by Joan Smith
“I have brought you the tablecloth I wrote about, cousin,” Moira said, handing Lady Marchbank the basket.
Lady Marchbank opened it with age-speckled hands. The knuckles were swollen, but she could move her fingers quite well. She drew out a large linen tablecloth, worked around the edges and down the center with intertwining vines and flowers in pale shades of green and gold.
“Oh, Bonnie! You shouldn’t have! This is gorgeous. Much too fine for an old lady like me. We never entertain anyone who deserves this. I shall put it on my bed for a coverlet. That is what I shall do. If I put it on the table, John would only spill his brandy on it.”
“I am glad you like it. Where is Cousin John?” Moira asked.
“Out and about somewhere. He will be back in time to meet you.”
Hartly remembered that the excuse for not putting up with the Marchbanks was Lord Marchbank’s ailing health, yet he was well enough to be up and about. Another small mystery. He was surprised to see that the wicker basket did not hold a padlocked case. He took a surreptitious peek into it while the ladies examined the tablecloth. The cloth had not filled the basket. There were newspapers folded up below it, obviously with something else beneath.
“We brought some preserves as well,” Moira mentioned. “The marmalade you like so much.”
Lady Marchbank continued examining the cloth. “Such a lot of work. I don’t know how you found time to do it, so busy as you must have been.”
Moira knew the old lady was thinking of her real life—trying to make ends meet on the estate—and spoke up quickly to remind her of her role.
“I had a deal of help running Penworth Hall,” she said.
“Of course you did, but a young gel likes to ride and entertain and that sort of thing.”
The tea tray arrived, a veritable feast, with a pigeon pie, cold cuts, bread and three kinds of cheese, a plum cake, and various sweets. It was impossible to do justice to it so soon after lunch.
After they had eaten, Hartly said, “I shall go out and have a walk along the beach while you cousins catch up on all the family gossip.”
“I shall go with you,” Jonathon added. “I saw a nifty ship through the window. It looked as if it was coming into your dock, Cousin Vera.”
The lady gave him a sharp look. “That would be Homer Guthrie’s fishing smack. He stops here to let us choose what we want from his catch. I would not bother him if I were you, David. He is a testy old fellow. Why do you not take Mr. Hartly to see the stables? No, on second thought, that is not a good idea. One of the colts has been gelded and is in a bad mood. ... I have it! Take Mr. Hartly along the west cliff. You will get a pretty view of the cove there. Turn left when you go out the front door.”
After they left, Lady Marchbank turned a laughing face to her remaining guest. “Gracious! I almost wish they were not going out, but then we could not talk in front of Hartly. John runs the smuggling hereabouts, you must know. Guthrie is bringing in a load now.”
“Really! You mean Cousin John is the Black Ghost?”
“Good gracious, no. He is well past that sort of flying about at night. The Black Ghost is merely a goblin to frighten the simple village folks. It is John’s nephew, Peter Masters, from Romney. He runs the operation there. He will take over the Blaxstead run as well when John retires. John has a cozy setup here, as he is the magistrate. No harm in it, eh?”
“It seems to be accepted by everyone except the government,” Moira conceded.
“It is all that keeps body and soul together for the local families. Of course, I would not like you to tell Hartly any of this. He might very well be a Revenueman sent down from London. They pull off those sly tricks from time to time.”
“Oh, dear! Do you think that possible?” Moira exclaimed.
“There is no saying. Did you plan to make him your beau? I take it he does not know who you really are.”
“He has no idea. He is just a man staying at the inn. He was asking for Major Stanby, which is why I am a little interested in him.”
She gave a cagey smile. “He is monstrously handsome. An ex-officer, I take it?”
“Why, no, he said he has an estate in Devon.”
“He walks like a soldier, and he has the swarthy complexion of the fellows returned from Spain. Returned officers have been given these plum jobs with the Revenue Service before. Keep an eye on him for us. John will want to know what he is up to. But if he was asking for Stanby, perhaps he is with Bow Street. The police must be onto the bounder by now.”
“I had not thought of that!”
“Do not trust him until you learn for certain. Perhaps he is what they call a Corinthian, a sportsman, just having a holiday by the sea. Some of them turn a wretched tan color from being outdoors. Now, tell me all about your adventure. Have you hooked old Lionel March, the bounder?”
“I have scraped an acquaintance. In fact, I shall be standing up with him at an assembly at the inn this evening.”
“Excellent! I shall be there. My presence will confirm that you are indeed Lady Crieff. Between us, we’ll reel him in and gaff him. I think, Moira, that you ought to wear some real jewelry this evening.”
“I have been wearing my diamond necklace.”
“That is good, but to keep wearing one piece when you have a whole collection—it does not seem natural. I slipped the word to our junior footman that Lady Crieff is rich as a nabob and has a fabulous collection of jewelry. His sister works for Mrs. Abercrombie in Blaxstead, so the word will be out by now. I shall show you my jewelry, and you shall tell me if any of it matches items in the Crieff collection.”
She led Moira to her bedroom, another large, ugly room, and took out a wooden box that she kept hidden in a hatbox. Her jewels were antiquated and were not a good match for the Crieff collection. There was one set of sapphires that might pass inspection.
“My ball gown is green,” Moira said. “I could not wear sapphires with it.”
“But they are not so valuable as emeralds or diamonds. That might provide an excuse for wearing them at a public inn.”
“I would be nervous having them at the inn, cousin.”
“I shall take them home with me after the rout. How is that?”
“That should be safe enough,” Moira said.
She put the sapphires in her handkerchief in the bottom of her reticule and they returned belowstairs.
They refilled their teacups and settled in for a good cose.
Outside, Hartly did not turn left. He headed straight for the beach and the fishing smack. He had already observed that Cove House was ideally situated for smuggling. The ship at the dock was similar to the one that had stopped at Owl House to unload brandy, concealed beneath its cargo of mackerel. Lady Marchbank’s feeble excuse for keeping them away from the stable suggested that the cargo was being transferred there. The only impediment to confirming this was David. He had to get rid of the lad, preferably in a manner that would not raise his suspicions.
“You did not think to ask your cousin about that cave,” he said. “That would be something to see. I daresay it would not be the thing to interrupt the ladies’ cose. Pity.”
Jonathon stopped in his tracks. “You go on ahead, Mr. Hartly. I shall meet up with you later. I just remembered something I have to tell Cousin Vera. She wanted to know about . . . about what school I shall be going to next autumn.”
He scooted off, leaving Hartly with another question. He had assumed Sir David was being educated at home with a tutor. But if so, why change the routine at this time, when his presence at Penworth would be useful? He was reaching the age when he should be learning about the management of his estate, especially with his papa dead.
A few other items bothered him as well. Lady Marchbank’s reference to seeing Lady Crieff when she was a child suggested the relationship was with the girl’s family, not Sir Aubrey’s. It seemed unlikely that a simple shepherd from Scotland was related to Lady Marchbank. He wondered, too, what else the wicker basket contained
besides the tablecloth.
These were matters he might best discover by watching and listening later. For the present, he wished to confirm that Cove House was being used for smuggling. Some highly placed people were involved, Bullion had said. Who, in the area, was more highly placed than Lord Marchbank? Was it possible old Marchbank was the infamous Black Ghost? Hartly meant to be back at Cove House in time to meet him.
He approached the fishing ship cautiously, crouching behind rocks. An elderly gentleman was there, giving orders. He was indeed selecting a few fish, but e’er long, he looked all about, then said something to the man in charge of the ship. Half a dozen fishermen were called, and there, in broad daylight, twenty-four barrels were rolled ashore. A youngster soon appeared, leading two donkeys. A pair of barrels was put over the animals’ backs, one on either side, and the donkeys were led off, presumably to either the stable or the cave, where they would be concealed until picked up for further shipment.
Hartly had seen enough. He began walking along to the west, as Lady Marchbank had suggested. The donkeys were heading east, toward the stable. After half an hour, David had not joined him, so he returned to the saloon.
“Where is David?” Moira asked at once.
Hartly had forgotten all about him. “Did he not return here? He said he wished to tell Lady Marchbank something.”
Moira felt cold fingers tapping at her spine. Hartly had kidnapped Jonathon! Right under their noses, he had spirited him away.
She leapt to her feet. “What have you done with him?” she gasped.
Hartly’s stunned face told her she had guessed wrong. Before he could reply, Jonathon came prancing in, covered with dust and cobwebs.
“I say, Cousin Vera! That secret passage is something like!”
Moira collapsed in relief onto the sofa. It was Lady Marchbank who had turned a ghastly shade of gray.
“How did you find it?” she demanded. Her eyes slewed accusingly to Mr. Hartly, who was gazing unconcernedly out the window.
Jonathon said, “Why, I just opened that little blue door at the side of the house, and there it was. Why do you keep so many bar—”
“You should not have been snooping without permission, David,” she scolded. “There are rats down there. You might have been bitten and caught the plague. It is a nasty, dirty place. Now come and apologize. There’s a good lad.”
The little incident was smoothed over, but after such displays of temper, the mood was uncertain. They all heard the heavy footsteps sounding in the hallway. Lady Marchbank announced, “Ah, here is John, at last,” with a great air of relief, as if he were Christopher Columbus, safely returned from his journey to the New World.
Chapter Eight
Hartly knew at a glance that the obese, gouty old gentleman hobbling into the room was not the Black Ghost, but he was the same gentleman who had overseen the unloading of the brandy at the cove earlier. Lord Marchbank had imbibed too much of the cargo that landed at his doorstep to take such an active part in the smuggling. His bulbous, veined nose and bloodshot eyes spoke of a long career of drinking. Brandy had not destroyed the man’s mind, however. He gave Hartly one short, sharp look, then turned to welcome his cousins.
He did not remain in the saloon long, but his welcome was warm. He assured Sir David and Lady Crieff that they had only to send a note to Cove House if they required anything.
Lady Marchbank showed him the tablecloth, which he praised in the vague, hearty manner of one who did not appreciate what he saw but wished to compliment the giver.
“David mentioned he misses his rides, dear,” Lady Marchbank said. “I have told Bonnie she may ride my mount while she is here. Have you anything in the stable that would do for David?”
“Come along and take your pick, lad,” Marchbank offered at once. Almost immediately, he changed the offer. “On t’other hand, I shall have my groom send a mount around with the carriage when you leave. The nags are restless this afternoon. Gray Lady is foaling. It always upsets the animals.”
“And as I mentioned to the children earlier,” his wife added, “that bay colt has been gelded, and he is upset, too.”
“Aye, the stables are a regular hospital,” Marchbank said. His plummy cheeks had turned a shade deeper, confirming Hartly’s suspicion that the stables were no horse hospital but a holding den for that cargo brought in that afternoon in broad daylight. When Marchbank reached for the brandy bottle on a side table, his wife caught his eye and shook her head in warning. Marchbank poured himself a glass of wine instead.
After a little discussion of a mount for David, the guests rose to leave.
“I shall arrive at the inn at eight, to chaperon you for the assembly,” Lady Marchbank told Moira.
“Will you also come, sir?” Moira asked Marchbank.
“John will not come,” Lady Marchbank answered for him. “He detests parties of all things. If I waited for him to take me out, I should never see the light of day.”
The guests were accompanied to the door. Marchbank went out to the carriage with them. While Jonathon and Moira examined their mounts, Marchbank had a private word with Hartly.
“Finding Blaxstead a trifle dull, I daresay?” he mentioned.
“On the contrary, sir, I find it full of interesting activity. Mind you, I am thinking of changing inns. I had a small sum stolen from my room last night. I have made no formal complaint, but I have reason to believe it was one of the young fellows who work for Bullion. Who is the magistrate hereabouts?”
“You are looking at him. Gather up your evidence and we’ll toss him into jail. That sort of petty pilfering gives the village a bad name.”
“It was a small sum. As I am remaining only a few days, perhaps it is not worth my while. I shan’t leave money in my room another time.”
“That might be best. Tip Bullion the clue as well. He will not want a thief working for him.”
Jonathon called Hartly to go and see his mount, and that terminated the short conversation. Soon the guests took their departure.
Moira was quiet on the way home. She had a good deal to think about. If Hartly was here to spy on the smugglers, then he was not working with Stanby. There had been a card game last night, which tended to confirm Jonathon’s notion that it was only the hope of such a game that had made Hartly ask for Stanby. Hartly still posed a threat, but a threat of a different sort. He was out to put a stop to Marchbank’s smuggling. She would keep an eye on him, as Cousin Vera had asked.
She came to rigid attention when he said to Jonathon, “How were the caves? Were they interesting?”
“They were dark and wet and full of barrels,” Jonathon replied.
Moira gave an involuntary jerk. This was as good as telling Hartly that Marchbank was a smuggler. “Cousin Vera told me she keeps her pickle barrels down there,” she said.
“She must make an awful lot of pickles,” Jonathon said. He received such a gimlet stare from his sister that he realized he was being indiscreet. “Now that you mention it, there was a smell of vinegar in the cave. There were not that many barrels, actually.”
“You know how Lord Marchbank loves his pickles,” she said.
Hartly’s laughing eye told her she had not fooled him for a minute. He knew she had not seen her cousins since she was a child. How should she know he loved pickles? There had been no pickles served at tea.
“Are you sure it was not brandied fruit that was kept there? Or just brandy, without the fruit,” he said playfully.
“My cousin would never tolerate such a thing!” she said.
“Perhaps the smugglers are using his caves—without his knowledge, of course,” Hartly suggested.
She leapt on it like a cat on catnip. “Very likely that is it. I shall warn Lord Marchbank. He will want to put a guard in the caves to catch the Gentlemen.”
“The locals will not thank him for it,” Hartly said. “I should think half the population make their living from smuggling.”
She was not conned by thi
s pretended approval, designed to lure her into revealing family secrets. “Surely not. My cousin would never countenance such a thing.”
“He countenances a bottle of brandy in his saloon. I was hoping he would offer me a tipple.”
“Very likely it is kept for medicinal purposes. Marchbank suffers from gout.”
“I rather think what he is using for a cure is the cause of his affliction.”
Jonathon came to the rescue by changing the subject. “I think we ought to change mounts, Lady Crieff,” he said. “The mare Cousin Vera lent you is bigger than my gelding.”
“Marchbank said Firefly was a lively goer. I am using Cousin Vera’s mare. The saddle is a lady’s saddle.”
“I daresay we could change saddles.”
“No, you said yourself Firefly is smaller.”
Hartly did not try to reintroduce the subject of smuggling, but he had noticed how eager Lady Crieff was to drop it.
Jonathon wanted to give Firefly a try as soon aa they arrived back at Owl House. With an assembly to prepare for, Moira decided to wait until the next morning. She had to prepare her own toilette.
Hartly went to his room for a word with Mott. He found his “valet” stretched out on his bed, reading the racing news.
“What has Stanby been up to?” he asked.
“A damned funny thing,” Mott replied. “He was at Lady Crieff’s room, stuffing a note under her door. I tried to get it out with a knife, but it was in too far. Do you think they are partners?”
“No, I rather think he has decided to make a try for her jewelry.”
“Did you learn anything at the Marchbanks’?”
“Yes. Marchbank is working hand in glove with the Black Ghost. He allows the smugglers to use his place. A cargo was being unloaded while I was there. He has the caves under his house full of brandy. From there, it goes to his stable, for eventual shipment about the countryside. As he is the magistrate, he would see that none of the men are convicted. Bullion mentioned people in higher places, you recall.”