Smuggler's Moon Read online

  “Jeremy, meet an old friend of mine from bygone days, name of Dick Dickens.”

  Dickens reached across the. table, offering his hand as I sat down. Mr. Perkins passed on to me a broad and most obvious wink. I gave a manly squeeze to the hand and a proper nod to the constable, signaling my understanding: I would follow his lead.

  “What say you, Jeremy,” said the constable, ”have they kept you hopping to their tune?”

  I shook my head in the negative. ”Nah, ‘tan’t so,” said I to him, effecting the manner of speech of a Covent Garden lay-about. ”It’s mostly just waitin’ for when we’re needed.”

  “It was Jeremy got me the ride down here,” said he to Dickens.

  “In a gentleman’s coach? That an’t half bad.”

  “No, it was on a gentleman’s coach. You think you’d like to go bouncing about on your arse, just hangin’ on for dear life atop a coach with four horses at full gallop—you think that, then you’re welcome to my space back to London.”

  “No, but I thank you all the same,” said Dickens with a chuckle.

  At last did I remember whence I knew that name, Dickens. It was Dick Dickens who figured so prominent in Mr. Perkins’s tale of his life in the owling trade. He had enlisted him all those years ago. By luck or by cleverness, Constable Perkins had made direct contact with the smugglers.

  “Which gentleman is it has the coach?” asked Dickens.

  The question seemed to be directed at me, yet I was unsure how I should answer. Thus was I relieved when Mr. Perkins came forth with the information—false information as it happened.

  ”It belongs to John Fielding, a knight by the pleasure of King George.”

  “Sir John Fielding, is it?” said Dickens. ”An’t he the blind magistrate there in Covent Garden?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You work for him? Don’t tell me you’re a constable!”

  “Do I look like a constable?” said Mr. Perkins. ”You ever see one with just one arm?”

  “No, I don’t guess I ever did.”

  “I’m his dogsbody.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I do whatever I’m told to. Fetch what needs to be fetched, carry messages back and forth, just an errand boy, really.”

  “And what about you, lad? What do you do for the blind magistrate of Bow Street?”

  “Just a footman,” said I.

  “Ah well,” said Dickens. ”We all got to start somewhere, don’t we?” He then rose and said something that struck me as strange: ”I must get back to the castle.” He shook hands once again and bade us goodbye, leaving near a full half-pint of ale at his place at the table.

  Once he was out of earshot, I turned to Constable Perkins and in a voice so quiet it may as well have been a whisper, I said to him, ”That was the Dick Dickens you told us about, wasn’t it? The one who got you into the smuggling trade?”

  “That’s who it was, Jeremy, and I was quite amazed when he walked into this place not long before you came along. I recognized him right away—he’s not changed all that much—but he more than recognized me.”

  That seemed odd. ”What do you mean?”

  “Well, he came up to me right away, like he knew that I was here—and maybe he did.”

  Again, he had done naught but confuse me.

  ”What do you suppose he’s up to now? Guess, Jeremy, just try.”

  “Why, I’ve no idea, really,” said I. ”Still in smuggling, I suppose.”

  “Oh no, not like that at all. But this is unfair. You’ll never guess.” He took a deep breath and uttered as softly as ever he could: ”He’s a customs man.”

  I heard what he said, though I did not quite trust my ears. ”He’s what?”

  Perhaps I spoke too loudly—or perhaps it was Mr. Perkins’s obvious wish not to be overheard which attracted attention—but glancing about, I noticed that a number of faces at the tables near ours had turned in our direction. Mr. Perkins noticed, as well. He jumped to his feet.

  “Come along,” said he. ”Let’s go to the bar. The crowd there is so loud, they’ll pay no attention to us.”

  And thus it transpired that we concluded our conversation standing at the bar where he called for another ale, and I ordered coffee. We were two of that roaring crowd who roared along with the rest. Yet I daresay none of our near neighbors paid us the slightest heed. Mr. Perkins shouted his news to me loud as the town crier might have done in days gone by. None but me did hear him, though. Of that I’m sure.

  As Mr. Perkins told it, he had been sitting at that most distant table, sipping an ale and awaiting my arrival when Dickens came into sight and walked straight over to him. Recognition was immediate. They greeted each the other like long-separated friends and immediately fell to talking about all that had happened during the years that had passed since last they met. Dickens’s first concern was for Mr. Perkins’s missing left forearm. He asked the usual questions: How had it been lost? Did it pain him? Was he able to do without it? Et cetera. These and other such questions Mr. Perkins answered quickly and directly, for he had prepared an elaborate story which concerned a wound given him in the battle for Fort Duquesne.

  “I took a proper chop at the elbow from a tomahawk,” he had told Dickens. ”That, for your information, is a sort of Injun hatchet.”

  Dickens, properly impressed, had winced visibly. Yet he was in no wise helpful when Mr. Perkins hinted that he had returned to Deal hoping to find employment. Did he know of anything in that trade in which they had both once worked?

  “Ah well,” Dickens had responded. ”Afraid I can’t help you there. I’ve moved across to the other side of the street now.”

  When asked to explain that, he said that he was now with the Customs Service.

  “I must have looked at him pretty queer,” said Mr. Perkins to me, ”for he laughed a bit and swore it was all true. Not only that, but then he tells me that he’s the customs officer for Deal with an office in Deal Castle and twenty men to do his bidding. I wanted to hear more, of course, but it was just about then that you came by, Jeremy.”

  I thought about what had then been said by and to Dick Dickens, and I realized that there was something that had puzzled me.

  “I’ve a question, Mr. Perkins.”

  “Ask it then, and I’ll answer if I can.”

  “Why did you mention Sir John to him at all? You needn’t have done. A complete fiction would have worked just as well.”

  “True enough, I suppose,” said he. ”But if you had seen the way that Dickens came up to me at that table, you’d understand. I happened to be looking in his direction when he come round the corner, and he wasn’t looking left or right at all. He knew right where I’d be, and he knew exactly who I was. No, I figure that he’d been told about me— somebody must’ve recognized me from the old days and told him where I’d be. As for why I then brought Sir John into it, it seemed to me that if I was being watched that close, they might just possibly see me around Deal sometime soon with Sir John—or at least with a blind man who answers his description. And if they did, I wanted to account for it in advance.” He paused. ”Why? Didn’t you think much of the story I gave?”

  “Well,” said I, ”I thought it a bit far-fetched. After all, a dogsbody? an errand boy? You seemed, rather, to be describing me.”

  “Aw, now you’re not being fair to your own self.”

  Thus, in friendly railery, we did continue our interview at the George to the very end, when, having finished my coffee, I prepared to take my leave.

  “You can tell Sir John,” said the constable, ”that I’ll continue to find out what I can about the trade hereabouts. Tonight I’ll head over to Alfred Square. I understand it’s sort of a gathering place, so I’ve heard.”

  “Well, watch out if you do,” said I, ”for I’ve heard that it’s just the part of town to be avoided—a robbery a week and a murder a month.”

  “Sounds just like dear old Bedford Street in Covent Garden, so it does
. I think I’ll like it just fine.”

  On that I departed.

  My interview with Mr. Perkins had not lasted near as long as I expected, and so I decided to take a bit of time and explore the town of Deal. I had seen some of it, of course, from the window of Lord Mansfield’s coach. Yet the world seen from a coach window is simply a picture that moves. Where are the smells, the sounds, of the place?

  Well, they were indeed present as I set off down High Street. I mixed with the crowd of buyers as they moved in and out of the rich shops along the way. There was a certain indefinable but real sense of prosperity and well-being among them. It was not so much what was said as how it was said. No doubt they gossiped of family, friends, and workplace, as they did in most other towns and cities. Nevertheless, they did so with smiles upon their faces and laughter in their voices; they did not go about muttering and cursing, as they seemed so often to do in London.

  As for the smell of the place, there could be no doubt: it was the smell of the sea. I soon saw my way down to Beach Street, and I took it. Once there, I was immediately touched by the great flocks of gulls, flying over sea and shore and walking about upon the narrow strip of beach that ran along the cobblestone street. It seemed that whenever one of the great gray or white birds landed, another would take off. I wondered, were there not more gulls than people in Deal? Not far offshore, a number of boats bobbed in the tide—though not so many as I might have expected, for Deal was known then, as it is now, as a fishing port. Then, of a sudden, did it come to me that because it was not long past midday, the boats might indeed still be out upon the sea; perhaps they stayed out for days at a time. The smell of the sea and the fish was all about me, a strong odor even upon the walkway. I did realize at last that it came not just from the beach and beyond, but from ahead, as well, for there, at the next corner, were stalls which sold all manner of seafood to the citizenry, shellfish and finny fish, even eels and skates. I paused and surveyed the vast array of God’s water creatures. What would they taste of? Why, of the sea, of course, but in truth, I had not tasted much seafood at that time in my life. I had no clear sense of it. Reluctantly, I continued on my way. I went on to the next street and the next. Then, when Beach Street ended, the shore, of course, did not. And so I crossed over and walked along the water line. What a grand thing it would be to live one’s life by the sea and take such walks every day!

  I had not gone far when I spied a vast structure back somewhat from the shore. Low and hulking it stood, with many cannon pointed out to the sea. I concluded immediately it was Deal Castle, where Dick Dickens lorded it over an idle force of twenty customs men. Did those who accepted him in the Customs Service not know his history? Did Mr. Albert Sarton not know it? He had spoken of him (without identifying him by name) quite respectfully. What if I were to return with the news that the local Customs Officer was once indeed actively involved in smuggling? Would he and Sir John suspect, as I did at that moment, that perhaps Dickens had only pretended to leave the owling trade? It could well be, thought I, that Dick—and perhaps his customs men, as well—were not near so idle as they seemed.

  Thus my thoughts as I gazed upon Deal Castle. Had I known more at that moment, I might not have been near so certain. Yet if I had not been so certain, I should not have hastened, as I did, to Number 18 Middle Street in order to inform Sir John of what I had learned about the local customs officer. And had I not hastened, I might have missed him altogether.

  Knowing no better way, I returned to the residence of Mr. Sarton just as I had come from it. No doubt there was a shorter route, but I did not know it, nor did I have time to ask it. I felt a strange urgency to Middle Street. Where before I had ambled, I now jog-trotted. Even there along High Street I moved at a fast pace through the crowd of local gentry, narrowly avoiding collisions, dashing at full speed past the Good King George, the inn where I had learned all from Mr. Perkins. And at last to Middle Street where, to my uneasy surprise, I spied a coach waiting at one of the houses halfway to the next street. I feared the worst when I saw that it waited before Number 18.

  Upon the box, there in the driver’s seat, sat Will Fowler, he of the welcoming speech who had acted as guide to Clarissa’s tour of the manor house and its grounds. Fowler talked soothingly to the two horses, calming them with his voice, as only a good driver can do. But he gave me a wave of recognition ere I knocked upon the door. Because I read the look upon his face as one of concern, I asked if there were trouble back at the house.

  “I fear so,” said he, ”trouble of the worst sort.”

  “And what is that?” I asked.

  “Murder,” said he, ”of one of our own. I’ve come to report it and collect Mr. Sarton. That’s as it should be done, with the magistrate, or so I was told.”

  “May Sir John and I return with you?”

  “Already been asked, already been granted.”

  I nodded and went to the door, banging loudly upon it and waiting just as I had before. And just as before, I heard the steady tap-tap-tap of Mrs. Sarton’s heels down the long hall. She called out to me, demanding to know who knocked. To her request I called out my name. Yet there was a lapse of some several moments before the bolt was pulled and the key turned in the lock. She had evidently forgotten who I was. We had never been properly introduced.

  “Ah yes,” said she, ”I thought ‘twas you, but we can’t be too careful. Come in, come in.”

  I did as she bade, and noted that she did return bolt and lock to place the moment I was inside. I gave her my thanks and followed her pointed direction into that small room to the right of the door where we had sat earlier. Then did she depart. Sir John, and he alone, occupied the space at that moment. He stood, fidgeting with his walking stick, obviously eager to be off.

  “Ah, Jeremy, you’re here,” said he. ”I feared we should have to leave without you.”

  “Yes, Sir John, and I bear with me important news from Constable Perkins.”

  “Well, save it. I’ve important news, too. Let us wait till we are alone and may talk more freely.”

  “But,” said I, ”this is information that will be of great interest to Mr. Sarton, as well. I’m sure he would want to know.”

  “That may well be,” said Sir John, ”but if it came from Mr. Perkins, it must be saved. Remember, we are here as trespassers upon his private preserve. If he knew we had someone gathering information here behind his back, so to speak, he would be most displeased.”

  Reluctantly, I agreed to say nothing.

  “Hush now, I hear him coming. Not a word.”

  “No sir, not a word.”

  FOUR

  In which Clarissa

  proves herself a

  reliable witness

  The conveyance in which we were taken to Sir Simon’s manor house was of an unusual, probably local design, the like of which I had never seen in the streets of London. It was a bit like a hackney coach, though so much smaller and lighter that only two could fit comfortably in its interior. As a result, there was naught for me but to take a perch upon the box beside Will Fowler.

  From my brief acquaintance with the man, I deemed him one of good disposition and a ready tongue. Yet the grave nature of his errand had saddened and silenced him so that in spite of my best efforts, I was able to get little from him. Nonetheless, the little I did get surprised me much. As I now recall, we were well out of town when I made what must have been my third or fourth attempt to draw him out. He had up to then left my questions hanging unanswered in the air, or at best responded with a gesture—a shrug or a shake of his shaggy head.

  He had the horses moving along at a good pace so that it seemed we must be near the end of our journey. I expected the unmarked driveway into the great house to appear after the next turn of this winding road—or surely the next one after that. It was then, holding on to the seat grip for dear life, that I asked him (for the second time, I believe) who it was had been found dead.

  Again he shrugged, but this time he added: �
�One of the new men Sir Simon took on. Don’t know his name.”

  “It’s certain he was murdered? Couldn’t have been an accident?”

  “What kind of an accident leaves you with your throat cut?”

  “Well … yes,” said I, in something less than a shout. ”I suppose it was murder then.”

  “Course it was!” said he peevishly, punctuating his declaration with a rather fierce glance.

  “Who found the body?” I was certain I hadn’t asked that before.

  He said something then, but it was quite lost in the rattle of the wheels and the pounding of the horses’ hooves.

  “What was that?”

  He put his face to my ear and shouted: ”It was me—but the girl—I an’t sure of her name—she was also there.”

  “You mean Clarissa?”

  “Aye, that’s her. We was out—” He broke off and nodded ahead, reaching out at the same time to ease back on the brake. Then, taking the reins in both hands, he hauled them in. As we slowed sharply, I recognized the turn into the driveway just ahead. He made the turn with room to spare.

  Clarissa! I reflected. Now, that was an astonishment. Had I but accepted Will Fowler’s invitation to tour the house and grounds, I would almost certainly have been present at the discovery of the body. Indeed, I might even have been the one to find it, rather than she.

  “You’ll hear all about it, I’m sure,” said he to me.

  “I’m sure I will.”

  Then, of a sudden, we came round a bend, with a meadow on our right, a fenced wood upon our left, and a male figure did leap from the wood into the road and begin waving his arms at us rather frantically. Fowler pulled back hard upon the reins, slowing the horses, and almost simultaneously gave another hard tug to the brake. Though it looked for a moment as if we might run the poor fellow down, we did manage to come to a halt just in time to save him (though I, reader, was nearly catapulted forward onto the neck of one of the lead horses).