by Joan Smith
“No. I’ll get it.” Bunny sheared off toward the east door before I could stop him.
If he did not meet Snoad coming out, it would be a miracle. I looked toward the bartizan for more signals. There were none. What I saw instead was a rope being let out from the bartizan, and soon a dark form began descending the rope. Snoad—I knew it was Snoad—came darting down like a monkey, bracing his feet against the walls of the house to aid his descent. My heart rose to my throat. Almost before I had time to be afraid, he was on the ground, darting toward the intruder on the beach.
The intruder rose and went to meet him. I edged along closer to overhear them. If a French accent came out of either mouth, I would know I had found another member of Snoad’s gang.
“She be a hearty brew this time, sir,” a rough voice said. A rough, very English voice. “None o’ your doping with carmel syrup. Pure gold, and hot off the vessel.” He handed Snoad a jug of what could only be smuggled brandy. “Try her.”
Snoad pulled the cork and lifted the bottle to his lips. “Excellent, as usual, Trucker.”
“Will this be the last one, since the great gaffer is done and gone?”
It was Papa who customarily bought this illicit brew! I ought not to have been surprised. Auntie said he let them use his beach, but I imagined this had been long ago.
Some gold coin chinked into the man’s outstretched palm. “Let us continue the arrangement until further notice. I have a friend who would like a hogshead to take to London as well. Can you put one in Hume’s stable? You’ll find the payment lodged under the driver’s seat of Lord Fairfield’s rig.”
“I know the rig. I seen the fancy gold on the door as it bowled along here. A hogshead it is, thankee, sir. I’ll be back next fortnight then, as usual.”
Trucker trudged off, and Snoad recorked the bottle, put it under his arm, and turned back to Gracefield.
I stayed crouched out of sight, happy to be rid of him, and with no notion of intervening, as tonight’s crime was a relatively harmless one. Bunny chose that inauspicious moment to come bolting out of the east door, brandishing his pistol. Snoad saw him and stopped in his tracks.
“Is that you, Mr. Smythe?” he called. “No need to shoot. It’s only Trucker making his rounds.”
“Trucker, you say?” Bunny asked, smiling. “By Jove, I am fresh out. Mama gave the vicar my last jug. I’ll have a word with him.”
He ran off after Trucker, while I stood, staring in disbelief. I did not realize I had stood up straight until Snoad glanced over and saw me. “You are out late, Miss Hume,” he said. And I, like a ninny, felt obliged to find an excuse.
“The night is so fine... .”
“Yes, a nice evening for a climb,” he replied, and returned to scamper up his rope to the loft. He had attached the jug of brandy to his waist in some manner, which did not appear to interfere with his climbing.
Bunny returned, his pistol in his waistband. “Trucker will put my bottle in the stable when he delivers Fairfield’s. Well, that was all a hum, Heather, but not a complete waste. Trucker has the best brew on the coast. We might as well go in.”
“I hope we have not alerted Snoad that we are on the lookout.”
“He knows I am on the lookout for burglars. Won’t make a thing of it.”
I could hardly upbraid Bunny or Snoad when my own father had been involved in buying smuggled brandy. The incident left me on edge. I was not ready for bed, and suggested we listen at keyholes, despite Depew’s warning. We went back indoors, and with Bunny to protect me, I tiptoed down the hall to Fairfield’s room. He was chatting to his valet, but the subject was not a code book, or anything interesting. He was complaining about a spot on his jacket, and sounded quite as inane as ever. I remembered that I had not managed to spill wine on him, to make an opportunity to search his jacket for clues.
Now I knew at least what I was looking for. If Fairfield’s dimness was a disguise, he might have the book, but Snoad had been here longer. He had searched Papa’s office, and I still felt Snoad was the wilier man. I felt in my bones that Snoad had found the book by now, whatever Depew said. He had had all the time we were in Brighton to look for it. If either Snoad or Fairfield had the book, where would he carry it but safely on his person? It was not the loft or the house we should be searching, but Snoad’s and Fairfield’s pockets.
I mentioned this to Bunny when we had crept away from Fairfield’s room. “After we break this ring of spies, I mean to go up to London and offer my services on a full-time basis,” he said. “Mean to say, I ain’t no wizard, but I ain’t any stupider than Depew. Er, Martin. They have certainly got the book by now.”
“A good idea, Bunny. Now, how could we search them? I think we must push them into the sea—oh, accidentally, of course, so they don’t suspect anything. Then we’ll help them remove their wet jackets, and rifle the pockets while they are being wrapped in a blanket.”
“Might be in their trouser pockets,” he said.
“Then they’ll have to remove their trousers, too.”
Chapter Twelve
An opportunity to dip Fairfield in the sea came the next morning after breakfast. All visitors who do not live on the coast want to have a walk along the shore to commune with nature, and comment that they only remember England is an island when they are on the coast. Otherwise, they go for years on end without ever thinking of it.
I offered to accompany Fairfield. I brought along a blanket, ostensibly in case we wanted to sit and watch the waves after he was tired of walking. Of course, my real reason was to have it handy when he “fell” into the sea. It would make removing his jacket more plausible.
Bunny rose to accompany us. That is where we came a cropper. Auntie, sensing a romance, wanted to leave me alone with Fairfield. She asked Bunny if he would mind taking a look at the wheels of the carriage. She imagined one was wobbling on our return from Brighton. There is little dearer to Bunny’s heart than messing about with horses and carriages. Throw in a bottle of brandy to be recovered, and he went along, as happy as a pig in mire.
“Shall we go along to have a look at the ocean?” Fairfield said.
I could think of no excuse to refuse, and went with him. My aunt would have been delighted with the trip. Fairfield was as gallant as can be. He leapt down the cliff like a gazelle, and caught me in his arms as I slid down.
The shingle beach was not easy walking in slippers. I saw that tipping Fairfield into the sea was not going to be an easy affair. There was some possibility that I would get wet myself, for he decided to hold my hand.
“It is the strangest thing,” he said, “but you know, I go for months at a time without ever remembering that England is an island.”
“I believe you mentioned your estates are all landlocked.”
“Every one of them,” he said, with a tone of pique.
“Pity.”
I happened to glance up, and detected a form at the meshing of the loft. Snoad was watching us. He had removed the rope that spoke of last night’s escapade. When Fairfield began to step up the courting, I became especially conscious of Snoad’s dark eyes peering down.
Fairfield chose the most wornout technique imaginable to court me. He decided to teach me how to skip flat stones. Half a dozen gentlemen have tried to teach me this useless skill over the years. Perhaps if I had any interest in learning, I would have mastered it by now. As it lent some possibility of inundating Fairfield, however, I let him put his arm around me and guide my hand in the proper manner.
The trick, in the unlikely case that you are interested, is to twist the hand at an uncomfortable angle as close to parallel with the water as possible, so that the stone approaches the surface at a very acute angle. Otherwise, it merely sinks into the sea on contact. After several playful attempts and much body contact, Fairfield began to step up the flirtation.
One arm was already around my shoulder, one hand holding my right wrist. He put the other arm around me and pulled me into his arms to try for a
kiss. It was the best opportunity I was likely to have, and my only regret was that Bunny was not there to assist me. I pulled myself free, at the same time shoving him as hard as possible toward the sea. It was sheer blind luck that he collided with a largish boulder and went sprawling on the wet shingle. A kindly wave chose that moment to crest and flow over him, wetting him quite thoroughly from the shoulders down. He held his head up, spluttering.
I was immediately all contrite and solicitous. “Oh, Lord Fairfield! I am so sorry! Let me help you up.” He stretched out his hand, but it was his face that I looked at. I never saw such a murderous expression in my life. It was easy to believe Depew’s warning that this was a clever fiend.
“Entirely my own fault,” he said, through gritted teeth. My safety was in the balance for a second. He fought with the urge to pull me down beside him for a dunking, but his breeding got the better of him.
“We must get you out of those freezing clothes. Fortunately, I brought a blanket.”
I began stripping him of his jacket. I felt the pockets while he wrapped himself, shivering, in the blanket. They held an assortment of junk, but there was no rectangle two inches by three. I carried the jacket, to allow Fairfield both hands to hold his blanket in place. As we hastened houseward, water squelching in his handsome top boots, I chanced to glance up to the loft. Snoad’s shoulders were heaving in laughter. I ignored him and headed Fairfield to the east door, to keep the water out of the front hall.
Bunny was just coming from the stable, carrying his jug of brandy, wrapped in a paper that didn’t fool anyone. “Lord Fairfield fell into the sea,” I explained. “I have his jacket here, Bunny. Perhaps you can help him out of his boots and trousers in the shed. He won’t want to trail water all through the house.” My commanding eye told him what he was to do with the trousers.
He understood me at once. He gave me his brandy, and he assisted Fairfield into a sort of shed attached to the east door. I ran off to hide the brandy in Papa’s office, to call Fairfield’s valet, and to give a mendacious account of the outing to my aunt.
“Fairfield was standing on the big boulder and slipped,” I said.
“That water is frigid! I hope he doesn’t take a chill. On the other hand, that would prolong his visit,” she said, smiling. “Still, we had best call for a hot bath, Heather.”
When I met with Bunny later, I learned his search of the trousers had been fruitless. “Snoad must have the code book,” I said. I knew in my bones Snoad would not be so easily drenched. He would not have hesitated to pull me into the water.
The “accident” threw a damper on my romance with Fairfield. Auntie thought him very toplofty to be so cool with us when the drenching was his own fault, and I, perforce, agreed with her.
“That is not to say he is not an excellent parti,” she reminded me.
“He makes a very unsatisfactory fourth at whist,” I mentioned, to tease her.
“An annual Season in London would more than make up for it, as you are no lover of the cards,” she replied. “I hope he does not take into his head to play again tonight. Such a pity he has not got Snoad’s skill, or that Snoad has not Fairfield’s eligibility. But that is always the way. You can’t have everything in a man.”
“All things considered, I think I prefer Snoad,” I said, to vex her.
“A lady takes her coloring from her husband, Heather. I think you would prefer to be blue than black.”
“Why do you call him black?” I asked, curious. I thought she meant his character.
“Why, his shiny black hair, and those dark eyes, to be sure.” She cast a worried frown at me, and I knew that even Auntie recognized him for a charmer. “Looks fade. Money and titles last,” she said firmly. Then added less firmly, “Mind you, I was surprised he is so gentlemanly, and such a good hand at whist.”
For myself, a skill at whist rated very low. Yet despite the obvious disparity in their social standing, I still felt Snoad would provide the more interesting partner. I shook myself back to reality. They were both traitors! And I would see both of them led off to London in chains before this case was finished.
Chapter Thirteen
I spoke to the backhouse boy about assisting Snoad in the loft. Cassidy was thrilled to death to be relieved of the onerous duty of chopping wood and carrying coal. Even when I pointed out that he would still have to perform these duties during half the day, he continued happy.
“It might turn into a regular thing, though,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. Cassidy was young, only fourteen, but a bright lad. “I’m good with birds, miss. Cook always has me collect the eggs. She says I have a gentle hand.”
“Go up and ask Snoad what hours he will want you, and arrange with Mrs. Gibbons how much wood and coal she will need before you go.”
Lunch was a subdued affair. When it was over, I asked Lord Fairfield if he would like to go up to the loft, to begin making his selection of birds. He agreed. Bunny tagged along to protect me. Cassidy was already at work, filling the water pans for the pigeons, and sweeping the floor. I could not believe he had got such a bargain as he thought.
Snoad was scribbling something in a book. I caught a glance at it, but it was only Papa’s account book, in which he was making entries having to do with the birds’ progress. He immediately set the book aside and came toward us. His smirk called to mind Fairfield’s dunking. He bowed to me, then addressed himself to Fairfield.
“Milord, I am happy to see you did not take a chill. An unfortunate accident. One must be wary on the shingle beach. It is slippery when wet.”
“No harm done, except to my jacket—and my pride,” Fairfield said, with a forgiving grin in my direction.
“I thought Lord Fairfield might want to begin making his selection of birds,” I said, glancing around. “He is particularly interested in Caesar and Cleo’s birds. Ah, I see Caesar is back.” Cleo fluttered around the branch excitedly.
He sat in his tree, staring down at his inferiors. Caesar is a large bird. His cere is black, which gives him a scowling look. His color is undistinguished, a pearly gray with a purplish breast and some black on his wings. What sets him apart in looks is a distinguishing set of neck feathers. They curve forward, forming a sort of snood behind his head.
“Caesar is back!” Fairfield exclaimed. I had an impression, just from the corner of my eye, that Snoad gave him an admonishing look. Fairfield examined Caesar. “Good lord! What an odd-looking fellow he is. He seems a bit perturbed about something.” He was indeed spreading his wings and squawking, but not moving from his perch at all.
“He is mostly rock pigeon, but partly jacobin,” Snoad explained. “It is the latter that accounts for his hood. And the lady beside him is the missus, Cleo.” She preened her white feathers, then pecked angrily at her beloved. I saw that pigeons, while monogamous, were not necessarily always in harmony. “The splash of burgundy on her chest is unique in our birds,” Snoad mentioned.
Fairfield went forward to admire them, but Snoad said that as they seemed upset, he would show our guest Sextus and Aurelia instead. “This is the pair you are interested in,” he said, and added in an accusing way, “If Miss Hume plans to sell them, that is. I am trying to convince her to keep them. Their training has just begun. It might already be too late to move them.”
I rushed in to execute Depew’s orders. “I am somewhat concerned about the training, Snoad. I have not seen you taking the birds from the nest to have them fly home.”
“That is why I asked for an assistant. I plan to go afield this afternoon. I am a little concerned that the lad you sent is old enough to make sure they are all back, and to time their return.”
“Cassidy is fourteen. He knows how to count and tell the time. Where will you take them?”
“I had planned to drive north of Atherton.”
“Perhaps Lord Fairfield would like to accompany you,” I suggested.
Snoad looked quite astonished at my suggestion. “If you are sure you wish to part with
him,” he said, in a brash tone that a servant has no right to use with his employer.
“I have several letters to write to friends, thanking them for their condolences over my father’s death.”
“It sounds a dandy outing,” Fairfield said at once. “But why don’t we drive to Dover? Along the sea would be a more interesting drive, and I have relatives there. I haven’t been to Dover in a dog’s age.”
“The birds have been to Dover many times. They have to fly from all directions,” Snoad replied.
“Of course,” Fairfield said, though I believe even this basic fact of training was unknown to him. “What time shall we leave?”
“No time like the present,” Snoad replied.
“Shall we take my rig? Sixteen miles an hour,” Fairfield tempted.
Snoad’s lips stretched in appreciation. “If you don’t mind having it encumbered with pigeon cages,” he replied.
Bunny and I made a hasty exit. I hoped the gathering and caging of the pigeons would take long enough for Bunny to gallop to the inn and notify Depew of their destination.
“Did you notice his trick?” Bunny asked, with an air of excitement.
“What do you mean?”
“He had Caesar taped to his perch.”
“Taped? What do you mean?”
“His claws were taped onto the branch.”
“How very odd! Why would he do that?”
“Beats me.”
“It cannot have anything to do with spying. I wish I knew more about the birds, but no doubt there is some reason for it. Cleo was not taped down.”
Bunny posted off at once, and I took up a position in the saloon that gave me a view of the others’ departure. When Snoad and Fairfield passed the window, their friendly manner told me that they were working together. There was not a single whiff of the servant in Snoad’s demeanor. In fact, it was Snoad who held the ribbons, and he handled the frisky grays very well, too.
I had very little hope of finding the code book, but I would look. To be rid of Cassidy while I did so, I told him the wood was getting low in the kitchen, and I would guard the loft till he returned. There were so many places to look that I despaired of finding it. There were all the cages, to begin with. Searching them was extremely unpleasant. Many of the birds were incubating eggs, and put up a great flurry when I intruded. The place was full of feathers by the time I finished, and, of course, there was no sign of the book.