The floorboards creaked once more as the occupant of the room next door moved about.
This Adam Hardacre was an early riser, it would seem.
Last night, Nate’s attention was all on Susannah, but he did recall this Hardacre man saying he wanted to talk business. Well, no time like the present, especially as the first order of business was to find out exactly how this man knew him.
He quickly washed, shaved, and dressed and went downstairs. It was still quiet in The Queen’s Head.
From outside, a soft grey early morning daylight spilled through the mullion windows, across the oak tables and chairs, and onto the floor highlighting places where the varnish had worn away.
He heard a sound in the kitchen. There, he found the fair-headed stranger making himself quite at home, stoking up a fire in the range. The man looked round at him then returned to his task.
“You can make yourself useful by finding where these ladies keep their tea and preparing a pot for us,” he said.
“You know, Peggy will kill you for being in her domain, and I’d do nothing to stop her.”
“I consider myself suitably warned,” the man laughed, but he continued on his mission. He lifted the kettle and swirled it, evidently looking to gauge whether there was enough water in it.
Nate let out a sigh of resignation loud enough to be heard, then walked to the cupboard to pull out the locked tea chest. He tried the lid; it was locked – just as he knew it would be.
“It looks like you’re well out of luck, mate,” he said. “The box is locked and I’m pretty sure Peggy sleeps with the key.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never picked a lock before.”
It was too damned early to be butting heads like two rutting stags. Nate shrugged and refused to hide a full open-mouthed yawn. Hardacre fumbled in his pocket and turned with a piece of shaped wire in his hand.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nate kept his voice low and harsh. Susannah’s bedroom was only two rooms away.
“I used to be a ship’s carpenter, so I’ve worked a lock or two in my time, but I ended up taking advanced lessons from a lady who has really mastered the art. May I?”
Nate handed over the chest. “Some kind of lady,” he muttered.
“No, I mean it. Lady Abigail actually has the title.”
Hardacre inserted the wire in the escutcheon and began working the lock.
“What’s a sailor like you doing mixing with the gentry?”
Hardacre glanced his way in mute inquiry then continued his task.
“I saw the crossed-anchor tattoo on your hand,” Nate continued, “so you were at least a bosun.”
“Very good,” Hardacre responded. “Go on.”
The man was starting to rub him up the wrong way. Very well – he would go on.
“There’s a war on and every abled-bodied sailor is being deployed against Napoleon’s navy. You don’t look ready to be pensioned off, and you seem able enough. So, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m here to talk to you.”
“You said that last night. What about?”
He heard the click of the lock a split-second before Hardacre’s soft “ah!” of triumph. The herbaceous aroma of tea leaves bloomed in the air. Now that the deed was done, there was nothing for it but to have a cup of tea.
Hardacre retrieved a teapot and two cups, then rummaged around until he found a tin that contained the remains of yesterday’s bread. Nate shrugged and headed to the pantry to cut several large slices of ham and lumps of cheese. He also brought butter to the table.
“That’s not a bad feast,” Hardacre announced.
“Now you’re begging the question.” Nate filled his cup and sat at the dining table.
Hardacre acknowledged the observation with a salute of his own cup.
“Last month, you sent a strangely-worded letter to an aunt of mine in Truro.”
Caution whispered in Nate’s ear. He drew his tea closer on the table before sitting back, crossing his arms.
“From Felix,” Nate confirmed. He watched the mysterious sailor’s slight nod of confirmation before he stuffed a large slice of buttered bread and ham in his mouth. It precluded Hardacre from responding until he had finished chewing.
“Aunt Runella thanks you for the letter and has a question. Did the men who helped you escape from Fort St. Pierre give you anything to bring back?”
Nate made him wait by taking a bite of his own bread and ham, chewing slowly, and drinking a mouthful of tea before answering.
“What makes you think I wasn’t simply released?”
Hardacre barked out a laugh. “Come, man, you know as well as I do that the only way an Englishman leaves St. Pierre is in a death shroud.”
Nate’s patience was at an end. “What the hell do you know about St. Pierre? Who are you? A revenuer?” He knew he was right to be suspicious.
Hardacre shook his head slowly in answer to each question. From within his shirt, he pulled out an envelope and slid it across the table.
“There’s fifty pounds in there as a token of thanks from Aunt Runella. I’m also authorized to give you two hundred and fifty pounds for everything you brought back with you from France.”
“Like what? What is your aunt hoping to find?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
It was Nate’s turn to laugh. “Do you really think I floated in on the last tide? Either you level with me or I simply take my fifty pounds, and you can pass on my thanks to Aunt Runella.”
Hardacre gave him a level look. Nate matched it, watching the man evaluate him.
Prince the dog nosed his way through the door that led to the mud room and looked at the two men before making his way to sit at Nate’s side. The dog received a sliver of ham for his trouble and wolfed it down in one bite. The hound looked to Hardacre and, strolling to him, was similarly rewarded. Satisfied, the dog trotted to the fire and lay down before it.
There were sounds of movement elsewhere in The Queen’s Head. Susannah and Peggy would be here shortly – and Nate determined he would tell them their pointer was a lousy guard dog.
“Well?” he prompted.
Hardacre gave a single affirmative nod of his head.
“Not here,” he qualified. “Somewhere we won’t be overheard. Now, perhaps we should finish our tea and make good in here before Peggy arrives and kills us both.”
*
Susannah mopped the floors, humming idly to herself. It was Sunday, a day of rest. Well, half a day. The inn would be open after four o’clock in the afternoon for evening meals, but no hard liquor could be served. Even the ale served was small beer.
She had just spent the morning completing the books. Yesterday’s fete had netted them a profit of twelve pounds. Six pounds each for her and Peggy. She had placed the sum in the strongbox hidden between two floor joists where a prospective thief would never think to look.
Peggy emerged from the kitchen with a tray laden with glasses. They rattled as she lowered the weight onto the bar. “You haven’t told me how last night was with the pirate,” she said.
“It was nice,” Susannah answered, deliberately turning her back so Peggy couldn’t see the color of her face.
“Nice? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“Thank you.”
“What?”
Susannah took a shallow breath to hide the laughter that bubbled in her chest. It was rare she could bring Peggy to the point of exasperation. She decided to play on it and found her most priggish voice.
“Actually, the more I think about it, the more I ought to be cross at you, throwing Nate and me together like that – especially in front of a paying guest.”
Peggy was silent, which was always a good sign. She turned in Peggy’s direction to see her friend staring open-mouthed. Now, Susannah couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. It came so heartily, tears welled in her eyes.
A moment later, she felt a tossed drying cloth land on
her shoulder.
“You’re a cruel, cruel woman, Duch,” announced Peggy theatrically. “Just a little romance, that’s all I want.”
“You have a fancy man of your own, Miss Smith,” Susannah retorted, clutching one hand to her breast and another to her brow, “and never once have you ever offered to share a crumb from your table to a poor lonely widow who was starving to know there was still such a thing as love.”
“It’s one thing with an ordinary man, Mrs. Linwood,” continued Peggy in the same vein, “but it’s not the same as making love to a pirate!”
Susannah heard the sound of slow applause from behind her. She wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes and turned to its source.
Lillian Doyle stood in the doorway of The Queen’s Head, cutting a trim figure in a forest green riding habit. Her dark hair was pinned up to show off an elegant little black hat. The woman looked her up and down.
“My, I had no idea this was a meeting of the St. Sennen Theatrical Society, although you dress the part of Cinders quite admirably, Mrs. Linwood.”
Susannah raised her chin. She refused to feel self-conscious in her old, grey, faded work dress.
Lillian spared Peggy a glance and walked into the bar. “I have to say, I don’t recall there being a pirate in the story, but one can never tell with these pantomimes.”
Susannah fixed a pleasant expression on her face and approached the woman, mop in hand.
“You’ll have to forgive us, Mrs. Doyle. The Queen’s Head is closed until this evening. Lemonade or ginger beer is the only cool refreshment we can offer.”
“I won’t put to you to such trouble, Mrs. Linwood. If you wouldn’t mind letting Mr. Payne know I’m here…”
“I’m afraid he’s out, but I’ll be glad to let him know you called by.”
She watched the subtle shift of expression move across the woman’s face.
Lillian Doyle thought she was lying. But at hearing nothing more than the ticking clock on the dining room wall, she settled at last for a mildly put-out countenance.
“Do you know where he might be?” she asked with exaggerated politeness. “I noticed his boat was here.”
“My guests are free to come and go as they wish, Mrs. Doyle.”
The woman raised a finely shaped eyebrow.
“And here I thought he was rather more than a guest.”
Across from her, Susannah could see Peggy shift, ready to step in with her razor-sharp tongue if need be. But she’d been allowing her friend to do so for far too long now.
Susannah dipped her mop into the nearby bucket of soapy water and made a wide sweep close to the other woman’s skirts.
“If you wish to wait for him, Mrs. Doyle, it’s best to keep out of our way. You might get wet.”
The woman seemed a little taken aback but recovered quickly. She swept her skirts back from the sweeping mop and made her way back to the front door.
“Then would you be so kind as to leave him a message?”
Susannah didn’t bother to look up from her task. “Certainly.”
“Tell him Mrs. Doyle awaits his pleasure at the usual place, at the usual time.”
“Of course,” answered Susannah. “The usual place, at the usual time – we’ll remember that, won’t we, Peggy?”
“The usual place, at the usual time,” Peggy parroted, her eyes sparkling with merriment. “I can remember that, Mrs. Linwood.”
Susannah continued to mop, listening to the stomp of Lillian Doyle’s boots as she strode out of the building, and the jangle of the bridle as she remounted her horse. A moment later, the horse took off at a gallop.
Peggy went immediately to the door and looked out. “I think you’ve made an enemy out of that one. Um… Clem told me that Mrs. Doyle and your pirate were lovers once.”
“I thought so,” said Susannah.
It helped to carry on with her work and avoid looking at Peggy. While Martin Doyle’s unexpected visit a couple of weeks ago had taken her by surprise, there was no missing the tension between Nate and the couple. Susannah had already suspected the cause.
“If it’s any consolation, Duch, I did overhear him tell her ladyship that he never wanted to see her again.”
“Considering how small St. Sennen is, I would think that’s unavoidable, don’t you?”
“You going to give Nate the message?”
She looked up to find doubt written all over Peggy’s face. She stopped mopping.
“Of course I am. I’m not going to tell Nate who he may or may not see. I’ll give him the message and he can make the choice for himself.”
Her friend returned to the bar and, picking up a drying cloth, she started polishing the glasses.
“Well, all I can say is you’re a braver woman than me, letting that she-wolf lurk about.”
*
Nate led the way along one of the walking trails up to the headland on Arthyn Hill. The waves pounded on the rocks below them. Wind roared in their ears, making any kind of conversation difficult, even if Adam Hardacre had been in a mind to speak. So far, the man had said nothing during the brisk climb.
When he reached the top of the headland, Hardacre fell in step and they walked side by side.
“Hardacre… I’ve been wracking my brains trying to work out how I know your name,” said Nate. “And now I’ve remembered. I heard some sailors talking about you in Newlyn. You punched out an admiral who refused to give you a promotion. But instead of throwing you in the brig, they paid you off because his daughter pleaded with him.”
The man beside him laughed heartily.
“That’s a new tale to me,” he said. “Only one-fourth of it’s true, though.”
“Which fourth?”
Hardacre shook his head, unwilling to be drawn.
“You wanted me to speak candidly, so here it is,” he said. “Felix was a spy.”
Nate felt he ought to be more surprised than he was. He simply nodded. “Go on.”
“His father was French and his mother English; but his loyalty was to his mother’s family because they raised him. When he was caught, he was feeding us information about one of several plans Napoleon has for invading England.”
They approached a clutch of large tumble-down boulders on the wind-swept bluff and sought shelter from the wind among them. It was so silent in their lee that Nate could hear himself breathe.
Hardacre picked up a small pebble and threw it beyond the cliff’s edge.
“By the time our men discovered where Felix had been taken, it was too late. When they learned you were in the oubliette with him, they took a chance that he might have said something to you and they arranged for you to get out.”
Nate closed his eyes.
You have friends, Nate Payne.
“Your letter confirmed it, and that’s why I’m here,” Hardacre finished.
“This is a jest,” said Nate.
“I wish it was. There are French spies here in England, too. They nearly cost me my life – and that of my wife. We’re trying to work out what Felix’s message means. He didn’t use our standard cipher, so it’s evident he feared our code was compromised.”
Nate frowned “So that gibberish actually meant something? It wasn’t just the delusions of a dying man?”
“According to my extremely well-read wife, it’s Greek mythology, so we know what it says, we’ve just still to work out what it means.”
“I hope you haven’t come all this way to ask me, because I haven’t got a bloody clue!”
Hardacre laughed.
“Nothing so arcane, man. I simply want to pay you for the goods you brought back.”
Nate bent down and pulled a long blade of grass from a tuft he’d nudged with his boot.
“What makes you think I still have them?”
“Well, God help us all if you don’t because they might be the last best chance to contact our friends across the Channel.”
“You don’t know how to contact them?”
“Af
ter your escape, they went to ground. Disappeared without word.”
Nate looked across at the blond-headed man who had kept his focus out onto the horizon. “And the price is two hundred and fifty pounds?”
“To start with.”
To start with? Nate felt the question on his lips but didn’t utter it. In his experience, a man who was too curious found himself with more trouble than he might be prepared to deal with.
At his silence, Hardacre looked his way. “The Sprite is a trim little boat. I could use something like that, and a man to skipper her.”
The idea of returning to France made him sick, but he’d do it if Hardacre paid handsomely. And it would have to be very handsome.
“I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,” Nate answered.
It was noncommittal, but it was as far as he was willing to go.
“And the contraband?”
“It’s safe.”
“Then we have an agreement?”
“Yes, I suppose we do.”
Hardacre thrust out his hand. Nate took it and returned a firm handshake.
“There’s just one more issue to be resolved,” said the man Nate now knew to be a British spy.
“And that is?” Nate prompted.
“How much do you trust Susannah Linwood?”
Chapter Ten
Susannah floured down the table and kneaded out another batch of dough. She worked it with her fingers and knuckles until it was pliable. She glanced at the half-dozen baking tins before her. This would be the last for tonight.
Just as she had done every night for the past eight months, she would set the tins on the shelf above the stove where they would prove overnight, ready to be freshly baked first thing in the morning.
On the stove, a large pot of crab and lobster bisque simmered away, the bounty of a successful day’s crabbing by Clem and his son. She sampled a spoonful – it was delicious, fine enough to grace any grand table. She knew a moment of pride that such quality fare fed the ordinary folks who came through their doors.
“Hey ho!” called a familiar voice. “A man could die of thirst out here!”
She shook her head fondly at Clem’s friendly impatience and headed to the bar. Without asking, she poured him a full pint of ale. He swallowed down a half of it in one drink before setting down the glass.
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