Smuggler's Moon Read online

  No doubt Jacques did just as well preparing the meal for us three as he had the night before when his master was present. It is simply that, because of all that had happened that day, I remember it not quite so well. Nor do I remember the same plenitude of wine—simply a good claret for the meat and a white wine of some sort for the fish: a bottle of each to share among the three of us.

  So we were all sober, at least, when we climbed up the stairs, having spent no less than two hours at table. Sir John suggested we adjourn to Clarissa’s room that we might review our situation. He had been quiet through dinner, indeed we all had been. Yet now he spoke forth and revealed what had been on his mind.

  “I believe we must take defensive precautions. There is not much we can do, but we can at least lock our doors. Clarissa, you have the key to your room now, do you not?”

  “Safe in my pocket,” said she.

  “Then you must use it. Lock it and stay inside till it be morning.

  “I shall also want you to go with us tomorrow to the magistrate’s in Deal. We have all been invited for dinner tomorrow evening, so we are to remain there the better part of twelve hours.”

  “So long?” asked Clarissa. ”Whatever shall I find to do there?”

  “Jeremy will show you Deal, a charming place, or so it was said to be at one time. You will be happy to do so, won’t you, Jeremy?”

  I sighed. ”If you ask it, Sir John, it will be done.”

  FIVE

  In which plans are

  made and a grand

  feast is eaten

  Because we returned to Deal in Sir Simon’s coach with its curiously limited capacity, I was once again forced to ride up top beside the driver, who was once again Will Fowler. If I had thought it difficult to extract information from him when last we rode together, it proved absolutely impossible on this occasion. In response to my questions regarding the identity of the dead man, the time of the discovery of the body, and Clarissa’s reaction to the event—I studiously avoided all mention of the chalk mine—he would say nothing, nor would he so much as shake his head, yea or nay. He ignored me. Yet the expression upon his face answered me far more eloquently than any verbal response he could have made: he appeared frightened quite out of his wits. I knew that, since I rode with him last, he had received a severe dressing down from his master for allowing Clarissa to go off discovering on her own.

  I had witnessed Sir Simon’s return somewhere round midnight. The barking of the dogs had wakened me. I went to the window, which overlooked the front of the house and witnessed, by the light of the torches burning on either side of the front entrance, the arrival of three horsemen. The one on the proudest mount was Sir Simon. He handed the reins to a stable boy and hopped down from the saddle. A man whom I recognized from above as Will Fowler came out to meet him, and immediately Sir Simon fell to upbraiding him most aggressively. Though the window was shut, and I was thus prevented from hearing the words he used, he made his anger plain with his sharp gestures. First he pointed at poor Will as he moved toward him, then shook his finger at him, and finally shook his fist so vigorously under his nose that I felt sure he meant to strike him. Yet he did not go so far as that—not in my sight, in any case—though I cannot say what may have come to pass inside the house. This alone would have frightened the fellow. Who could say what verbal threats were made?

  Fowler drove even faster than on our past occasion. I held tight to the seat as before, but twice, as we leaned round curves, I feared I might lose my grip and go hurtling off into the ditch which seemed to run along every road in Kent. Yet I managed to hold on till at last we went charging down Middle Street and came again to a halt at Number 18. We three assembled on the walkway before the magistrate’s house. Before ever we could move to make our presence known to Albert Sarton, he threw open the door, all smiles, and welcomed us as friends. Clarissa was presented to him by Sir John. And agreeably, he even shook the hand which she thrust out at him.

  “I shall look forward to interviewing you, Miss Clarissa,” said he. ”But just now I shall talk to Mr. Fowler. Perhaps all of you would do well to wait for me in my courtroom. It is the large chamber to the right and across the hall from my study.”

  “We shall be happy to do so, Mr. Sarton,” said Sir John. ”I welcome the opportunity to witness you in this role, as well.”

  “I have but one case,” said Mr. Sarton, ”involving four men, a misdemeanor.”

  “Just as well, for I think you’ll agree that there is naught so boring as a whole morning spent in court on misdemeanors.”

  At that Mr. Sarton burst out laughing. ”You’re quite right, sir. Many times have I thought it, yet until you spoke up just now, I had not the courage to say so.”

  It was at that moment I decided I really liked the man quite well. He left us with a wave of his hand, scrambled up to the top of the coach to the place I had as my own until some moments before, and faced Mr. Fowler.

  “Well, let’s inside, shall we?” said Sir John. ”Jeremy, give me your arm. You won’t mind bringing up the rear, will you, Clarissa?”

  And so, in the order described by Sir John, we made our way into the large room used by Mr. Sarton as his courtroom. There were sufficient chairs to accommodate about a dozen visitors. They faced a plain deal table not unlike the one Sir John himself used at Number 4 Bow Street. A man whom I took to be Mr. Sarton’s court clerk sat at the table next the empty chair which awaited the magistrate. To one side sat the prisoners in the charge of a constable. We were just sitting down when I noticed something quite striking about the prisoner farthest from me: he had but one arm. How many one-armed men could there be in Deal, after all? That is, how many could there be besides Constable Perkins? It was curious how much, in general, the prisoner otherwise resembled Mr. Perkins; his clothes, for instance, were quite like those in which the constable was dressed when last I had seen him on the day before. And there was something about the way he held his head …

  Good God! It was Mr. Perkins!

  It could have been at just that moment—that, in any case, is how I remember it—that Clarissa fell into a fit of coughing. I glanced over in her direction, but then my glance was held by her, for I saw most immediate that she had loosed the chorus of coughs simply to get my attention. Now that she had it, she was signaling wildly, pointing ahead toward the prisoners, rolling her eyes in consternation, then gesturing toward Sir John as she heaved her shoulders in a great shrug. She was asking, in effect, if we should tell Sir John of the unfortunate situation in which Mr. Perkins found himself. All I knew to do was shrug back to her in response. How had he gotten into such a pickle? I looked back at our constable and found him staring at me. I pointed at Sir John. Mr. Perkins hesitated a moment, and then nodded most soberly. Thus he urged me to tell Sir John of his predicament.

  I know not if he then expected the response he got from his chief when I whispered all—I certainly did not. It did not take long to tell Sir John, yet even before I had quite finished, he had begun to giggle. The giggle turned to laughter which he tried to suppress, yet without success, for in a moment more he had thrown back his head and was laughing in great guffaws. I turned to Mr. Perkins, hoping to signal to him my confusion and helplessness, but I found him in the same state as Sir John—unable, that is, to stifle the laughter within him. The other prisoners, seeing no humor in their situation, exchanged puzzled looks at his behavior. The Deal constable liked Mr. Perkins’s behavior not in the least and came over to him and admonished him sternly.

  This then was the scene when Mr. Sarton entered his courtroom and his clerk did solemnly order: ”All rise.” And all the rest of us did scramble to our feet.

  (Sir John had long ago dispensed with this bit of ceremony at Number 4 Bow Street, and so I was taken somewhat by surprise, though no more than by what followed.)

  Once Mr. Sarton was firmly settled in his seat at the table, the clerk urged all to be seated, and the session was begun.

  It seemed that
the charge against all four of the men was public drunkenness and brawling. All four were obliged to give their names, then the three prisoners who were unknown to us chose one of their number to speak for them. His name was the only one of the three I now remember. It was Samson Strong, a difficult one to forget. He did, in a sense, live up to his name, for though not tall, he was thick through the shoulders and chest—but no more so than his two companions. He did not present a trustworthy appearance.

  “Where did all this difficulty take place?” asked Mr. Sarton.

  “In Alfred Square, m’lord.”

  “I am but a magistrate and do not deserve so august a title. Call me ‘sir.’ That will do.”

  “Yes sir, m’lord … sir.”

  “Hmmm, well, where specifically did it take place?”

  “More or less at the Turk’s Head, sir.”

  “I might have known. Most of the trouble in Alfred Square begins or ends there. I’ve a notion to close that place down as a public nuisance.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Tell your story.”

  “Well, we three, who are old friends and well known each to the other, we was sittin’ together at the Turk’s bar, havin’ an ale together when this fella here—”

  “Just a moment,” said Mr. Sarton, interrupting the prisoner. ”How long had you been there? How much ale had you drunk?”

  ”That’s a little hard to say, sir. What’s today? What day of the week?”

  “Why, it is Thursday.” Mr. Sarton turned to his clerk. ”Is it not?” The clerk muttered something in the affirmative.

  “Well, if it’s Thursday,” said the spokesman for the three, ”then we was in there since Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday? You mean you were drinking ale in that place for two days?”

  “Aw, it wasn’t so bad. Every once in a while they’d come through and sweep it out, and if we needed a lie-down, there was always a whore to oblige. You can ask the innkeeper if it wasn’t just so. His name’s Harley.”

  Mr. Sarton, taking note of Clarissa’s presence beside Sir John, gave him a warning: ”I shall ask you, Mr. Strong, to watch your language, for there is a child present in the courtroom. That is the only warning I shall give. If you err again in that way, I shall hold you in contempt of my court. Is that understood?”

  “Yes sir,” said he.

  “Continue.”

  “Well, in comes this one-armed cod, and, without so much as a by-your-leave, he sits right down at the bar. And then he—”

  “Let me interrupt,” said Mr. Sarton. ”There was an empty place at the bar?”

  “There was, yes sir.”

  “And you expected him to ask your permission before he took it?”

  “Well, an’t that the proper way? I mean, there was an empty place at the bar, true enough—in fact, there was more than one—but there might not’ve been. There mighta been one more of us and him gone off to take a—” He caught himself just in time. ”To answer one of nature’s calls, if you get my meaning, sir.”

  “Indeed I do. Continue.”

  “Well, he was friendly enough in his way, I s’pose. He offered to buy a round of ale for us, and we accepted his offer. He said he’d come to Deal lookin’ for work, and then he began askin’ all these questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, he wanted to know such things as, who were we, and what did we do, and did we think there was any chance for a job in our line of work. And we didn’t like it.”

  “Why not? Those seem innocently enough intended to me.”

  “Maybe so, sir, but it wasn’t what the questions were as how he asked them.”

  “And how did he ask them?”

  “Well, he asked them in such a way like he really expected an answer.”

  “Isn’t that how it’s usually done? Isn’t that how I am putting questions to you now?”

  “Yes sir, that’s just it, y’see. He was askin’ questions like it was our duty to answer them, just like it’s our duty to answer your questions now.”

  “I understand. Continue.”

  “Well, sir, we just decided we’d go and leave him alone with all his questions. We drank up, and we left.”

  “Then how did this great brawl occur?”

  “I was gettin’ to that. We were standin’ round outside, the three of us, when out comes this one-armed cod, and he was just askin’ for a fight.”

  “You mean that literally? He asked to fight you three?”

  “No sir, he wasn’t even that proper about it. He just up and attacked us.”

  “He attacked all three of you?”

  “You might say so, sir. Anyways, he didn’t fight fair. He did a lot of head-butting and kicking and suchlike, not the kind of fighting I’d call fair. And … well … that’s our story of how it happened. An’t it boys?”

  He looked round him at his two companions. They grunted, nodded, and gave their assent.

  ”All right, Mr. Strong, you may be seated,” said Mr. Sarton. He turned to his clerk and asked a whispered question. In return, he received a response spoken just as quietly. ”Now, Mr. Perkins, if you will please, give us your side of the matter.”

  Constable Perkins rose and came forward so that he stood just opposite Mr. Sarton with only the table between them. He took a deep breath and began:

  “In its general outline, sir, I cannot take exception to what you have heard from Mr. Strong just now. Yet it’s in the details that my version differs. Let me say, first of all, that I’m a native of these parts. I grew up here and worked on farms hereabouts till I was enlisted in the Army. I saw service in the American colonies during the war with the French after which I’ve gone through life with but half an arm here on the left side. This has made it hard for me to get and keep work. I tried London. I thought I might try where I was born in.”

  At this point he paused, apparently to organize his thoughts. Mr. Perkins had a good head upon his shoulders, and when called upon, could deliver testimony as well or better than any of the Bow Street Runners. Here he was called upon to testify in his own behalf. So far he was making a good job of it.

  “Now that you have explained your presence here in Deal,” said Mr. Sarton, ”let us go quickly to your entrance into the Turk’s Head and your meeting with the three men seated behind you.”

  “As you say, sir. I had been asking about work at every inn in town. I had heard that Alfred Square was a most lively part of town, and the Turk’s Head, I’d heard, was the liveliest place of all. So I come to Alfred Square—oh, about eleven o’clock it must’ve been, not yet midnight, anyways. Though I’d drunk a little ale, asking at one place and then another, I was still sober. You may take my word on that, sir. I headed into the Turk’s Head, and I saw that all the tables were filled up, but there was plenty of room at the bar—just these three behind me sitting there. There were plenty of empty places there. Now, I should’ve taken that as a caution, shouldn’t I? If these three were sitting all by themselves like that, must be because nobody wanted to be near them. I should’ve taken a hint that they were troublemakers—but I didn’t.

  “Instead, I took a place right nearby, ordered an ale and asked if I might buy them another of what they were drinking. They were willing enough to accept an ale from me but not to answer my questions—or so it seemed to me. For when I asked how it was they earned their bread, a common enough question amongst those wishin’ to have a bit of talk over their ale, there was a bit of wrangling over how it should be described. Finally, him who addressed you, sir, came up with a phrase that seemed to satisfy them all. He said, ‘You might say we was casual laborers.’ I said they seemed to be doing well at it, for they had already boasted they’d been drinking at the Turk for two days running. ‘But,’ I put it to them, ‘in what trade are you casual laborers? Would there be work for me in it?’ At that they commenced to laughing most uproariously. When I asked what I had said that struck them as so funny, this man, Samson Strong, he told me they was in the owling trade
, and he asked me, did I know what that was. I told him being from round Deal I had a pretty good idea. Then he offered me what I can only call a sneer, and he asked if I really thought there was likely to be any work for a one-armed man in the owling trade. Then one of the other two—I cannot say which—he told me, ‘Try again when you finished growing that other arm.’ That struck them as the funniest thing that had yet been said. To be honest, sir, I do not take kindly to such remarks regardin’ my disability. And so I fear I made some hasty remarks which I would rather not repeat here.”

  “And why would you rather not?” asked Mr. Sarton.

  “Well,” said Mr. Perkins, ”you already cautioned the other fella about usin’ improper language in this court because of the presence of children and all. I’m afraid all of what I had to say to them was in suchlike language.”

  “I see, but give us some idea of it, will you? What—without being exact—did you say approximately?”

  “All right, sir, I would say that the burden of it was that I, with my one arm, was a better man than any one of them—no, better than all three of them.”

  “Was this issued in the way of a challenge?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. It was more like a statement of fact.”

  In spite of himself, the magistrate smiled at that. ”Continue.”

  “Well, right then the three of them put their heads together and commenced to whispering amongst themselves. Then, making a few nasty remarks and a lewd gesture or two, they walked out of the Turk’s Head, and I thought to myself, ‘Good riddance!’ Well, I sat about long enough to finish my ale and decided it was time to leave. Well sir, I get outside, and I find them waiting for me. One of them says, ‘We’ll just see if you’re as good as you think you are.’ And in all modesty, sir, I do believe I proved myself to them. Just one more thing: I suppose I did not fight fair—or let’s say I did not fight usual. But not havin’ but one arm, I believe I’m entitled to a little leeway in that way. Yes, I did butt, and yes, I did kick—in truth, I’m quite good at kicking—but there was three of them and just one of me.”