Spyfall

by Carter, Elizabeth Ellen

  Peggy gaped at her as though the thought had never once crossed her mind.

  “Equally, Clem would be welcome to live with you here, but he does have a business of his own and a son to consider.”

  Susannah sipped the liquor and savored the heat as it traveled down her throat.

  “Which means you’ve got yourself a very nice nest egg,” she continued. “I never mentioned it, but last month I received an offer on The Queen’s Head two and a half times the amount I paid for it. That would leave you with a very tidy sum which is yours alone to decide what to do with.”

  Peggy looked horrified.

  “You’re not going to sell her are you?”

  Susannah shook her head vigorously. “No, not at all! But that’s my point. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You’d have to agree to it, too. Now that the inn has been cleaned up and is profitable, you’re within your rights to capitalize on your investment. Perhaps you’d like to become business partners with Clem and expand his ironmonger business to other towns.”

  Susannah took another sip. Peggy showed no such restraint and downed her brandy in one gulp.

  “The profits over the past three months have been more than I would have earned in wages,” she said. “I’ve already got a tidy sum put away. You’re not asking me to leave are you?”

  “No! Not if you don’t want to! I just wanted to look after your interests. We’re friends, but marriage does change things.”

  “I… I don’t know what to say.”

  Susannah set down her glass and gave Peggy a hug.

  “You were the only one who stood by me when Jack was at his worst,” she whispered. “And when he died, you were the one who kept your head and helped me keep mine. I owe you a lifelong debt.”

  Susannah kissed her on the cheek and felt the salt of Peggy’s tears. “Whatever you decide to do, you have my full support and blessing. You and Clem both.”

  “I need to sit down,” Peggy whispered. “There’s too much to take in. I’ll have to talk to Old Boots first. I never even thought past getting him down the aisle…”

  “Of course you should talk to Clem. In fact, I insist.”

  *

  “Peggy, have you seen my gloves?”

  Susannah looked at her hands and rubbed some more lanolin onto them.

  “No, I haven’t,” Peggy called back from the kitchen. “When did you last see them?”

  Susannah grimaced ruefully at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. If she knew that she wouldn’t have to ask. “Not since last Sunday. They should be in my glove box.”

  “Try somewhere else!”

  “My glove box is gone as well.”

  She let out a frustrated sigh. She couldn’t wait any longer; she would just have to buy another pair of gloves in Truro.

  Susannah looked at her small packed case. Not only did it contain clothes and toiletries for an overnight journey, there was also a pouch containing nearly one hundred pounds. Peggy was not the only one who had been frugal with her share of the profits.

  There was a coach departing St. Sennen at seven o’clock. She would meet it at the crossroads soon after for a trip that would take more than half a day. It would put her in Truro just after lunch, which would give her time to conduct some of her business. The rest she would do the next day before taking the late coach back to St. Sennen.

  As she secured the latches on the case, it occurred to her this was the first journey she had undertaken on her own. How strange that she had reached the ripe old age of twenty-seven and not once traveled further than a few miles on her own.

  Soon she would have to get used to doing a lot of things on her own.

  Peggy had yet to tell her the outcome of the discussion she’d had with Clem but she knew it went long into the night. Getting Mr. Craddock, the solicitor, to draw up a contract of partnership was the first point of order.

  Wearing her green walking dress, Susannah made her way to the crossroads. How much easier and more pleasant it would have been to sail in Nate’s boat. She missed the little Sprite anchored at the jetty. She wondered how Nate fared. Perhaps she should pay a visit to Lieutenant Hardacre and ask whether he would be so kind as to pass on a message to him.

  Well, she would have more than enough time to think about it on the journey.

  *

  The trip from St. Sennen to Truro was wearying even with an hour to rest at Bodmin. She booked a room at the White Hart Inn before heading to her solicitor’s office.

  She outlined the arrangements she wished to make to formalize the partnership between herself and Peggy. Mr. Craddock reminded her she would have to get Peggy to sign and have someone witness both documents. Susannah decided to see Martin Doyle for the task when she returned.

  Then she handed over the purse containing her savings and obtained a receipt to keep it in the solicitor’s care to save and invest on her behalf. If Peggy decided she wanted to be bought out of The Queen’s Head, Susannah would need more than just that tidy sum.

  They concluded their business. The solicitor rose to his feet and held out his hand. He shook hers vigorously.

  “If only all of my clients were as prudent as you. It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Moorcroft.”

  Susannah inwardly winced at his use of her legal name.

  “And before we wrap up today, there is just one more thing. Your old solicitor in Kent has forwarded a letter to you.

  “I thought I’d forwarded it on to you in St. Sennen but as it so happened, it returned here two days ago. But since I knew you were coming into Truro to see me, I’ve kept it unopened here for you instead of trying a second time.”

  Susannah frowned. “A letter from Kent? I can’t think of anyone I know who remains there. What does it say?”

  Mr. Craddock handed over the envelope. She didn’t recognize the writing. There was no return address on the back and the seal was plain red wax. It didn’t have the look of anything official about it.

  “Perhaps a long-lost friend writes to wish you well.”

  She stared at the address.

  Mrs. J Moorcroft

  Seamist Cottage

  Lydd

  A cloud of dread began to settle over her. She broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  Mrs. Moorcroft,

  Do you remember me, Robert Lawnton? Your late husband and I were business associates. You’re making it difficult for me to track you down, but I do have ways and means.

  I believe you have something of Jack’s that’s mine by rights and I very much want it. If you’d be so good as to let me know whether you have the item of which I speak – a ledger. On receipt of it, I can be persuaded to leave you well enough alone in the future.

  You can reach me at the Red Lion Inn in Hastings.

  Pay heed, Mrs. Moorcroft – failure to respond will force me to make further inquiries. And by God, if you’re still above ground, I will – this word was underlined three times – track you down and make you rue the day you ever crossed me. There are many ways I can make your life very unpleasant.

  The paper shook in her hand. Spots danced before her eyes and blackness edged at her vision.

  “Mrs. Moorcroft! Are you well?” asked Mr. Craddock. He called to his associate. “Atkins, bring some water for Mrs. Moorcroft, will you?”

  She responded only when the solicitor tapped her hand. She folded the paper hastily and gripped it tight. When she looked up, she saw the concerned faces of Craddock and Atkins.

  “No, everything is quite well,” she answered quietly. “I’m just tired from a long journey.”

  “Was there something in the letter to disturb you?”

  She shook her head. “No! No, it was just… an old friend of my husband’s who wished to be remembered.”

  She hid her still shaking hands behind her satchel and thanked the solicitor. When she returned to the White Hart Inn, she placed the letter on the table in her room and stared at it as though it were poison.

 
“Help me! Don’t just stand there like an imbecile, help me, you stupid bitch! Pull me out! What are you waiting for?”

  It had been months since the memory of Jack’s drowning came back as vividly as it did now. She kept her eyes wide open. If she closed them, she would see that night in the Denge Marshes so clearly and hear his terrified screams as he slipped under and she did nothing.

  She fought the panic brewing inside her until her heaving breaths became even once again.

  “Think! Just stop and think,” she told herself aloud.

  The letter was not dated but it looked travel-worn. It was addressed to her at the house near Lydd. Whoever had bought the place must have sent it on to the solicitor who handled Jack’s estate and her purchase of the inn. And he, in turn, must have forwarded it to her new solicitor here in Truro. She trusted the two solicitors well enough for them not to breach the confidentiality which was a condition of their trade. She had to – it was her only hope.

  And it meant Lawnton did not know where she lived.

  She let out a shaky breath. She was safe. Why should she fear a man who lived so far away and who had no power to harm her anymore? She opened her eyes and looked at the letter once again. It was just a piece of paper – only a piece of paper.

  The temptation to set it alight in the fireplace and let it burn was strong. Instead, she folded up the wicked missive and placed it in the folds of a small diary she’d brought with her.

  She examined her reflection in the oval looking glass in the wardrobe. Her face was flushed. Indeed, when she put her hands to her face, she felt the heat of them. She returned to the washstand and splashed cold water on them. Panic rose again…

  Stop it!

  She needed a distraction.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spied a bundle tied in a piece of plain linen. That was one of the things she had come to Truro to do.

  Among the items she brought with her from St. Sennen was a beautiful bolt of silk from France. It was part of the smuggled treasure that Lieutenant Hardacre insisted she accept as recompense for her inconvenience. The color was like nothing she had ever seen before – neither purple, nor red, nor pink, but somehow a combination of all of those shades as it shimmered in the light; perhaps the shade of fuchsias she’d once seen in a grand garden, or the particular shade the sky became in the mornings ahead of a spell of bad weather.

  Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.

  Having a dress made of it was an extravagance she would never have considered for herself. She had it wrapped in clean paper and plain linen to sit on the shelf above her wardrobe. Where would she find such a place to wear a gown of that shade?

  And yet, as she took out Jack Moorcroft’s cursed ledger from its hiding place to withdraw her savings from the hidey hole in the floor, she had reconsidered her situation and came to two conclusions. She would burn that hideous reminder of Jack in celebration when Peggy signed their business partnership papers.

  And she would have a dress made of the fabric. It seemed apt. Red, the color of passion; red, the color of atonement.

  They were both starting life, renewed, rediscovered. So, it was purely on impulse she brought the fabric with her to find a dressmaker.

  Susannah was directed by the innkeeper’s wife to the salon of Madam Lefanu. The woman and her apprentices, too, had gasped over the color and the fineness of the fabric.

  The dress was an indulgence. And she had Nate to thank for helping her see there was more to life than the small existence she had created.

  Despite her best efforts, she found her thoughts drifting back to him. Was he here in Truro? Should she call on him?

  Recalling the name on a card Hardacre had given her, she walked past the White Hart Inn instead of going in and, instead, crossed into Wharf Street. She found the name – Charteris House – on a row of terraced shops, whitewashed but mostly unassuming. Two of the three shopfronts had brightly painted signs advertising their wares. The middle shop, over which the Charteris House sign sat, was devoid of such promotion.

  She crossed the road and peered through the window. It appeared to be a chandlery, filled with bright brass bits and pieces she didn’t know the names of, with a back wall filled with clocks. It looked like a charming place.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  Susannah hadn’t seen the shopkeeper emerge.

  “Oh! I’m sorry. I… it’s just I heard a friend mention this place once and…”

  She backed away and the little man with the thick glasses offered a smile.

  “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for? We’re specialists in finding unusual wares.”

  “Oh, ah, well, nothing in particular… I should get going.”

  This was foolishness. What was she expecting? To see Nate Payne working in there – in a shop? More foolishness. She glanced across the street to see if she could make a successful dash with her dignity intact.

  The shopkeeper bowed and reopened the door on which a brass bell tinkled merrily. She had heard that now, so why hadn’t she heard it when he came out?

  “I need to go.”

  The man smiled. Susannah stepped off the pavement.

  “Then come again,” said the little man, pleasantly. “Goodbye for now, Mrs. Linwood.”

  It wasn’t until she reached the White Hart Inn again that she realized the shopkeeper called her by name.

  She shook her head.

  Surely, she had been mistaken.

  Chapter Seventeen

  September 1805

  Ascorn, Brittany

  Nate and Adam Hardacre walked into the Le Pomme d’Eve early in the evening and immediately caught the attention of Yvette Piaget.

  “Mon cher! I never thought I would see you here again.”

  She offered him a subtle welcoming smile which lasted only until she saw he was not alone. Then the smile broadened. She squared her shoulders, presenting her bosom to its best advantage.

  “I see you bring a friend with you. That’s very generous, n’est-ce pas?”

  Nate chuckled.

  “Put away your charms, Yvette. My friend here is married – happily so.”

  The woman’s brows rose in speculation, unabashed in her perusal. “That in and of itself makes him an interesting specimen. Is there a reason why he doesn’t speak for himself?”

  Nate shook his head. “His French is terrible. Where’s Claude?”

  “He’s with the fishmongers.”

  “We need a place to stay for the next few days, somewhere discreet… out of the way. After last time, I’m keen to avoid the soldats, you know what I mean?”

  “You and me both, lover. But I think I have a place for you. Are you sure there is nothing else I can do to help two weary travelers?”

  He kissed Yvette on one cheek, then the other.

  “A good meal to start with, yes?”

  Yvette nodded and headed for the kitchen. Nate followed her as far as the bar.

  Meanwhile, Adam found a dimly lit corner which afforded them the best view of the tavern, Nate noted it was no coincidence that it was close to a window and the kitchen door – two means of escape if they’re needed.

  It hadn’t taken them long to settle into a routine. Adam’s sailing experience made crossing in the foggy, moonless conditions far less treacherous than it ought to have been. Now on dry land, they’d fallen into step as though they had known each other for years.

  He’d wondered if the man would try to take command of the mission but, so far, Adam watched more than he spoke which, considering his command of the language, was a blessing.

  Nate returned with two mugs of local cider.

  “So, how do you want to play this?” he said under his breath.

  “We’ll be patient,” Adam answered. “I’m hoping that our friends are still free enough to get a message to us.”

  Nate nodded, recalling their meeting the day before last. A mix of anticipation and dread made him restless and uncharacterist
ically short-tempered.

  He forced himself to sit through Bassett’s frustratingly detailed preparations until he could no longer hold back from the one question that had to be asked and no one yet had.

  “How, exactly, are we supposed to find them? Go door-to-door?”

  Bassett shook his head and looked to Ridgeway. That man looked mildly amused by his outburst.

  “Word will reach them. I’ve arranged for a ship to traverse fifteen miles of coast at night and send a coded lantern signal every five minutes. The patrol will do that for three nights only. The message is to make contact with you via your old haunt, Le Pomme d’Eve. It’s enough of a criminal haunt that unfamiliar faces won’t attract the attention of well-meaning citoyens.

  “You and Adam will have one week to get in and get out.”

  All traces of amusement were gone from Ridgeway’s eyes as he directed his next comments to Adam.

  “If you find Bickmore, bring him back if you can, or kill him if you must, but take no unnecessary risks. We don’t know what resources he has at his disposal or how well connected he is with Napoleon’s inner circle.”

  Adam responded with a curt nod, but said nothing. It was clear as the nose on his face that his wounds of betrayal by the former friend were felt deep.

  Nate took a sip of his cider, the sharp, crisp taste reawakening memories. It had been some time since he awoke from nightmares of being buried alive in the oubliette; he suspected they would return tonight.

  “If we’re going to be here a while, we might as well look like we’re here for the night.” He nudged Hardacre with his elbow and nodded toward a newly abandoned game of pallets. “Have you ever played this?”

  Adam shook his head and cracked a grin. “No, but I’m a quick learner. Let’s see if you’re as good as you say you are.”

  Nate responded in kind. “Care to make a wager on it?”

  “Not me, but them,” said Hardacre, indicating the patrons now filling the tavern. “Encourage an audience, but play it straight, we don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention. I can slip into the background which should make it easier for our friends to make contact.”