the construction of the Black Cormorant, which is ready to set sail.”

  “Except it now has no master,” St. Clair said. “And somehow I do not think he is going to hire me for the post.”

  “Aye, there will be no more sailing under false colors for you,” the admiral said. “But I also hope there is no need.” His pacing had brought him to a shelf upon which Wentworth’s compass rested. He picked it up, contemplating it a moment before turning to face them.

  “We are navigating by guess and by God,” he said. “I wish we had more evidence before engaging the enemy—it is St. Clair’s word against the baronet’s as to what occurred in Captain Tourner’s cabin, and Sir Laurence has powerful friends. But we are out of time. I believe that we have enough to arrest Sir Laurence and Mr. Elliot, and to detain them long enough to execute search warrants on their houses. We had just better pray that we find what we expect.”

  The admiral set the compass back on the shelf. “If we are mistaken, the investigation is sunk.”

  Thirty-three

  Pity for him was all over. But this was the only point of relief. In every other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw more to distrust and to apprehend.

  —Persuasion

  Admiral Croft departed to coordinate with the customs collector and other local authorities the simultaneous arrest of Sir Laurence, Mr. Elliot, and lesser conspirators who could be found in Lyme. Once the ringleaders were apprehended, a telegraphic dispatch would be sent to the Admiralty from the signal house at Lambert’s Castle to initiate the arrests of corrupt officers and conspirators in other ports.

  Though Captain St. Clair wanted to accompany him, upon the admiral’s order, he remained at the Wentworths’ home. “We cannot risk your being seen by Sir Laurence or his accomplices,” the admiral told him as they stood in the study doorway. “Your liberty in the wake of Captain Tourner’s murder is as good as a signal flag. Once all is in place, I will come collect you before the warrants are executed. I assure you, Captain—I would not deny you the satisfaction of being present when at last we deliver our broadside.”

  Georgiana, meanwhile, rose and went back to the window on the opposite side of the room. Elizabeth followed. She attempted to read her sister-in-law’s expression as she gazed upon the sea, but Georgiana’s face was inscrutable.

  “Georgiana?”

  Georgiana attempted to draw a deep breath, but it came in the short tugs of one trying to maintain composure. She released it—an equally shaky effort—but managed to hold herself together. “I am the most extraordinary fool.”

  “Do not berate yourself so. Sir Laurence deceived everyone, myself and your brother included.”

  “But I spent more time with him and Miss Ashford than did anybody else. Of us all, I should have suspected that something about him was not as it seemed.”

  “You are not by nature a suspicious person.”

  “Perhaps I should be.” She turned from the window, her expression rueful. “At least, when I am near the sea—that is where Mr. Wickham duped me, too.”

  “I do not think the sea is to blame. In fact, it seems rather to reveal character—it did in the case of Captain St. Clair.”

  Georgiana had not looked at St. Clair since their discussion broke up, but now hazarded a glance in his direction. The admiral having departed, he was talking to Darcy, but both men had half an eye on Georgiana. Upon being caught observing her, St. Clair immediately averted his gaze; Darcy questioned Elizabeth with his. He wanted to know his sister’s state, which Elizabeth silently assured him was sound. Or would be. Captain St. Clair’s expression had also shown concern, though of a less brotherly sort.

  “I underestimated Captain St. Clair, as well,” Georgiana said. “All in all, I have not proved myself a very good judge of men.”

  “Neither have we. Darcy and I were fairly convinced that St. Clair was involved with Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death.”

  “But see—you knew there was more beneath the surface. He was involved with Gerard’s death; he has spent years trying to bring the conspirators to justice—while I was daydreaming about a marriage offer from Gerard’s killer.” She shuddered. “Had my wish been granted, I dare not contemplate what my life would have been as Lady Ashford. Captain St. Clair delivered me from more than the sea.”

  That gentleman and Darcy were at that moment also discussing the subject of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death.

  “As you said earlier, there was more than one future baronet aboard the Magna Carta at the time my cousin died,” Darcy said, “but you never definitively stated which one shot him. Was it Sir Laurence?”

  “I wish I could tell you with certainty,” St. Clair replied. “My instincts say it was Sir Laurence, but it could have been either of them. In preparation for battle, the pistol cases were opened, and every man was armed. And as I explained to you before, in the chaos of a boarding action, it is challenge enough to remain aware of all that is happening in one’s immediate surrounds. We are fortunate Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death was witnessed by anyone at all.”

  Anne Wentworth quit the study, her mission threefold: to ascertain whether Mrs. Smith had yet returned from the Cobb, to order refreshments for her guests, and to check on Alfred. Captain Wentworth asked her to send Mrs. Smith to them if she were indeed home. He then crossed to a tall bookcase and lifted down from a shelf an inlaid box.

  “This contains all of Mr. Smith’s papers that his widow turned over to me.”

  He brought the box to the table. Captain St. Clair, Darcy, and Elizabeth came over. As Darcy rolled up the map and put it aside, Wentworth opened the box and withdrew the papers. They each took a handful and commenced reading. Georgiana remained by the window, her thoughts too full to read anything closely, and unlikely to become more settled by closer proximity to Captain St. Clair.

  Elizabeth read through several letters, including a few from Mr. Elliot. The pile held correspondence from other individuals, as well. One sloppily folded letter—apparently from Mr. Smith’s mother—had at some time come into unfortunate contact with a sticky substance of indeterminate origin. After skimming three full pages of trivial family news—no wonder the Smiths had suffered financial woes, if his mother’s letters were always so voluminous—Elizabeth found stuck to the back of the fourth page a torn fragment from a note in a different hand.

  Such proof is regrettable, but there is nothing to be done about it. Fortunately, her spouse is determined not to notice, and yours too naïve to suspect. If it comes to it, she can claim her grandfather or some other long-dead relation had red hair.

  Elizabeth reread the lines, then shuffled through the remaining papers in her pile. Darcy interrupted his own reading to question her with a glance.

  “I am looking for the other pieces of a torn note,” she explained. “Have you any fragments in your stack?”

  Darcy set down the letter he had been perusing and started to riffle through the other papers in front of him. He had not gotten far, however, when Anne Wentworth returned to the study.

  “Frederick.” Anne’s face was pale, her voice unsteady. “Alfred is missing.”

  Thirty-four

  “We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every minute is valu
able.”

  —Captain Wentworth, Persuasion

  Mrs. Logan was in tears.

  “I fed him and put him down to sleep. Then I went out—I needed to go to the market, and I thought to perform the errand while he napped. You were all in the study—it seemed like such an important meeting; I did not want to disturb you—I told Mrs. Smith I was going. I expected to return before her chair arrived, but I was delayed—so many people about on market day. When I got back, I went upstairs immediately to check on Alfred—he was not in his cradle—”

  The servants were summoned, but unable to provide any further intelligence. The housekeeper had returned from the market just after Mrs. Logan, and the others, going about their own duties elsewhere in the house, with no reason to enter the nursery, had not observed anything unusual.

  Alfred was too small to have wandered off on his own, and a baby was not something one was likely to misplace. Yet they searched the house and garden anyway. He was nowhere on the premises.

  They reconvened in the sitting room. Captain Wentworth, his own worry evident, reassured his wife that they would find Alfred. “Do not panic yet. Sir Walter has not seen his son since the christening—perhaps he or your sister retrieved the boy for a visit. It would be very like them not to think to inform us.” Wentworth himself did not sound convinced of this possibility.

  “My father would have sent a servant to collect him. And even if he had come himself, he would not have entered our house, gone upstairs to the nursery, taken Alfred from his cradle, and departed without a word to anybody.”

  No, Darcy thought, but another Elliot might. He met Captain Wentworth’s eyes. “Do you think perhaps Mr. Elliot—”

  “I can name no one else more probable,” he replied.

  Mrs. Wentworth glanced toward the entry hall. “He must have come after Mrs. Smith departed for the Cobb, or surely she would have alerted us.”

  “Unless he used the rear door and stairs,” Captain Wentworth said. “Someone planning to steal a child would hardly want to make an obvious entrance.”