The Captain Claims His Lady

by Annie Burrows

  Well, no, but then he’d known it before he’d even set foot in Bath. Not that he was fool enough to correct Lady Mainwaring’s assumption.

  ‘Did your friend happen to find out why they left?’

  She shook her head. ‘You would think, with that parade-ground voice of his, that she would have been able to make out just the gist of it, wouldn’t you? But even the cook he hired with the house hadn’t been able to discover why they all left so suddenly. But then by the time she came into work on Thursday morning, the agent was there and the battle in full swing.’

  Thursday morning. She’d left Bath the very day after the concert.

  Was it a coincidence? Or could it be a result of his own behaviour? Could someone have seen him holding hands with her and told her grandfather?

  That was the trouble with making a daring move. The rewards could be great, but sometimes the risks meant the end result could be catastrophic.

  Though, in this case, he could see a way to come about. He’d simply adapt the plans Rawcliffe and Becconsall had drawn up. They’d instructed him to cajole Miss Hutton into inviting him to spend Christmas with her at Lesser Peeving. Instead, he would move his pursuit of Miss Hutton to the next level by going down to Peacombe, a little seaside town which boasted a hotel or two. And from where he could beat a path to her door.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to the Three Tuns,’ said an oily-looking man who put Harry in mind of an exceptionally crooked tavern keeper he’d had the misfortune to have dealings with in Naples. All smiles for paying customers, all double-dealing behind the scenes. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘I want a room for myself and my manservant.’

  ‘A room?’ The landlord looked confused.

  ‘This is an hotel, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is, I just...’ The landlord replaced the confusion with an ingratiating smile. ‘We do not usually get many visitors so late in the year.’

  ‘Which means, I hope, that I can have my pick of rooms.’

  The landlord ran an appraising eye over Harry, from the gold braid on his hat, to his battered and scuffed boots, judging the cost and age of everything he saw. Harry pretended not to notice.

  ‘Since I suffer from,’ Harry said, ‘that is, since I may have need of my manservant during the night, I will want a large room, in which you can place a truckle bed, or one with a dressing room in which one can be placed.’ Though Harry didn’t think whoever was responsible for Archie’s death was likely to try sneaking into his room and stabbing him while he lay sleeping, Dawkins had insisted they take no chances.

  ‘May I ask how long you are considering staying with us?’

  ‘A week to begin with. After that, it depends upon how my...business in the area progresses. I take it you require payment in advance? For the first week, that is.’

  Harry didn’t wait for the landlord to answer, he just pulled out the roll of folding money Rawcliffe had handed him ‘for expenses’ before leaving London, peeled off one note and handed it over.

  The landlord didn’t appear to even glance at it before palming it and making it disappear somewhere within the folds of his own coat.

  ‘I believe you would be most comfortable in our first-floor suite,’ he said. ‘It has a sea view, which some former occupants...’ he leaned in as though sharing a titbit of gossip ‘...a marquess and his new bride, remarked upon most favourably.’

  Just as he’d thought. The man was a rogue. The marquess and bride to whom he’d referred had to be Lord and Lady Rawcliffe, who had come to Peacombe earlier that year. There couldn’t be any other marquess eccentric enough to have attempted to take his bride to such an unfashionable destination for her bride trip. But when Rawcliffe had stayed down here, he’d rented an entire lane full of cottages to house himself and his retinue, according to Becconsall, who’d found it highly amusing. Nevertheless, he could not let on that he knew. He wasn’t supposed to have any connection to Rawcliffe at all, let alone be so close to him that he knew where he’d spent his honeymoon. So he took the man up on the other part of his statement.

  ‘I have seen quite enough of the sea during my career to date,’ he said curtly, hoping the landlord would draw the correct conclusion about his background. Since he was not going to be a guest of the Colonel and Miss Hutton, he and Dawkins had come up with a revised plan to explain his presence in Peacombe. They’d then written to Rawcliffe to inform him that Harry would drop a steady stream of crumbs of information, as though unwittingly, in order to control the gossip that his arrival in the small seaside town would engender.

  So far, he thought he’d done a fair job of announcing that he’d been in the navy and had more money than sense.

  ‘Very good, sir. My name is Mr Jeavons,’ said the landlord with a smug bow. ‘It will not take long to prepare our best suite, for you. Jones,’ he said, indicating a servant in a green apron, who’d been lounging against the doorframe of what appeared to be the entrance to a public taproom, ‘will take your luggage up.’ Jones pushed himself off his doorframe and made for the pile of cases Dawkins had just deposited on the stone flags. ‘If you would not mind just signing our guest book?’ He gestured to a leather-bound journal propped open on a shelf beneath the main staircase.

  Harry obliged. Once Jeavons had glanced at the entry, which included his title and gave his estate in Scotland as his main address, the manager became even more obsequious.

  ‘Permit me to guide you to our reading room, where there is a fire by which you can warm yourself, my lord,’ he said, inching in the direction of a corridor which led into the bowels of the large, rambling building which occupied one entire side of the market square.

  ‘Captain Bretherton,’ Harry corrected him.

  ‘As you wish,’ said the landlord subserviently. ‘We have the London papers, as well as a large stock of books in our lending library. People—that is, the better sort of people—come from all over the locality to borrow books or simply to take coffee. In fact, I am not ashamed to confess that the Three Tuns has become the centre of the social life in this part of Dorset, since I made the improvements.’

  Harry glanced round the deserted foyer, into which a little rain was gusting through the door which still stood open behind him.

  ‘Ah, if only you had been here during the summer months. Then you would have been able to enjoy concerts, and balls, as well as the very best of society.’

  ‘I was not up to dancing, during the summer,’ because he’d rarely been sober enough to know his left foot from his right. ‘Though my recent sojourn in Bath,’ he continued, hoping Jeavons would pick up on the fact he was posing as a semi-invalid, ‘has worked wonders.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jeavons, with dawning comprehension. Finally. ‘You have been taking the waters. Did someone you met there recommend the health-giving properties of our own spring? Though it is not,’ he continued before Harry had a chance to make any sort of response, ‘as conveniently situated, I am sure that you will find the walk along the recently constructed promenade along the sea front, followed by the climb up through our beautiful cliffside gardens to reach the source, most beneficial to your health and well-being. And when you drink it—’

  ‘All I wish to drink, for the present, is some of that coffee you mentioned.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Jeavons with a deft bow. ‘Please follow me to the reading room, where I will serve you myself.’

  He set off along the corridor he’d pointed out before and Harry followed, with Dawkins close on his heels.

  The room to which Jeavons took them turned out to be far more appealing than Harry had expected from what he’d seen of the Three Tuns so far. There were plenty of comfortable-looking chairs arranged round various-sized tables. A pair of sofas flanking a cheerfully crackling fire. Newspapers and journals displayed on slanted-topped tables
set beneath the windows to catch the light.

  But what really caught his interest was a large, framed map, displayed on the wall between those windows, with the legend ‘Peacombe’ picked out in bold red lettering.

  He shrugged off his overcoat and dropped it casually, the way he’d seen Rawcliffe do, so that his ‘valet’ had to step forward briskly to catch it. He then strode to the map and peered at it intently.

  ‘This is very interesting,’ he said. ‘I have been hoping to visit an acquaintance of mine while in the area, but was not completely sure where he lives. Could you possibly point out to me where, precisely, in Lesser Peeving I might find Colonel Hutton? And tell me where I might hire a gig to take me to him?’

  ‘Colonel Hutton?’ For a moment there was what looked like a flicker of alarm in the landlord’s eyes, though it was gone so quickly that anyone who hadn’t been looking for it might have missed it. The landlord licked his lips. Took a breath. Closed his mouth. Put on a servile expression.

  ‘If you wish to visit Colonel Hutton, I can arrange for a driver...’

  ‘No need. My man here can drive me, providing there is a suitable vehicle.’

  ‘I shall see what can be arranged. When would you be thinking of visiting the Colonel?’

  ‘As soon as humanly possible,’ he said firmly. ‘Today would not be too soon.’

  ‘A matter of urgency, is it?’

  He wasn’t imagining the landlord’s look of anxiety this time. His voice had even risen by about half an octave. If he could grow so alarmed at an unknown naval officer marching into town and demanding to see the local magistrate at once, it stood to reason he was hand in glove with the local smugglers.

  ‘It is to me.’

  The landlord straightened. ‘I shall see what I can do. Although it might be a little risky to go tonight. You will need to cross a stretch of open moorland to reach Lesser Peeving,’ he said, coming closer so that he could point out the moorland in question on the map, ‘and it will be going dark soon.’

  ‘A fair point. Tomorrow morning then. If I set out at first light, I can reach his house by...?’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t all that far. An hour at most. But he does come in regularly to read the papers and to allow his granddaughter to use our library, so perhaps...’

  ‘Lizzie comes here regularly? I mean,’ he corrected himself, as though in chagrin, ‘Miss Hutton.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Hutton,’ said the landlord with a knowing gleam in his eye. ‘It is Miss Hutton upon whom you wish to call, rather than the Colonel. You met her while in Bath, I take it? That would account for...no, no,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I must not be indiscreet.’

  Why not? Why could the fellow not finish what he’d been about to say about Lizzie?

  Still, the landlord had put two and two together and reached the conclusion Harry wanted him to reach. That there was a budding romance in the air. If it had been a real romance, if he’d truly been pursuing Miss Hutton with a view to marriage, he would have kept his intentions completely private.

  But he and Dawkins had agreed that the opportunity to have a look round the very hotel where Archie had stayed while he’d been down here had been too good to waste. And if he wanted answers from Jeavons, then he had to appear approachable. To the point of indiscretion.

  ‘I wish to call upon the Colonel,’ he said firmly. Which was also the truth. He needed to ask his permission to court Miss Hutton in form.

  Jeavons made no reply to that, though there was a knowing smirk playing about his lips when he bowed himself out of the room. The moment the door closed behind him, he turned to face Dawkins.

  ‘I think it safe to say,’ said Harry, ‘that the man was alarmed to hear of my intention to visit Colonel Hutton.’

  ‘Don’t necessarily mean he is in cahoots with the smugglers His Lordship warned us of.’

  ‘Can you think of another reason to explain his reaction?’

  ‘No, but...’ He finished with an eloquent shrug.

  ‘Nevertheless, it means we won’t be able to speak freely, even in here.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d best start taking walks along that there promenade he spoke of. For your health.’

  ‘Yes, and you’d better come with me.’

  Dawkins gave a curt nod.

  ‘You will come with me when I go to visit Colonel Hutton, too. And see what you can glean from his staff.’

  He nodded again.

  ‘In the meantime, we had better study this map.’

  Dawkins came to stand beside him and they stood in silence for a few moments, marvelling at the extraordinary detail in which the little bay of Peacombe, and the surrounding district, had been depicted. Someone had produced a watercolour which not only showed the main features of the coast and topography, but also a few of the more prominent buildings and what he had to assume were local places of interest. There was the Three Tuns, in the market square of Peacombe, and there was the road to Lesser Peeving, to the north, running up a steep hill before crossing an expanse of clearly rugged terrain. The spring that Jeavons had mentioned was shown gushing forth, in a most improbable manner, from some cliffs to the east of Peacombe bay.

  ‘Ah, now that is very interesting,’ he said, with a wry smile.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The fact that whoever painted this map left out an entire village. Which should be just about here,’ he said, pointing to a section of coastline to the east of the improbable spring. ‘That is about where Peeving Cove lies, at the head of this inlet, here, see it? And is where our main suspect lives.’

  ‘The Reverend Cottam?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lady Rawcliffe had been close to tears as she’d explained how they’d reached that conclusion about her brother.

  ‘When he was sent to Lesser Peeving as curate,’ she’d told him, ‘instead of taking up residence in the house provided by the diocese, he moved into Peeving Cove.’

  ‘Which is where the local smugglers have their stronghold,’ Rawcliffe had explained while she’d paused to blow her nose.

  ‘His excuse, naturally, is that he is sent to seek that which is lost,’ she’d said, wrinkling up her reddened nose in disgust. ‘Though he has never, to my knowledge, ever been responsible for reforming any of the sinners he likes to consort with. On the contrary, he seems to take great pride in organising them to make the most of whatever dubious talents they possess.’

  ‘Which is another reason for suspecting he’s the ringleader of the criminal gang that has been stealing jewels from members of the ton and replacing them with fakes so that the thefts went unnoticed for some considerable time. But what convinced us was his behaviour, when we visited him earlier this year.’

  ‘He practically boasted about how clever he’d been, disposing of Archie’s body the way he had.’

  ‘Not in so many words, my dear,’ Rawcliffe had pointed out.

  ‘You’ve got to find proof, Atlas,’ Lady Rawcliffe had sobbed. ‘Solid evidence that he can’t wriggle his way round, or he will keep on getting away with the most awful things...’

  Lord Rawcliffe had gone to his wife’s chair and rested his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘So far, all we have is a series of what he can explain away as perfectly innocent coincidences to link him to any aspect of the crime.’

  ‘Yes, like the way he says he is finding fallen women respectable employment. When, really, he is getting criminals positions in households he plans to rob.’

  ‘I remember you all talking about what kind of person could have such unrestricted access to the houses which were later robbed,’ Harry had put in at that point. ‘And it struck me that posing as a clergyman—’

  ‘Or actually being one,’ Lady Rawcliffe had offered cynically.

  ‘Yes, well, it is a perfect cover for someone intent on committing crimes. Wherever one goes, there is always
a clergyman hovering on the fringes. House parties, dinners at embassies and such like. Like younger sons of noble houses, they are permitted to run tame just about anywhere.’

  ‘Yes, we think that is probably how he managed to discover the weaknesses of the people he later robbed. But to return to the few facts of which I am certain,’ said Rawcliffe. ‘I did manage to pick up the scent of a girl who fit the description of someone who could have been responsible for two robberies. The trail went cold in Peeving Cove. The girl, whatever her real name was, definitely went there. And drowned.’

  ‘Just like Archie.’

  ‘But Cottam has also laid a trail that leads to another resident of that area. One Lady Buntingford. She is the person who provided references for the girls in question—’

  ‘Or girl in question,’ put in Lady Rawcliffe. ‘We think she might have gained work in various places under different aliases. But we couldn’t get in to see her—Lady Buntingford, I mean—because of her being a recluse. We did think Archie might have got in to speak to her, because she is his great-godmother, and that could be why he was killed...’ She made use of her handkerchief again. ‘But even when it comes to Lady Buntingford, it could be my brother.’

  ‘What my wife means,’ put in Lord Rawcliffe, giving his wife’s shoulders a little squeeze, ‘is that Cottam is, apparently, one of the very few people who is ever allowed in to see Lady Buntingford. And he actually told Clare that he deals with her correspondence. So he could have forged references from her. Easily.’

  ‘I know. It was me who suggested those references were forgeries in the first place.’ During one of his more lucid moments. When he was making a bit of an attempt to try to repay the kindness Rawcliffe was showing him, in offering him house room, by pretending to be interested in the affair in which they were all becoming embroiled.

  ‘Yes, but she could just as easily be playing a part. And Cottam could be innocent.’

  Lady Rawcliffe had snorted at the suggestion. ‘You need to talk to Miss Hutton about Lady Buntingford,’ she’d said. ‘That is one reason we have decided to send you down there after her. Miss Hutton, you see, is the only other person who regularly visits her. Once a week, she goes to spend an afternoon reading to her. She will know what kind of person Lady Buntingford is. And whether she could be involved in all this crime. Or perhaps even be able to prove that she could not have anything to do with it.’