Smuggler's Moon Read online

  “You will note,” said he, ”that I am alone here. Lady Grenville is on the other side,” he made a vague gesture toward the Channel, ”visiting her family. She is, as you may gather, French. And being French, she brought with her into our happy marriage, a French cook; indeed the finest French cook who ever came to these shores, or so he keeps declaring. His name is Jacques, you see, and Jacques feels unused and unappreciated because we do not often have occasions here in our sleepy little corner of England to make full use of his talents. Especially does he enjoy showing them off to my wife, for she is French, and only the French can fully appreciate their cuisine. Yet she has been away a considerable length of time due to an illness in the family. This is, in fact, the first occasion on which he has prepared a full-course dinner in the grand style in her absence. Ordinarily, that might seem reason to caution you as to its quality. Nevertheless, first of all, Jacques has not been put to the test for far too long, and he has been eager to prove himself. And secondly, say I in prideful mock-humility, I believe his work speaks for itself.”

  “Indeed it does,” said Sir John, ”oh, indeed so.”

  Had there been any need to do so, I might have raised my voice to second Sir John, for while I commented a moment ago upon the great abundance of the food, it should be said that it tasted remarkably well. It was perhaps a bit too delicately spiced for one, like me, who sought grosser gustatory satisfactions. Which is to say, I knew that the turbot, the quail, and the lamb that were put before me in their diverse sauces were in every way exceptional, yet I still preferred Annie’s well-garlicked beef stew.

  “Remarkable coincidence,” said Sir John.

  “Oh? What is that, sir?” queried our host.

  “That your wife should be away visiting an ill member of her family. So also is my own dear wife. Which of her relations is sick?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Which family member? Brother? Sister …?”

  “Oh, well, her mother.”

  “You see? Remarkable coincidence. It is her mother also, whose illness has occasioned my wife’s visit. Remarkable.”

  Sir Simon, for some reason, seemed disturbed by this exchange. He signaled the wine server to refill the glasses. Glancing uneasily at Clarissa, who sat next me, I wondered how much more she should or could drink of the wine. It was not that I feared that she would become boisterous or rude, yet she might become talkative. And the conversationalists at this table were to be Sir Simon and Sir John—and no others. Surely she realized that. Clarissa took a sip from the newly refilled glass, then turned to me with a lazy smile upon her face. Her eyes, I noted, were a bit opaque.

  “I do regret Marie-Hélène’s absence now, at the time of your visit,” said Sir Simon, resuming their talk. ”Lady Grenville, that is. She would be the ideal guide through this old house. She knows its history better than I.”

  “How old is it?” Sir John asked, showing little more than polite interest.

  “Oh … let me see. The core of the house is quite old—fourteen-something. Marie-Hélène would have it exact.”

  “That is indeed old.”

  “There have been three major additions since then. It is one of those old houses which simply grew of its own volition. Why, it even has a ghost or two.”

  This was simply too much for Clarissa. Her eyes brightened. ”A ghost!” She fair shouted it out. ”Oooh! Tell us about it.” And then: ”Ow—Jeremy!”

  That last was her response to the kick I gave her in the ankle. As I administered it, I leaned close and whispered, ”Do you wish to have us eating with the servants?”

  Lips pursed, she nodded primly, indicating that she understood and would cooperate.

  Sir Simon Grenville, on the other hand, seemed to take no notice of the breach of etiquette. He smiled blandly at Clarissa and shrugged rather grandly. ”The truth is, alas, I know not much to tell. It, or perhaps he, is said to be the ghost of the first Grenville Baronet, who would have been—let me see now—my great-grandfather, no less.”

  “And how does this restless spirit make himself known?” asked Sir John.

  “Oh, by rambling about the house, making a good deal of noise and generally creating havoc.”

  “Havoc, is it? And how does he do that?”

  “Why, by allowing himself to be seen from time to time. He looks rather different from me. His is a face that seems to run in the family. My father was quite like him. We’ve a portrait of him in the library. He appears in these visible visitations in dress of the last century, and there does seem to be something—though I risk his wrath to say it—rather evil about him, his expression, the look in his eyes, the rather frightening smile he offers the viewer.”

  “I can only gather,” said Sir John, ”that you yourself have seen this apparition on at least one occasion.”

  “Yes,” said he, ”I have, and on more than one occasion.” Sir Simon had grown most serious of a sudden. Any hint of jocularity had vanished from his manner. ”And each time I have counted myself lucky to survive unscathed.”

  “Why so? Is this spirit so dangerous?”

  “Dangerous enough. His appearance, which is to say, his visible manifestation, usually means that someone in or around this house … will die, and die most horribly, within the next week or so.”

  There was a sudden and quite audible intake of breath next me. It was Clarissa, of course, so overcome by Sir Simon’s lurid tale that she could but gasp for air; indeed she was truly afrighted.

  Yet Sir John, having listened, primed his host with questions and comments through the recital, and in short, done all that a good guest might be expected to do, had finally had quite enough of ghosts, spirits, and apparitions.

  “If you will forgive me, Sir Simon,” said he, ”I find all such tales naught but poppycock. Naturally, they frighten children like Clarissa, who deep down rather likes to be frightened. But frankly, it would take a great deal to convince me of their validity.”

  “What, specifically, would it take?”

  “Well, since I am incapable of accepting the proof offered me by my eyes, I would have to be convinced by one or more of the other four senses.”

  “Did I mention the smell which comes with his appearance?”

  “No sir, you did not.”

  “When he appears, and sometimes only when he is about and wishes to make his presence known, there is a rather overpowering smell of brimstone about.”

  “Brimstone?” Sir John puzzled that about in his head for a moment or two. ”You mean sulphur?”

  “That is what some call it today, yes.”

  “It is sulphur, is it not, which gives off the foul odor of rotting eggs? It can be quite overwhelming.”

  “Yes, that’s it!” said Sir Simon in sudden excitement. ”Rotting eggs—a terrible smell! That’s it exactly!”

  Sir John began laughing quite abruptly. He threw back his head and let it peal forth from him in great waves of merriment. I had not the slightest notion what had, of a sudden, struck him as so terribly funny.

  Nor was I the only one. Sir Simon Grenville recoiled slightly from his guest as he looked upon him in utter bafflement. Then did the baffled expression turn to one of slight though open annoyance. At last, when Sir John’s laughter had subsided, he risked a query.

  “What, praytell, did strike you as so amusing, sir?”

  ‘“Twas but a passing thought which tickled my fancy.” And having gone only so far, he began snickering again. ”It came to me that yours may be the only house in the realm that is haunted by a farting ghost.” Then, having said it, he was once again beset by a laughing fit of a length and intensity quite like the last.

  Thereafter the table remained rather quiet for quite some time.

  For one unused to drinking wine of any kind, Clarissa did rather well drinking wines of every kind. In her own way, she kept up until the dessert course. It was not the piece of gateau, dripping with sweet sauce, that did her in. No, it was the accompanying sweet white wine fro
m faraway Hungary which did finally seal her fate. She sipped it once in a manner most ladylike, then took nearly half a glass in a gulp. She replaced the glass upon the table, rested her chin upon her chest, and began snoring quite loudly.

  It continued thus for less than a minute. Sir John did then become uncomfortably aware of the persistent drone.

  “My ears tell me,” said he, ”that Clarissa has been summoned off to sleep. The poor child must be terribly weary. Perhaps we had best cut the evening a bit short and take her up to bed.”

  “Oh, do stay a bit longer, Sir John,” urged the host. ”We’ve matters to discuss, those which brought you here, matters that we have not even touched upon.”

  Sir John sighed. ”Indeed, sir, you’re right.” He hesitated but a moment, then turned to me. ”Jeremy, will you take Clarissa upstairs to her room?”

  “Certainly I will, Sir John.”

  “Can you find her room? As I recall, it is directly across from ours.”

  I assured him I had the location of both firmly in mind and would bring her safely to her own.

  “I could wake one of the staff,” Sir Simon offered. (One by one they had disappeared.)

  “No, Jeremy is quite capable.”

  By the time the discussion of my ability to deal with the situation had gone thus far, I had already persuaded Clarissa out of her chair, taken her firmly by the arm, and was marching her out of the grand dining room.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” I called out quietly to them.

  Yet I must have called loudly enough to bring her further awake, for she pulled herself up a bit and began to walk a bit more firmly.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Why, upstairs to your room, to put you to bed.”

  “Mmmm. That should be interesting.” She had been making far too many such remarks of late to suit me—not quite lewd but of a sort which might be understood in a number of different ways. It had been so with her ever since that evening when we two had been trapped briefly in the darkened cellar of Number 4 Bow Street. I made no response to her sally but started her up the great stairway.

  “Did I disgrace myself?”

  “No,” said I, ”nothing of the kind.”

  “That’s gratifying.”

  We continued to climb the stairs until, quite near the top, she spoke up again.

  “What if the ghost should suddenly appear at my door?”

  “Ghost indeed,” said I with a sniff. ”If he should be so unwise as to hang about your door, I should simply tell him to be gone. I should say to him, ‘Here you, get back to your grave, if you know what’s good for you. And none of your smelly farts.’”

  At that she giggled, and she continued giggling all the way to her room. I opened the door and glanced inside: a candle was burning on the bedside table, and her bed had been turned back.

  “Would you truly address the ghost so rudely?”

  “I would! You must be firm with his kind.”

  “Then you are my hero and my champion, and I shall reward you by permitting you to kiss me good night.”

  “Ah well,” said I, not wishing to kiss her but also not wishing to offend her, ”perhaps another time.”

  “No,” said she insistently, ”now. I’m prepared to wait right here until you do—all night, if need be.”

  Well, why not? It would be the quickest way to be gone, would it not? I leaned toward her and chose a spot high on her left cheek just below her eye.

  She stiffened and shrank back a few inches. ”On the lips,” said she in a manner which made it clear that she would brook no argument.

  Steeling myself for a proper meeting of the mouths, I saw no way now to withdraw. Well then, thought I, in for a penny, in for a pound. I would do it all quickly and be gone.

  But she would have none of that. Our lips had barely grazed when I felt her arms encircle me. Her lips pressed against mine. Her arms near squeezed the life from me. I felt utterly trapped. Yet it was for but a moment—for it was but the duration of a moment that she held me so. She stepped back, and I saw her cheeks redden with embarrassment: her boldness had exceeded even her own expectations, perhaps her own intentions, as well.

  She leapt over the threshold and into her room. As she shut the door behind her, I heard her call a good night to me.

  Well, thought I, hurrying away, the girl is obviously quite mad. Or perhaps it was the wine that she drank which has made her behave in this unaccountably wanton manner. She was truly making it difficult. Perhaps if I were to talk to her, reason with her, I might make her understand just how terribly awkward this will be for both of us.

  I started down the stairs at a jog trot, but then did my pace slow somewhat, for as I descended, I heard a voice from the dining room—it was none other than Sir John’s. Quite unmistakable, for when he spoke in argument, his voice fair thundered.

  “Again, if you will forgive me, Sir Simon, what I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend is how you could so swiftly and so completely alter your opinion of Albert Sarton in so short a time. You supported him. Without you, he would not have had a chance of becoming magistrate of Deal.”

  I sighed, admitting to myself how weary I was. I had eaten too much. I had drunk far too much. I wanted nothing better than to go to my own bed. Yet that, I feared, would be sometime in the future. It appeared that we were in for a long night of it.

  THREE

  In which Sir John

  meets Albert Sarton,

  Magistrate of Deal

  We were late leaving for town the next morning. By the time Sir John was up and had breakfasted, Sir Simon Grenville was long gone on his daily round of inspection. His vast holdings, which numbered near a thousand acres of rich Kent farmlands, had just been planted and so required his close attention—or so he told me that I might explain his absence to Sir John. Before leaving, he appointed Will Fowler, who had given us the speech of welcome at our arrival, to be our guide round the manor house. He took Clarissa on a proper tour of the place. I asked only that I be shown the library that I might choose a book to read whilst I waited for Sir John to rouse.

  And so there I was, sitting outside the door to our room, reading A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy, by the Reverend Mr. Sterne, listening for the familiar sounds of snuffling and coughing which prefaced his rising. I liked the book not so well as Tristram Shandy, yet liked it well enough to wish to read it through. Therefore I was, I confess, a bit disappointed when at last the morning overture did begin. Yet dutifully, I set the book aside and entered the room.

  “Jeremy? Is it you?”

  “It is, Sir John.”

  “Is it late?”

  “It’s getting on.”

  In answer to that, he simply grunted, made use of the chamber pot which I fetched to him, and expressed his desire to be shaved. It took a few minutes for me to make preparations, during which he began a recapitulation of his discussion the night before of Mr. Albert Sarton’s record as magistrate. Though it angered him to do so, he dwelt upon the details of the baronet’s argument—or rather, the lack of them.

  “I asked him to be specific,” said Sir John, ”and he could not be. Oh … well, he kept referring back to one case—only one, mind you—wherein Sir Simon had attempted to tip him on one gang of smugglers, yet he felt the magistrate had, ever afterward, turned a deaf ear to him and his tips. I must say, there seemed to be a good deal of personal pique involved in that. I should like to hear what Mr. Sarton has to say about it.”

  Sir John continued to grumble even as I proceeded to shave him.

  “You heard him, Jeremy. Did I miss some several proofs of his? I ask you, was he specific?”

  “No sir, he was not.”

  It is a risky matter to shave one who insists upon talking on, even as the sharp blade of the razor plays about his bobbing Adam’s apple. I warned him twice against it.

  “He did mention that Eccles fellow often, though, did he not?”

  “Yes sir, he d
id.”

  ”His contention seemed to be that if Eccles was against Mr. Sarton, then that was all the proof that was needed. He and Eccles may have formed a sort of alliance. I wonder who turned who against Sarton.”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean to say, was it Sir Simon or Eccles who first became prejudiced against the magistrate? And who then won the other over?”

  He went silent as he considered the questions he had raised. Carefully, watchfully, I resumed shaving him.

  “And why sh—ow!”

  I had cut him—or perhaps more accurately put, he had cut himself upon my innocent blade. Not, thank God, upon or near his throat. No, it was the tip of his chin that bled. Yet I was prepared. I reached into the kit and pulled forth the plaster preparation given me by our medico, Mr. Gabriel Donnelly. I dolloped a wad upon the cut and saw the bleeding stop.

  “How is it?” he asked.

  “All right now.”

  “Stopped bleeding, has it?”

  “It has, yes.”

  “You should be more careful.”

  “I should be more careful? Why, I told you twice you were taking a chance continuing to talk whilst I was shaving you.”

  He said nothing for a long moment. ”So you did,” said he at last. ”So you did.”

  When we two were deposited at Number 18 Middle Street, and I waved goodbye to Lord Mansfield’s driver and coachman, I felt an odd, sinking feeling. It was as if Sir John and I had been cast away upon an isle from which there might be no return. They would go back with the coach to London. How much, of a sudden, did I envy them!