Smuggler's Moon (27 page)

“Good God!” said he. ”This is terrible!”

Did he truly think so? But why? Actually, I thought it rather a grand idea, but I kept this opinion to myself.

“Whose notion was this?” asked Sir John.

“Lord Mansfield’s,” said I.

“Well, if it was his idea, then there’s no sending them back, is there?”

“I suppose not,” said I. Then, after a moment’s hesitation: ”He must have felt that the situation here, as you described it in your letter, was so desperate that you would need such aid to set it right.”

“Hmmm, well, yes, I fear I did paint rather a grim sort of picture. Perhaps I should have been a little less … convincing.”

“Can’t you find some use for them, Sir John?”

He gave that some thought. ”Perhaps I can. I just hadn’t thought of such before. But … but … where shall I put them?”

There I could give him no help at all, and so I simply kept silent.

“I shall give it some thought.” He nodded then, which I took as a sign that he wished to be left alone.

I rose, excused myself, and made to go. He had, however, one last word for me.

”Jeremy, I had neglected to tell you this, but the funeral for Mr. Sarton will be held tomorrow at ten. We shall all attend. Please wear your best. I trust you have a clean shirt?”

The services, which were held at St. George’s church, were coldly formal, remarkably short, and sadly ill-attended. If a person were to have come in as a stranger (as I did), it would not have taken him long to perceive that the vicar had been no friend to the man in the coffin. Where he might have made remarks in praise of Mr. Sarton, he said nothing, even went so far as to call attention to the omission.

“At this point,” he had said, ”time is often taken to speak well of him whom we bury. We shall instead return to the Service for the Dead.” And return to it he did.

Molly Sarton, sitting quite nearby, started up from her place and was restrained by Mrs. Keen and Clarissa, who were on either side of her. I do believe she meant to attack the vicar, and I, for one, would have thought her justified. This was explained
sotto voce
by Clarissa to Sir John, who sat farthest away.

Was all this evident animosity to the Sartons caused by the irregularities at the start of their marriage? The scandal of a single man and woman living under the same roof,
et cetera
? Had I not heard that at first the vicar had refused to marry them? Such a to-do over so little!

We pallbearers four—constables Bailey, Patley, Perkins, and I—sat off to one side of the church, from which vantage we had a good view of all in attendance. There were not many. Of the eight mourners present, I recognized only three: there was, first of all, the unnamed server in Mrs. Keen’s tearoom; there was also Dick Dickens, once a smuggler and now an exciseman; the third, however, a late arrival, did surprise me completely when he appeared, for it was no less than Sir Simon Grenville.

At the end of the service, having heard the great amen, we pallbearers came forward and followed the vicar out to
the churchyard as we carried the coffin between us. He continued reading aloud from the Book of Common Prayer, yet mumbling as though to himself. Following us were the widow, supported by Mrs. Keen; Sir John, shown the way by Clarissa; and finally, those of the mourners who wished to hear the final graveside prayers.

Not all of them came. Mr. Dickens, the server from Mrs. Keen’s shop, and one other took that opportunity to absent themselves, so that there were but five trailing in the cortege. The little group fit comfortably about the gravesite. Yet it seemed that they had no more than ringed it round when the vicar, who had been droning on incessantly, tossed in the requisite handful of dirt and suddenly clapped shut his prayer book. Without another word, he turned and left the churchyard in the direction of the vicarage. There were gasps from the ladies at his sudden departure and grumbles from the gentlemen. Only one was heard to laugh, and that one was Sir Simon Grenville.

Upon hearing his loud cackle, Molly Sarton turned sharply to him and gave him a fierce look.

“You find that funny, do you, Sir Simon?” said she to him. She had no need to raise her voice, so near together did they stand.

“Not funny, no, Molly,” said he. ”I found it unconscionably rude, yet to see such rudeness displayed in a manner so open shocked me into laughter.”

“Ah well, you’ve the words for it, I suppose,” said she.

“To me, it seemed childish and your response no less so.”

“I meant no offense.”

“And I’ll take none from such as you.”

“Jeremy.” A female voice. I looked round and found Clarissa. ”Sir John asked that you bring Mr. Crawly’s coach round. We feel we must get the two separated before they come to blows.” All in a whisper.

I nodded and set off immediately, back through the church and out the door. Sir John, Mrs. Sarton, and Clarissa
had taken the hackney over to the church, though it was a journey of no more than a quarter mile. It was Sir John’s thought that a ride out of town might do her well after the service. Yet surely he had not foreseen any circumstance such as this. I hastened to Mick Crawly, who stood by his horses muttering to them in friendly fashion as he waited. I explained to him that he was needed immediately round the corner, and immediately did he ascend to his place above and take up his coach whip. All it took, however, was a call from him, and the team surged forward.

I started to follow but happened to notice as I turned round two men who had been bidden by Mr. Crawly’s hackney. They, who had been talking secretly and earnestly, were now exposed to view, and indeed they liked it not: they ducked and disappeared behind their own coach, which I recognized as Sir Simon Grenville’s. And though I saw the two men only fleetingly, I was sure that one was Sir Simon’s major domo, Mr. Fowler, and the other, Dick Dickens.

Taking no time to reflect upon it, I jog-trotted to the churchyard gate, where I saw Molly Sarton leaving in the company of Mrs. Keen and Clarissa. Mick Crawly scrambled down from his perch in time to give Mrs. Sarton a hand up into the coach. As I approached, I heard Mrs. Keen giving assurances to her friend that she would go straight to Number 18 Middle Street and be on hand to welcome any who might come by.

“Not that any will,” came Mrs. Sarton’s voice from the interior of the coach.

“Ah well, you may be surprised,” said Mrs. Keen. ”At least we’re prepared for them.”

“We’ve baked for an army.”

“And that’s the truth.”

“Come along then, Clarissa. It may be that a drive in the country will do me some good.”

But Clarissa hung back for a moment, just long enough
to whisper to me: ”Sir John will need you. He’s at graveside talking with Sir Simon.”

“With Sir Simon? Oh dear.”

“Exactly. Goodbye then. I’ve no idea when we’ll be back.”

And with that, taking Mick’s hand, she swung up and into the coach. Then in a trice, he was up again in the driver’s seat. With another shout to his horses, they were off again. I looked round me for Mrs. Keen and found her already gone, near to the corner she was already. And so there was naught for me but to square my shoulders and return, hoping as I did so that Sir John had not managed Molly Sarton’s release by assuming her adversarial role.

A number of the mourners had left. Sir John and Sir Simon stayed on, addressing each other to my relief in fair friendly fashion—one might almost say, as old friends might. As I approached, Sir Simon seemed to be accounting to Sir John for the hostile nature of the exchange which I have described in part.

“No, we were not always so,” said he to him. ”She was to me earlier a most satisfactory cook, no more nor less. My first wife chose her, and then after a few years my first wife died. Whilst I lived alone, briefly, she served me well enough. But then, as I believe I told you, when I married Marie-Hélène, quite understandably, she wanted a cook of her own choosing. The French take these things very seriously, you know, so there was naught to do but give Molly her notice.”

“Then you took no part in this persecution of Albert Sarton and Molly, whilst they lived in the same house as master and cook? I understand there was a great show of moral indignation.”

“Certainly not by me!” declared Sir Simon hotly. ”I care not how the local magistrate and his cook comport themselves. It was to me a matter of complete indifference.”

Then did the expression on Sir Simon’s face alter to one
of sly speculation as he lowered his voice. ”Or perhaps not
complete
indifference,” said he. ”I will confess I was quite interested in one aspect of it all.”

“Oh?” said Sir John. ”And what was that?”

“Well, I daresay that Molly hooked her fish, played him well, and landed him. I give her credit. She carried it off quite skillfully.”

“Just what are you hinting at, sir? You seem to be saying that she seduced Mr. Sarton into marriage. Have you any proof of that? Is it your opinion?”

“Proof, I have none, and my opinion will remain my own. Nonetheless, I believe it significant that Molly was years older than Mr. Sarton, don’t you? And ever so much more … well, experienced than he. The poor fellow was an utter failure as a magistrate. Surely you must agree?”

“I fear I do not,” said Sir John firmly.

The few who had remained round the grave were now gathered in close to hear the two men talk. One could divine from whispers and unspoken responses that those who listened disapproved of Sir Simon’s remarks and thought them particularly ill-considered at such a time and in such a place, as indeed they were.

“How can you not, sir? He did naught but offend the local populace—or at least those who mattered. And as for the smuggling hereabouts, he encouraged it by his inactivity. No, Deal is far better off without him.”

“If that is your feeling, Sir Simon, may I ask why in the world you bothered to attend this funeral service?”

He fluttered a hand, dismissing the question. ”Oh, in my position, I must attend a good many ceremonies which I should prefer not to attend. For appearances’ sake, you understand.”

“Oh, indeed I do.”

“I’ve no idea who will take Sarton’s place—a local man, no doubt. For a time we shall be without a magistrate, and I venture that none will notice.”

By this time the grumbling from the listeners had grown ominous. Sir Simon, however, seemed to take no notice. He wore his indifference as a shield.

“I believe,” said Sir John, ”that I have a surprise for you, sir. Deal is not without a magistrate, nor is it likely to be.”

Sir Simon’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back and regarded Sir John in a suspicious, even hostile manner. Though he knew not what this blind fellow had in store, he seemed sure that it betokened little good for him. ”What do you mean?” he asked at last.

“Why, I mean, sir, that
I
am the magistrate of Deal for such time as it may take to set things aright.”

“
You?
What do you mean by that? On whose authority?”

Sir Simon was thrown into such disarray by Sir John’s announcement that the shock he felt was written plain upon his face. Laughter was barely suppressed by those who had remained to listen; it emerged in snorts and giggles, which seemed to anger Sir Simon greatly. He looked about him as if ready to demand silence from all. Yet no such order came, for when Sir John cleared his throat and made to speak, all fell quiet.

“I meant by that, sir, just what I said. I am, by the order of your old friend, Lord Mansfield, given temporary powers as magistrate of the town of Deal and surrounding territories and waters. And as for setting things aright, that is precisely what I intend to do. I intend to discover the murderer of Albert Sarton and bring him to justice. Further, I hope to deal a killing blow to the smuggling trade, if only here in Deal. My authorization and empowerment in this is set out in a letter from the Lord Chief Justice. You may see the letter, if you care to, any time you drop by the magistrate’s residence. Now, is there any part of that you would have me explain further?”

“No.” Sir Simon appeared so taken aback by the speech from the heretofore nearly silent Sir John that that single syllable was all that he could manage.

”And if I may, sir,” Sir John added, ”I should like to introduce you to three of my Bow Street Runners—constables Bailey, Patley, and Perkins.” And so saying, he waved a hand in the precise direction where the three stood together beneath a great elm tree. ”They have come down from London at my invitation. Do make it clear, sir, to your servants and those who work for you, that these men speak for me in all matters to do with the law.”

He bobbed his head, and at the same time touched his hat in a farewell salute. ”Now if you will pardon us, Sir Simon, we shall take our leave of you. A good day to you, sir.”

For the rest of the day and for all of the next, the Sarton house was humming with the making of plans and preparations. To what end was kept secret from me, though I was fair certain that it was Sir John’s intention to strike that ”killing blow to the smuggling trade” of which he had spoken to Sir Simon Grenville.

Endless conferences with the Runners who had come down from London were conducted behind closed doors. Another visit by that slippery individual, Dick Dickens, took place late at night and lasted well past midnight. And I was altogether astonished when, next morning, I was sent off to the heart of town to find Mick Crawly, the driver of the hackney coach.

“Find him?” said I. ”What then?”

“Why, fetch him,” said Sir John. ”Tell him I wish to speak with him.”

I started to go, but then did I stop and turn about, thinking that I might save a bit of time and trouble for myself and for Sir John.

“Perhaps I could take a message to him,” I suggested. ”If you wish to travel with him somewhere, just tell me where that might be and when you wish to depart. I shall tell him, and he will be here. He is, in that way, quite dependable.”

“Jeremy, please, just fetch the fellow. The matter between
us may take some discussion. It is not the sort of thing that may be handled with a message and a simple reply. Be a good lad, and do as I ask.”