The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4)

by Georges Carrack

  “There’s a letter in the box,” she said. She fished it out and read the address, “It’s for Neville, Mum.”

  “I don’t recognize the hand,” he said. “I hope it’s news of my ship.”

  The envelope contained only a single small piece of paper with a short note. It was not what one would normally call a letter, It was dated October 2, 1805.

  “M.S. has run off – suspect to Norfolk. No rum sales – double agency. Thought you’d want to know. I’ve copied Godfather.”

  The signature was ‘Uncle Georges’

  This message is almost 2 months old. My word! It’s direct from Georges – not through Sir William. This would have been a month after Marion left me in London. There must be some mistake. My Marion - a double agent? How could that possibly be? She’s just not that devious. She has the feminine wiles without any doubt, but this? Impossible! I would have known something. And why Norfolk? Because she’s American, and Norfolk was the first ship out, I suppose…

  “Are you all right, Neville?” his mother asked.

  Neville looked into the envelope again, but there was nothing more there. He looked at the address again. It had gone to La Désirée and then Haslar Hospital and from there was re-addressed to Bury.

  “You’ve gone white as a sheet,” said Elizabeth.

  He read the short note again. He slammed his fist down on the table and yelled, “NO-oo!” His tea cup jumped and rolled to the floor with a crash, sending the tea and its leaves flying across the floor with shards of china.

  “Neville…?” queried his mother.

  “I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.” He stood to get a cloth.

  “Is it from your ship? May I see?” She asked.

  “No, you may not.” He snapped... “Yes, yes. Sorry. But it won’t mean a thing to you. I can scarce believe it myself.”

  His mother read it and passed it to Elizabeth. “What does it mean?” she asked

  “Who are these people?” asked Elizabeth.

  Neville knew his face was turning bright red. He knew he could never tell his sister about his history with Marion – or his mother, either. A lie was required. “They… I can’t. It’s part of that… that thing when I was gone for three years. I’m sorry. I must go think what to do…” He climbed the stair carefully, forcing himself to go slowly and not re-open his wound. What on earth can I do? I can’t leave here yet. I am not healed, and my ship is still away.

  He found his bed and laid down to calm himself and ponder the situation. How could she do this to me? What more does Georges know of her? His answer was very quick, wasn’t it?

  Neville pulled the letter out of his pocket where he had stashed it after his mother read it. A quick calculation led him to understand that there could have been little time between his inquiry through Sir Mulholland and Georges’ answer. He and Marion had both left London about the first of September. His letter would have gone to Whitehall in a few short days. Even if Sir Mulholland had sat on it for a week, his note to Georges could have reached the man in France in another week. That would be mid-October. Marion should have concluded her business and sailed home by then, one would think, whether via smuggler back to England and thence to the United States or directly on an American ship out of one of the northern ports. Therefore, he estimated, Georges must have traveled from wherever he’d been, investigated Marion’s visit, and penned an answer in only two more weeks. Even the travel would take two weeks. Georges must already have been in Paris. Not unlikely, but was there a connection?

  His decision was to write Sir Mulholland asking for two things: more information and a chance to follow his investigation of Stillwater. If Marion is involved, he thought, for what she has put me through I will be happy to let her join in her father’s guilt. I will chase them both down, and finalize Sir William’s investigation in the process.

  He felt himself growing red at the collar and his blood pressure rinsing again. I must calm myself, or this thing will never heal. I suppose writing is all I can do for now.

  Mary appeared at her usual hour of ten in the morning. Neville looked at her differently. She is beautiful, this girl, and she is steady and honest, not at all devious and cunning like Marion. After all this time I can see it again. She is a woman I would be proud to marry.

  “Thank you, Mary, for all your help,” he said. “Mother could have done it, I am sure, but I think it pains her to be reminded of the danger I often see.”

  “It does, Neville, and I don’t mind. I have come a long way since you saw me last. Helping you is more than something to do. It make me feel useful again. Do you suppose…”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “After you’re better, do you suppose we might… I don’t know, go out to dinner or something?”

  He reached over and took her hand. “I have thought it myself, but I wasn’t sure how you might take it. It seems forward for me, not a year since John’s been gone. There have been others, Mary, but I seem to find them less… honest.”

  “I have suspected. But I am alone again. and my feelings for you are still there.”

  “I…”

  “Nope. No more today. That’s it. You’re done. I see no bleeding today, finally. You’ll be up again soon enough.” She leaned over him and kissed him – on the lips – and left him to nap.

  Neville’s recovery began to gain momentum.

  “Only another week to the New Year, Neville. Do you think you would be up to attending church for the Christmas services?” asked Mary.

  “I should think so. I have been out for walks with you , although they have been short. I’m sure I will be able to sit on a hard bench for an hour or so.”

  “That’s a good thing. We’ll have something to do together. Our mothers are starting to mumble about my visiting.”

  “Mumble what, Mary?”

  Mary blushed. “You know. That you should come to court me now, now this way ‘round.”

  Neville blushed. “Oh. I hadn’t seen it like that. But now you mention it, I haven’t needed much nursing for a few weeks now, have I…?

  “My humble apologies, Mary; I shall indeed turn it ‘round.”

  “So, Neville, you haven’t said… it would be nice if… so you would come to court me?”

  “Well, I need the air, don’t I, to continue…”

  “Oh, you impossible prat. Your sister is right. I’ll only be back one more time to check that scar, and then it will be all up to you.”

  Mary stood and stalked to the door. There she hesitated, and then walked back to Neville, grabbed his head with both hands, and gave him a big kiss full on the lips. “You understand, I take it?” she said, and left the house.

  Neville was not entirely surprised by the incident. He had been thinking about what he should do. The idea that she was courting him had not occurred to him, and that was embarrassing, but it was also very encouraging.

  I think I have reached a decision. I will indeed court Mary with my fullest intention to win her heart – if I haven’t already, as it appears. I can give her assurances, but a wedding before I am called back would be almost impossible…

  Elizabeth knocked at the door on December twenty-eighth. Her mother opened it, and Neville’s sister stepped in to the house brushing her coat.

  “Snow again today, Mum, you see?” she said. “Not much, though. I should think it will all melt by noon, and we’ll have a nice day.”

  Neville was sitting in the kitchen warming his feet by the fire. He stood when Elizabeth entered to greet her, and gave her a cheery, “Good Morning, Sis, How are you today? Cuppa tea?”

  “No, Neville. I’m afraid I’ve come with news.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Depends, for you.”

  “Depends, why?”

  “It’s about Mary.”

  “Mary? She was supposed to be back one last time to check my scar, but I’ve not seen her these three days past. Is she all right?”

  “Yes, Neville, she i
s. And so is her husband. They’ve found John alive. He’ll be home in a month.”

  19 - “Passage Home”

  “Ellen, can you believe that fool Mr. Stearns showed up here? It was… It was…” Marion spluttered.

  “Outrageous, Marion, and very dangerous for us,” Ellen suggested, “I just had a word with Mr. Cadoudal about him. How did he know we were here?”

  “It is my fault, and I should have told you. I wrote…”

  “You wrote and told him? I cannot believe what I’m hearing!”

  “No, not exactly. No, really not, at all. He wrote me months ago that he had gone to Washington. Father apparently sent him to New York, but the idiot followed me. He must still think I would have an interest in him.”

  “Do you?”

  “No, not at all. Stop it. I wrote him back a simple letter about our travel and wished him luck in sales. I think I might have mentioned a trip to Paris on holiday in September, but no more. Absolutely no more!”

  “Then how do you think a rum salesman finds us at a meeting with Georges in Paris in the middle of a war between England and France? Did you know that he was here before? Is there something more about his appearance here today that we don’t know?”

  “What do you mean by ‘He has been here before’?”

  “Here. Here in France, apparently trying to be some sort of spy.”

  “Spy? Mr. Stearns? That’s ridiculous. Spy for whom? Is Mr. Cadoudal not mistaken? Mr. Stearns couldn’t scheme his way out of a school yard.”

  “I’ve seen worse. You haven’t paid him any attention at all, have you?”

  “I try very hard not to. He gets the wrong idea very quickly. Not at all like my Neville. Him I have to lead along. Mr. Stearns’ main purpose in my life is to steam a little jealously into Neville.”

  “Forget Neville for a minute, and I don’t mean Mr. Stearns’ attempts on your affections. His business. What does he do? Have you studied his activities?”

  “He’s our chief salesman, after Father. He stays in touch with the ships that come and go in order to have an idea what they might buy, and he meets with them to sell rum. Father describes him as his “right-hand man” but I see little of the business that he actually manages. I control the warehouse. Father controls the finances. We all sell.”

  “Nothing else? What about the guns? Is that only your father?”

  “Guns? What guns?”

  “The rifles from Harper’s Ferry; those your father sells. Surely you have seen some evidence of it. Your father makes no attempt to hide it at home.”

  “I… I’m sorry. I’m afraid I haven’t seen it.”

  “My goodness. What have I gotten myself into?” queried Ellen to herself, more than to Marion. “No matter,” she continued, “perhaps it is for the better. If anything goes wrong you can deny it all and be sent home. You are my travelling companion here, and that does not suppose you have anything to do with whatever business I may conduct.”

  “What else have you found?” asked Marion.

  “Nothing more yet, but my purpose in coming is almost complete. I will ask Georges for more tomorrow, and shortly after that we could leave. Le Havre is the closest port for smuggling ourselves to England, and after your visit to London we could take any American or British ship, I am sure.”

  “I pray you are as pleased to be off French soil as I am, Miss Stillwater,” began Miss Aughton.

  “Such formality, Ellen. Have you not enjoyed our comradery?”

  “I have indeed. Just practice, I suppose, although I may not be going back to Jamaica with you, you know. I plan to stop awhile in Boston.” She turned to look Marion in the face, and saw that Marion was looking quite dour.

  “The Master’s most esteemed complements, ladies,” said one of the ship’s company. “I am sent to ask you to go below while we shoves off. We gets rather busy and we wouldn’t want to bowl you over with our ropes or embarrass you with our bad language.”

  “Yes, of course. We’ll go.”

  “I know,” Marion said on the way down the companion to their little cabins. “Another assignment somewhere I suppose. I will miss you greatly.”

  “And I will miss you.” The ship bumped heavily against some immovable object – the pier, probably – and Ellen was thrown into Marion’s arms. The two hugged. “Something will turn up.” Said Ellen cheerily. “It always does. Did you stop at Whitehall to see that Mulholland fellow?”

  “Yes.” Marion paused and sighed. “I’m sure something will turn up, yes. I just wish I could tell Neville. It would make all the difference.”

  The ship was free of the wharf now, and the easy motion of a ship in a protected harbor began.

  “It would, I know, but that’s what we’re into. I would love to tell Joseph, too. I’m hoping he’s my next assignment, anyway,” Ellen said with a wink.

  “What would you do with him?” Marion asked. She felt a glimmer of hope stir within.

  “Marry him, naturally.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. That seems such a distant thing for me.”

  “Let’s take your mind off it, then, shall we?” asked Ellen. “We have the whole passage home to sort out what we know about Mr. Stearns and what he was doing in France – and what we’re going to do about it. Here’s your cabin. I think it’s bigger than mine. Shall we begin?”

  “First I must ask, Ellen - is there no chance Mr. Cadoudal made a mistake; that it was not our Mr. Stearns he remembers?”

  “Oh, no, Marion. Think about it. I have never known him to forget a face. How do you think he stays alive? Furthermore, was it not Mr. Stearns who recognized Georges first and ran off?”

  “It was.”

  “I suppose it was no mistake, then. You haven’t said these last few days in the coach from Paris whether you got anything else from Mr. Cadoudal.”

  “Well, I couldn’t, could I? Not with that smelly, leering French lieutenant in the seat opposite.”

  “No. No, of course. So get on with it, then, please.”

  “Georges says that when he was here before - that would be about eight years ago – Mr. Stearns was presented as a tobacco salesman and introduced as being an agent of the United States. But he acted so badly during his visit that Georges and his ‘friends’ feared they would be outed if Stearns stayed on. He didn’t stop talking, and that’s always bad. They sent him home with a request that he not be returned.”

  “Talking’s not bad for a salesman, though, is it?” said Marion, “Eight years ago would fit with his arrival in Jamaica.”

  “Why the United States, I wonder?” queried Ellen. “Georges didn’t say, but why would they be spying on an ally?”

  “We may never know the answer to that,” said Marion, “but the better question is whether they did send him back. This whole thing might be about his chasing me. I told you he wrote me that letter, and it certainly read as if he imagined he was arranging a romantic rendezvous…

  “Where do you suppose he went after he ran off?”

  “Georges said they followed him to Le Havre. He boarded a ship for Norfolk. That’s all they could find out. What do you think, Marion? You know him better than I do. Will he stay in the US or go back to Jamaica?”

  “Personally I pray that he stays in the United States. Could he really go back to Jamaica after this?”

  “Yes, why not? What does he know?” Ellen asked rhetorically. “First,” she said, “he has no idea that you are in the spy game – only that you met Georges and some other men. He may suspect that Georges, whom you did not know, was there to learn what business you had with the others.”

  “If Georges is a spy for Britain, Ellen, why was he there? Do you know?”

  Ellen paused. She looked at the deck beams above her. She looked at the floor. Finally, she looked into Marion’s eyes, and she said, “He was there to meet me.”

  “You, Ellen?”

  “You knew who I was – or more correctly, who I represented - before you agreed to participate in this
mission. You should have known, or at least assumed, that I am not what I appear to be – ever. I am your handmaiden – your servant. I am your traveling companion – your equal. I am nobody, and I am anyone.”

  “And what about Joseph?”

  “Ahhh. And to him, I am lost. Someday he may know, but not now. Will you agree to that?”

  “I will. What was your business with Georges?”

  “That you should not ask, so I will not say. But if you allow me, I will continue where I left off…

  “Second, he must assume that you and Georges were strangers – that you just met there at dinner – that you were in Paris exactly as put forward... to sell rum to the French navy; that the others at dinner were your customers.

  “Thirdly, he must assume that your father expects naught else. You put it forward to him yourself.”

  “Yes, but it was your creation, Ellen. You cannot deny that.”

  “I do not, and it has worked marvelously well. I cannot but thank you for your help. I could never have gone there without the cover of a sales visit of some sort and a travelling companion. And I must admit that Joseph was a bonus that I could never have imagined.”

  Marion sat silently for a minute or two, wondering where to take the conversation next. She took the logical path. “Ellen, what do we do now?”

  “Let us go above again. They are done with their dockside nonsense, and it is a nice day. Let us watch Europe disappear behind us and think on it. We have the whole passage, as I said.”

  One fine day in early October, as the Canary Islands were sinking behind the ship, Marion and Ellen stood on the poop deck under the eye of a very protective captain, enjoying a mid-morning cup of tea.

  “King Neptune himself is watching over us today, I think,” said Ellen. “I think they call this a ‘fair wind’ and the waves are quite pleasant. It is a very comfortable motion, indeed.”