by Grace Elliot
"And I could say the same to you." Then the haunting memory of seeing the skiff put out to sea without her, came flooding back. "You left me!"
"Hush, now. Can’t say as how I'm proud of myself, but a moment longer and we'd all have been nabbed. Besides, I'm here now, aren’t I?"
"Yes. Climb in."
"It's too tight a fit, I'll stay out here." Tom shifted uncomfortably.
"How's Father?"
"Same as before. Poorly, but no worse. He misses you."
Somewhat mollified and ever practical, Hope peered over his shoulder into the darkness. "Who's with you?"
"Nobody."
Hope thought for a moment. "That's clever. Draw less attention. We've always managed fine by ourselves, you and I."
"How bad are you hurt?"
“My ankle’s broken but strapped up.”
“Will it tek yer weight?”
Hope grimaced. “It will be slow going, but with your help, it'll do.”
Tom frowned. "Are they treating you well?"
She wondered about the change of topic. "Yes, now if you can just…"
"Feeding you right?"
"Yes, the best food I've had in an age. Now, if I can open the window a tad wider…"
"Not been cruel to you, cos I'll strangle 'em with me bare hands if they have."
"No, nothing like that, the opposite in fact…and I've learned a thing or two when they thought I weren’t listening. Now, did you bring a rope? I can tie it to the bedpost and winch myself down."
"Hope Tyler, will you be quiet a minute and listen!"
“Oh!”
"Have you any idea how difficult this climb is? And me with two strong legs!"
Hope bit her tongue.
"There's no way you'll make it down with a broken ankle. No way!"
"Then sling me over your shoulder.'
"No, Hope. We'd both fall to our deaths. Trust me, I'll think of something but for now, best stay here."
"Don’t you dare leave me. Not again." Hope grasped her stepbrother’s fingers. "They're going to hang me."
"If they were going to do that, you'd have been carted to prison straight out. No, I reckon as how you're safe there a while longer. Let the ankle heal but pretend as how it's much worse than it is…that you can’t walk…and I'll be back before you know it."
"But, Tom, they're going to move me any day…I know."
"Don’t fret. I've friends in the village. As soon as there's any talk of moving you—I'll be back."
Hope suppressed a rising sob. "Please, don’t make me beg. I can make it. Please, let me try."
"No, and that's an end of it. I give me word I'll be back."
The disappointment was bitter; to be left once was bad enough, but twice felt like betrayal. A wind squall tugged at Tom's hair. He shifted his handhold and glanced around. “I’d best be going. None too safe here as it is.”
"Tom," she hissed, "listen and listen well."
"Make it quick then, I'm losing me grip."
"I overheard the guards. The Excise men know all about the next landing—time, place, everything. It's a trap."
"Well done, sis. I'll see everyone is warned. Best keep your ears open, see what else you can find out."
Had she had two good legs Hope would have stamped her foot.
"Right. Bye then." He reached to touch his sister, but lost his handhold and disappeared from view.
"Tom?" Hope heart lurched afresh. "Tom, are you alright?"
“I’m fine, slipped a bit that's all,” a strained voice spoke several feet below. “Best be off.”
Hope waited to hear the reassuring thud of boots on the ground below, shut the window and made her lonely way back to bed.
Chapter Four.
It was the sort of foul night which saw all decent citizens home abed, with not so much as a dog stirring. But while the good people of Sandehope slept, above the rooftops clouds broiled in a hellish sky and a wind howled in off the sea, rattling shutters and stirring curtains. And such rain—beating horizontally against windows and doors, forming slick, black rivers in the backstreets and lanes. In the harbor the horizon was lost behind the elements. Rigging whistled and flapped with a sound like harpies. It was a night for doing the devil's work, a night when only smugglers and Excise men were abroad.
On that night, a lone figure battled along the quay, his coat collar turned up and hat pulled down. His face was hidden, which was just as well for the Captain wore a look which would chill the devil. In a mood as grim as the weather, he made for the Excise Office. Windy squalls battered the windows, the door almost wrestled from Huntley's grasp as he entered. With his boots full of water and a sodden overcoat, he squelched across the office and with an irritated gesture, pushed the wet hair from his eyes. He unlocked the desk drawer, pulled out a hip flask and drank deeply. As the brandy warmed his throat and gullet, frustration assailed him afresh.
"Damn, damn, damn."
Several minutes later Bennett slunk in to join him, accompanied by the stench of stale fish. He leant back against the door to close out the buffeting wind. Huntley regarded him sourly and took another swig of brandy.
"Drink's not the answer." Bennett said in a humorless tone.
"Here. Have some."
"Thanks."
Stepping over the puddles on the wooden floor, Bennett took the flask. Huntley's nose wrinkled at the pervading smell of fish clinging to the preventative man's uniform.
"Go on, say it!"
"Say what, Captain?"
"That was a disaster. An unmitigated, bloody disaster."
Bennett looked haggard, as he leaned on the desk and hung his head. "Worse than that. The revenue are a laughing stock."
"Devious bastards, landing offal instead of brandy."
The Captain watched Bennett closely; he seemed genuinely distraught. It was Huntley's job to root out corruption, but Bennett's fervor and dedication had not been those of a turncoat.
Bennett eyed the Captain wearily. "I'd trust our informant with my life and yet they outwitted us."
Huntley leaned back and steepled his fingers. "In some ways, you have to admire their daring."
"Captain?"
"They could have canceled the landing." His voice hitched with bitterness. "Instead, they ran rings around the Excise service. An entire squad out in this filthy weather. Had us chasing shadows and left us stinking of fish offal. Smug bastards."
"It's true." Bennett shook his head sadly, which served to irritate Huntley."Someone warned them we were onto them. But who?" He growled.
"I hope you're not insinuating I had anything to do with it."
"No one is above suspicion."
"Does that include the pretty smuggler tucked up at The Grange?" The bile in Bennett's voice caught Huntley by surprise.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, Captain, someone has still to answer for Cooper's murder."
"Then we want the same thing."
"Do we?"
"Of course." Huntley's flesh crept. It was unlike Bennett to be so insubordinate. "Why would you think differently?"
"Tis not just me saying this, Captain, but most folks hereabouts. They can’t understand why she is featherbedded, when the smugglers killed an officer."
"I will bring whoever shot Cooper to justice, I give my word."
"Good. We've given your plan long enough and now it's time the girl is moved to jail."
"Sergeant, you rise above yourself. That's my decision, no one elses."
"Well, if I were in your shoes…"
It had been a long, hard night and the need for soft words escaped Huntley. "And if you'd done your job adequately, I wouldn't have been posted here." His expression set hard.
Two hot spots appeared on Bennett’s lined cheeks. “I do my best with limited resources. Most folk hereabouts benefit from smuggling one way or another, why, even the parson's nightcap is a particularly fine brandy, or so I've heard.”
“And with Cooper’s death opinions
will harden against the smugglers. People will see them for the felons they are.”
“You are right, but be warned, Captain Huntley, and I say this as a friend. There are murmurs of men taking matters into their own hands—a lynching party for the girl—if you do not act soon to avenge Cooper’s murder.”
In exasperation, Huntley ran his hand through his hair. “Look here, Bennett, it’s late…or rather, early. Let’s stop now before words are said which are regretted later.”
Bennett's mouth formed a thin line. "She needs to be in jail before things get out of hand."
Huntley took a deep breath. "I hear what you're saying, but Miss Tyler didn’t fire the fatal shot. I know that, because she was being chased across the dunes at the time—by me."
"That's as maybe, but…"
"But nothing. Say we put her in jail. When things calm down and folk realise the Revenue put a girl in a filthy cell to rot…what then? Because I tell you, doors will close in our faces. The locals will close ranks and we'll be no nearer to catching the ringleaders. And that's who we want—the men financing the ring.”
“Aye, and happen folks will say that you hadn’t the stomach to let her swing, because you are sweet on her.”
The accusation turned the Captain’s stomach.
“The dirty minded little…” Huntley clenched his fists.
Bennett spoke quietly. "So, Captain? Best send her to jail?"
Huntley started to pace. There were things he wanted to say which Bennett would not understand. He longed to tell him of Hope's loyalty, that she would hang rather than give away the conspirators. That she had been a worthy adversary on the dunes, a woman whose match he had never encountered before, and that she was protecting people.
"We want the real felons, those that finance the smuggling runs. On my honor, I will track those men down and bring them to justice."
"Captain." Bennett couldn’t meet his eye.
"I have a plan, but don’t imagine it will be popular. As soon as Miss Tyler can travel, I'm sending her home."
"Funny, sir, for a moment I could have sworn you said you'd free the girl."
"I did. She'll be followed of course, watched twenty-four hours a day.”
The light of comprehension dawned across Bennett's face.
"Ah, use her to lead you to the ringleaders."
"Exactly."
Huntley should have been triumphant, but instead he felt hollow—hollow because it meant using Miss Tyler.
"Very good, Captain."
Huntley grimaced. "Now go home, I can’t abide that smell any longer."
"What about you sir? Hadn't you best be off too?"
"Yes, but first, I've to write a report on tonight's fiasco."
*****
It took into the early hours for Huntley to write an account of the foiled raid. By the time he was ready to leave, the wind had dropped. He found his horse, Nero, dozing in his stall, tacked up the cob and lead him out into streets washed clean by recent rain, the air crisp and sharp. Sensing his master's dark mood, the horse decided against playing up and trotted along, meek as a child's pony.
Huntley left the narrow, winding streets of Sandehope behind and took the coastal road. With the sea to the left and hills to the right, the Captain found the shushing waves soothing on his rattled nerves. He let the reins hang slack, trusting Nero to follow the familiar route back to The Grange. The rhythmic pace of Nero's stride helped Huntley to think; the trouble was, the more Huntley dwelt on Bennett's words, the more sense they made. It irked him to admit it, but it seemed possible Hope might have overheard something and then warned her comrades. Exactly how he had no idea. Frustration cloaked him like a shroud. And if Bennett was right, then Miss Tyler had taken kindness for weakness…
Half an hour later and streaks of crimson lit the dawn sky. As horse and rider crested a hill, The Grange's grounds unfolded before them, swathed in mist. Drawn by the promise of a waiting stall, the great black horse picked up pace. Following the sweeping drive, the mist thickened into fog, and tracking around to the back of the house, Nero's hooves echoed around the stable yard. Huntley swung clear of the saddle and landed gracefully on the balls of his feet. Hooking the reins over his shoulder, he led the cob to his stable.
Rather than wake a stable lad at this ungodly hour, Huntley untacked Nero and brushed the horse down himself. With broad, strong strokes he burnished Nero's coat until it shone and only after feeding and watering the cob, Huntley thought to address his own needs.
The house was still locked and shuttered, so Huntley skulked around to the kitchens. His sudden appearance like some mud-stained phantasm, startled the scullery maid. She dropped the coal scuttle and shrieked.
"Beggin' pardon, Captain." Panting, she dropped a hasty curtsy. "You made me jump."
Huntley stalked past into the passageway, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the clean floor, which set the maid scowling after his back. In the grand hallway, with a faint smell of beeswax and hyacinths, Huntley caught his reflection in a mirror—disheveled and filthy. He pushed back his hair and examined his unshaven state. He needed a bath but remembering there was only one maid as yet on duty, he decided to get drunk instead.
Taking the stairs two at a time, the Captain sought the solitude of the library. The fire had long since burned out, but a full decanter was all the warmth Huntley needed. Settling deep within a leather armchair, he poured out a whisky, stared into the ashes of the dead fire and drifted into an uneasy sleep
In his dreams he ran through quicksand, his limbs leaden, lungs burning with the effort. But the harder he tried to run, the deeper he sank. First his feet, then ankles, then knees engulfed by the greedy sands. He resisted, pulling out one leg, only to have the other submerged. Then the bog gripped his waist, the dampness chilling his skin as he wrenched free. He was woken by the clatter of the poker he'd sent flying as he kicked out.
Now fully awake, Huntley blinked in the watery morning light. A maid had set a coal scuttle in the hearth but not set the fire, presumably for fear of waking him. Instead, he found his legs weighed down beneath a rug. Suddenly aware of the smell of frying bacon, his stomach growled like a caged bear. Rising stiffly, he decided on breakfast first and a hot bath second, and followed the smell of cooking.
On any other day Huntley found the breakfast room cheering; chosen for its sunny aspect even in dull weather with its sunny yellow wallpaper. Portraits of Huntley children, of favorite pets and his late father's hunter, hung on the walls, but today, their carefree presence seemed to mock the Captain. The only pleasing thing was that he was alone, for he wasn't in the mood for small talk. Before his grumbling stomach woke the whole household, he made for the sideboard. Lifting one cloche then another, he piled his plate with bacon, sausage, fried eggs and salmon fillets but when he turned to take a seat, he nearly dropped the lot.
"Good morning, George dear."
Neatly dressed in a lilac morning dress, a lace cap crowning her greying hair, Lady Ryevale greeted him.
"Mother? You're up early."
"Yes dear. I wanted to see you were home safe."
"Well, as you see, I am in one piece." Huntley didn’t mean to be curt, but did she think him a child? But if his mother noticed his bad humor, she chose to ignore it.
"What is the terrible smell?" Her nose wrinkled. "Phew! Like…bad fish. And you look dreadful."
George took a seat. “Apologies, Mother, if I appear a trifle unkempt. I was working all night, not attending a soiree.”
“There’s no need to take that tone. Do I take it the raid was not a success?”
“An understatement! It was an unmitigated disaster.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
The last thing Huntley wanted was to recount the humiliation, and yet, better she heard it from him than servants' chatter. His shoulders slumped.
"We were tricked."
"How so?"
"The smugglers' substituted fish guts for brandy. I was so ce
rtain of our source, that I made the Excise men empty each barrel…"
Lady Ryevale looked thoughtful. "Your information was good. What else could you have done?"
"But that's the rub. Because of my shortcomings, the smugglers made us a laughing stock. Once word spreads, my reputation is in tatters."
"I don’t follow."
Huntley's hand tightened on a fork. "Someone found out our plans and warned the smugglers."
Lady Ryevale stared blankly. "So? Treachery is a hazard of the job."
"Oh Mother, don’t you see. It was Miss Tyler!" He wanted his mother to laugh and say, 'how ridiculous', yet she did not.
"Are you certain?"
"No, but it seems the most likely explanation."
"And you are surprised?"
Huntley looked up, startled. It was a good question.
"Not so much surprised, as disappointed." He said slowly, realising it to be the truth.
"How so?"
"I suppose I assumed she had a sense of honor. That by treating her kindly, she would respect my position."
"And if you were in her place—what would you have done?"
Huntley sighed deeply. "I see where you are heading."
"And remember you brought Miss Tyler here, to keep her alive long enough to be interrogated. In her mind she owes you nothing."
"Aye, that's true." He pushed his hands through his hair. "In reality, it's whoever talked in her hearing that is responsible."
"Hope is a decent girl. I'm sure whatever she did was for good reason."
"Mother, are you taking her side?"
"No, but I'm just saying, if you talked instead of bullied her, you find she's an intelligent young lady with a lively mind."
Huntley rolled his eyes. "Phish! Next you'll be saying she's accomplished on the virginale."
Lady Ryevale bristled. "You shouldn’t scoff. She's a highly capable girl who speaks a smattering of French and is educated in the classics."
"Indeed Mother, exactly how much time have you been spending together? I must caution you not to get attached."
"She's not a puppy, George! If you listened to her…"
"Well therein lies the problem—she won’t talk to me. Clams up tighter than a duck's…well, very tight."