The Smuggler's Daughter

by Kerry Barrett

  More customs men arrived on horseback and charged down the cliff path to the beach. Out at sea, I could see the cutter bouncing over the waves towards the ship. It was over, I thought. Morgan had been caught red-handed, the smugglers were in chains, and Arthur and I were free.

  Chapter 39

  Phoebe

  2019

  When I thought more about my plan to wait on the clifftop and see what Ewan was up to, I realised it didn’t make sense. There was little point in me in loitering up the top, just to see what was happening. I’d simply be in the same situation as I was now. No, I decided, I needed to be in the thick of the action. I needed to be on the beach where I could take photographs if I could. It was proof I needed.

  I needed to time it carefully – too early and I’d be bored and uncomfortable, or worse, fall asleep and miss all the action. Too late and I risked being spotted. I had to get down that steep, precarious path before dark, but not so long before dark that Liv wondered where I’d gone and came to look for me.

  I decided to head down to the cove at about eight o’clock. But it was only just gone five, now. I had hours to kill before I could go.

  Needing a distraction, I went upstairs to my room and sat on the window seat. I imagined Emily sitting there herself, more than two hundred years ago, and smiled to myself. Now I had more information, I might be able to find out something else about the other Moon Girl.

  I opened my laptop and the book on Cornish pubs, ignoring the memories of Jed that it brought back, and pulled out the pictures of the man with the white streak in his hair.

  ‘Cal Morgan,’ I said out loud. ‘Who were you? Why did Emily draw you?’

  I typed the name into the search bar, added Cornwall, and 1799, and hit return, and watched as the little wheel span round painfully slowly.

  Eventually, the page of results crawled up the screen.

  ‘Bingo,’ I said. I clicked on the top one. It was a link to a page about notorious Cornish criminals and I felt a little shiver of excitement. Was this it?

  Cal Morgan, I read, had been tried, convicted and hanged on charges of smuggling in 1799.

  That was it. No mention of Emily, or Arthur, or The Ship Inn.

  Disappointed, I searched again, adding smuggling this time. Different results appeared now. I scrolled down, and stopped on a site about criminals who escaped justice. Could this be it? Was Emily a smuggler who got away with the loot?

  I scanned the page until I found what I was looking for, breathing out in excitement as I read the details.

  Soldier Cal Morgan ran a smuggling ring out of Kirrinporth in the late eighteenth century, the page said. He had fought in the American War of Independence and returned to Cornwall with a white streak in his hair, which rumours said was caused by the horrors he had experienced on the battlefield.

  I gave a little shiver of delight. This was good stuff.

  Morgan was a large man with a certain charm and a great knowledge of the Cornwall coast, the tides and the weather. He enlisted various locals to work for him – whether through fear or favour it is not known – and was eventually hanged when customs officers chanced upon him and his gang bringing in the largest cargo of contraband ever landed in the county.

  ‘Chanced upon,’ I said out loud. Sounded like a tip-off to me.

  Many people believed Cal Morgan was working for the wealthy landowner Denzel Kirrin, whose family had founded the town of Kirrinporth in the Middle Ages. Denzel left Kirrinporth with his family shortly after Morgan’s trial.

  ‘Like a mafia boss,’ I muttered.

  But here was the interesting bit. I read on. Rumours at the time said a local teenager, Emily Moon, had disappeared the same night as Morgan was arrested. The story was that Morgan had killed the youngster’s father several months earlier. Eager to see the murderer face justice, the bold teen had warned the customs men where to catch Morgan in the act of smuggling in his haul, and plunged to her death as she did so. Now stories are told about the young girl’s ghost walking the cliffs above where Morgan was caught. The nearby pub, The Ship Inn, was renamed The Moon Girl in her memory.

  ‘Emily,’ I breathed, feeling absurdly disappointed to have more confirmation that she had died that night. ‘You brave, stupid girl.’ I imagined her, a slight blonde waif of a thing if the pub sign was true to life, taking on a soldier. I picked up the sketch of Morgan’s rugged face and broken nose and imagined him towering over Emily in a red coat, like the soldiers wore in Pride and Prejudice. She had to have been so bold to take on a man who’d seen enough horrors on the battlefields in America to turn his hair white.

  ‘America,’ I said thoughtfully. Why did that ring a bell? I frowned, trying to catch the thought, and leafing through the pictures as I did. And there it was. The sketch of the little wagon, travelling across an empty land. I pulled it out of the bundle and held it up. ‘Little House on the Prairie,’ I said in delight. The wagon looked like the one the Ingalls family travelled in. Had Emily gone all the way across the ocean to start a new life in America? It seemed unlikely, but the thought was enough to give me hope. I so wanted to know that clever, strong, brave Emily Moon hadn’t died that night.

  I googled Emily Moon and America and sighed in disappointment as nothing useful appeared.

  But, what about Arthur? I thought. Emily’s sweetheart, who followed his own path? What was his surname, again? I thought for a second and then typed in Arthur Pascoe and America and waited for an age for the connection. Eventually it brought up reams of results. The top one was a fruit and vegetable business in Massachusetts. I snorted. That wasn’t my Arthur Pascoe. I tried again, this time adding Emily’s name.

  Once more, after a painfully long time, the first result was the same link to Pascoe’s Fruit and Vegetables. Mostly out of boredom, I clicked on the name and read through the “About Us” section that came up with growing disbelief.

  We were founded by English settler Arthur Pascoe and his wife Emily in 1825, the copy read. The company has grown and we now supply fruit and vegetables to hospitality businesses throughout the Eastern Seaboard, as well as packing, preserving and exporting fruit and vegetables across the world. The Pascoe family are still involved in the business and our current chairman, Phil Pascoe, is Arthur’s six-times great grandson. Arthur’s book, Apple Farms of Massachusetts, illustrated by his wife, Emily, is available to buy in our farm shop.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ I said in absolute delight. ‘Emily escaped.’

  I wanted to cheer, because I was so thrilled. She’d got away. She’d got the baddies locked up and then she and her sweetheart had sailed away across the ocean and started a new life growing fruit and vegetables and drawing pictures of apples. She deserved more than a tiny memorial plaque in the church.

  Absolutely thrilled to bits, I took screenshots of the info to show Simon, and then paused. The only other person I could think of who would be as excited as I was about Emily’s miraculous escape, was Jed. Urgh.

  Thinking of Jed made me realise I had to get moving. I had to find a hiding place on the beach and get into position before it got dark. It wasn’t going to be easy.

  I shut my laptop, feeling content that Emily had triumphed, and I tucked the pictures away inside the book. Then I put on my running gear, choosing black leggings and a dark grey hoodie that would help me hide in the shadows. My trainers were bright luminous yellow, so I sneaked into Liv’s room and took her black pair, hoping she wouldn’t notice. I grabbed a bottle of water and a couple of cereal bars from the kitchen, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, I went back into my room and slipped my warrant card into my pocket. I wasn’t intending to arrest anyone, but it was good to be prepared.

  As Liv was being snappy and barely talking to me, I didn’t feel I needed to tell her where I was going. Instead, I jogged away from the pub along the cliff, thinking that if she happened to look out she would simply see me heading out for a run. Then I doubled back to where the path down the sheer rock began. I wasn’t hu
gely keen on going down that way again but it seemed more sensible than going through the tunnel. I wondered if Emily had done the same thing when she’d caught Cal Morgan in the act and I hoped some of her bravery would rub off on me.

  It took me ages to get down, because my legs were really wobbly, but eventually I found myself on the sand. I sat for a minute on a rock to catch my breath and look at my surroundings, hoping a suitable hiding place would present itself. Nothing was obvious but neither had the tunnel been obvious, so I decided to do what I’d done before and walk carefully around the cove, checking every nook and cranny.

  Slowly I wandered round the beach, the whole time feeling horribly aware that it would be getting dark soon and I was running out of time. And then, to my relief, I realised there was a space behind one of the bigger rocks at one side of the cove. The rock was taller than me and jagged, like a piece of cliff had sheared off and landed on the sand. It was triangular and at an angle to the cliff behind it, reminding me of the Flatiron Building in New York. It wasn’t large, but I could fit in between the rock and the cliff face that hugged the beach and be hidden.

  I put my water bottle down on the sand behind the rock and went back out into the middle of the beach to check if I could see it. No, it was shielded, thank goodness. That was my spot then. It was chilly but dry and sheltered. I tucked myself in and shimmied along until I was at the narrow end where the rock was almost touching the cliff. From there I had a clear view of the beach and could see where any boat would come ashore. I was all set.

  It was a long wait. I had my phone but I resisted the temptation to browse, if I even had a signal. I didn’t want to risk draining my battery. The evening got darker and darker and I amused myself by trying to remember the names of all the girls in my class at school, the ingredients for my favourite recipes, the words to old favourite pop songs and thinking about Emily and the way she’d brought Cal Morgan to justice.

  I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing by waiting on the beach. Not remotely sure. But I knew I had to do something and knowing Emily had done the same – without the police training and experience I had – made me feel better. I tapped the reassuring lump of my warrant card in my pocket and took a breath. It was going to be fine.

  Up above me, I saw a gleam of blue. The light was on and signalling out to sea. I tipped my head back and watched, hoping it was going to be different and sure enough, instead of the steady beam I’d seen over the last few evenings, this time it was flashing. The irony of it looking like a police car wasn’t lost on me. I wondered if they’d done it deliberately – partly as a sort of disguise because no one paid much attention to blue lights – and partly to stick two fingers up at the people who might try to stop them. Whatever the reason, it was proof that I was in the right place at the right time. Now I just had to wait and see what happened.

  The time dragged. Every minute felt like an eternity. It was so dark, I could barely see in front of my face. I’d never be able to take any photos at this rate. But then, thankfully, the clouds began to clear and the moon shone down on the sand, giving everything a kind of cold, bluish glow. I was amazed. I’d never really seen moonlight like this before – in London everything was just tinged yellow from the streetlamps. The sea was shimmering white, and I could see right across the cove. It was perfect for my stakeout, and also pretty spooky. The noise of the waves was constant but I could hear the occasional hoot – an owl I assumed – that made me jump every time.

  I froze as I heard the sound of a stone skittering down the cliff. Had it been dislodged by an animal or the wind? Or was someone coming? Was this it? With every one of my senses on high alert – Sandra would be pleased that I was so present in the moment, I thought wryly – I stayed absolutely still, peering out at the beach. I could feel the wind in my hair and taste the salt on my lips and feel the thumping of my heart in my chest. I concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly and waited to see if someone appeared on the beach. I couldn’t see the bottom of the path from my hiding spot, so instead I trained my eyes on the middle of the sand, where I’d seen Jed and Mark when I’d first had my suspicions. No one was there.

  Everything was silent, except for my steady breaths. And then, suddenly, someone was behind me, one hand over my mouth to stop me screaming and a thick arm around my middle.

  Terrified I kicked out, squirming to get free but my attacker gripped tighter.

  ‘Stop wriggling,’ he said in a low, horribly familiar voice right in my ear. My stomach lurched in fear, disappointment, upset – because it was Jed.

  I turned my head desperately trying to see him and there he was, a black beanie hat pulled down over his eyebrows and dark clothes like my own.

  I squirmed some more, trying to get to my warrant card in my pocket, and he gripped tighter.

  ‘I’m going to let you go,’ he said. His breath tickled my ear. ‘But you can’t make a sound because you’ll ruin everything.’

  I nodded. There was no point in screaming anyway – no one would hear me. Cautiously, Jed released me and I stood, staring at him, in the tiny hiding space between the rocks that was really too small for two people. My leg muscles were tightening, ready to run, but Jed was very close to me, blocking any escape route, and I was wedged into the space so I couldn’t reach my pocket. Sweat beaded on my lip. What could I do? Could I talk my way out of this one?

  ‘I need you to stay calm,’ Jed said. He didn’t sound calm. His whispers were ragged and broken and his eyes were wild. ‘What on earth are you doing here, Phoebe? Why are you here?’

  He took a step back and I saw my chance. I shifted on the sand and now I had more space, I felt in my pocket and pulled out my warrant card.

  ‘I’m here to arrest you,’ I hissed, showing him my card. Jed’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Jed Saunders, I’m arresting you on suspicion …’

  I trailed off as Jed reached for his pocket. Did he have a knife? A gun? Shit, I was in too deep here. I should have bloody patted him down.

  ‘Stop,’ I said. Quick as a flash, I grabbed his wrist – just as I’d done with the handbag “thief” in the pub – and pushed him against the rocky wall, trying not to show my fear.

  Jed groaned as his back hit the stone. ‘You don’t need to be so rough.’

  ‘Do you have a weapon?’

  ‘I don’t have a weapon,’ Jed said. He sounded like he was trying and failing to control his annoyance. ‘I just need you to get something out of my jeans pocket. Can you do that?’

  Still gripping his wrist, I nodded. ‘It’s not a syringe or anything dangerous?’

  ‘I promise. It’s my left pocket. I’ll keep my hands where you can see them.’

  He raised his arms above my head. Keeping my eyes on him in case he did anything, gingerly, I reached down, trying not to notice how strong and well-muscled his torso was as it pressed against me, or how snug his jeans were. I tried to keep my breathing regular as I put my fingers into his front pocket and slid them down until I felt a small, hard rectangular shape. A familiar shape. With my heart in my trainers – Liv’s trainers – I eased it out and gave him what I’d found. He flipped it open and lifted it up so I could see it but I already knew what it was. It was a warrant card. Jed was a police officer and I was in trouble.

  ‘DS Jeremy Stanton,’ he said in a furious whisper. ‘And you’ve just walked into an active undercover investigation.’

  ‘DS Phoebe Bellingham,’ I said, equally furious. ‘And why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me who you were?’

  Jed – or Jeremy, whatever his name was – snorted. ‘Because I’m undercover,’ he said, his voice dripping with disdain. ‘And telling a barmaid who I really was would have ruined that.’

  ‘I am not a barmaid. I’m in the Met.’

  He shrugged. ‘Then you should know better than to interfere with an investigation.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was an investigation,’ I said. Our voices were getting louder.

  ‘What were you planning to
do?’ Jed said. ‘Jump out and arrest Ewan all by yourself?’

  It was so exactly what I had been planning to do that I flushed. ‘No. Just take some photos. Get proof.’ I looked at him. ‘What were you planning to do? Arrest him all by yourself?’

  ‘Border Force are standing by out at sea, and my back-up team are on the cliff.’ He checked his watch. ‘Well, they will be. It’s a bit early yet.’

  Well, that told me. Suddenly all my anger left me and I felt really stupid. I leaned against the rock.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’ve had … a bit of a hard time recently. Something happened at work and it messed with me a bit.’

  Jed’s expression softened, the tiniest amount. ‘That’s not unusual.’

  ‘And then some things happened here …’

  Jed’s mouth twitched. ‘I heard.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘The handbag thief? Everyone heard.’

  I rubbed my forehead. ‘I thought if I went to the police abut Ewan, they’d laugh at me.’

  ‘They would have told you it was being dealt with.’

  ‘Well I know that now,’ I said. I was embarrassed and miserable and I just wanted to be anywhere other than there. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry to get in your way. I’ll go. Leave you to it.’

  ‘Probably for the best. Will you be all right getting up the cliff in the dark?’

  ‘No.’

  Jed looked worried. ‘You could go through the tunnel. Just be quick. Ewan’s not due for another hour or so, but we don’t want to take any chances.’

  A thought occurred to me. ‘Does Liv know?’

  ‘About tonight? No.’

  ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘Possibly.’