The Blighted Cliffs (21 page)

'He
could if he was strapped down to the seabed.'

Camberwell
refilled my glass.

'His
condition suggested he had only been underwater a few days.'

'Hah!
Then it's a mystery, Lieutenant. He walked out of this very office
one afternoon and went to ground completely. We tried to find him, of
course -can't have a King's official disappearing like that. Asked at
every house and farm in the area, and every boatman in Deal, but none
of them had seen a thing.'

I
remembered my own experience making enquiries of the locals, and
discounted that fact accordingly.

Camberwell
was not yet finished. 'Of course, it all got a bit lost in the Drake
business.'

'The
Drake business?' My mind was suddenly alive to all manner of
possibilities.

'Caleb
Drake, the smuggler - you must have heard of him? It was two days
after Webb vanished that Ramsay and his men smashed Drake's gang.
After that, no-one much cared for a missing revenue officer.'

'Was
there any hint of a connection between the two events?'

I
was struggling to find a pattern: Webb vanishing just before Drake
was caught, and then turning up dead at a similar time, and in a
similar area, to the mysterious Mr Vitos. Did that add up to a link
between Vitos and Drake, or was it just exaggerated fancy?

But
Camberwell was, for the first time, looking slightly reticent.

'No,'
he said hesitantly. 'No real connection at all. Pure coincidence, I
should think. More brandy?'

'Thank
you. No real connection, you said? A vague connection, perhaps?'

Camberwell
filled my glass rather fuller than was necessary, though if he hoped
to addle me with spirits he had underestimated the quantity required.
Indeed, quite the contrary: the warmth of the drink was beginning to
break down my sensibilities and give me an uncharacteristic swagger.

'Mr
Camberwell,' I lectured. 'Two good men lie dead. Now you hint to me
that the most nefarious villain to have cursed these shores in recent
times may have played some part in the matter. Can you, sir, in good
conscience withhold the full story?'

'Drake
was hanged six months ago,' retorted Camberwell, his face redder than
ever. 'I very much doubt even he could reach from beyond the grave to
kill Webb, or the other fellow.'

'But
I believe that Webb's disappearance then, and his reappearance now,
cannot be unrelated. If there was a hint of Drake's involvement when
he vanished, it may shed vital light on what has happened since
then.'

Camberwe
ll's
fat lips were pursed together in silence, his checks puffed up behind
them. I drained my glass, and he did not offer more.

I
tried some idle speculation. 'Perhaps Webb had been instrumental in
uncovering Drake's whereabouts for Captain Ramsay, and feared
reprisals when he knew Drake would be caught.'

'Hah!
Perhaps indeed.'

'Or
perhaps,' I continued, trying to read his stony face, 'Webb was in
league with Drake, and feared he'd be found out. Especially if he had
wind that Ramsay was closing in on Drake.' Camberwell's eyes
narrowed; I carried on with my thought. 'Perhaps Webb was known to be
a little closer to the smugglers than he should have been. After all,
why try landing your cargo on a beach at night when for a few pounds'
worth of French goods you can sail it into harbour right under the
officer's nose? It wouldn't be the first time a revenue officer had
dabbled in the trade, or the last.' I stared pointedly at the
decanter on his desk.

I
find it remarkable how often the urge to correct an upstart's
ignorance overcomes men's better judgement.

'I
should have thought, Lieutenant, that you would have the courtesy not
to impugn my hospitality under my own roof.'

'Not
in the least - the brandy is delicious.'

'Perhaps
there are revenue officers who take a small pinch from the cargoes
they inspect and impound.' Camberwell was talking slowly now,
measuring his words with caution. 'But if there were, they would
remain perfect innocents when set against Mr Webb and his activities.
There reportedly never was a lugger that crossed the Channel without
a full report as to where our cutters and riding officers would be,
or what time Webb's personal attentions in the harbour could be
assured. Of course, such services were hardly rendered out of
charity, and they say that Webb, when he went, was as rich as any
venturer. In fact, Lieutenant, I would go so far as to say that when
he disappeared, he saved the service a great embarrassment, and that
whoever threw him overboard merely anticipated the work a jury and a
hangman would have done had he ever been found alive. Now, good day
to you.'

With
Camberwell's hospitality exhausted, there was little else to do in
Deal. I entertained the idea of asking around the town about Webb,
but accosting strangers has never been my style, and I had not the
least idea where I should begin. Besides, although it was but a
little past the lunch hour, the walk back would take us almost until
dusk.

I
found Isobel where we had agreed, happily gazing into shop windows;
taking her on my arm, I set us on the path back to Dover. It had been
a long journey, but well worth it. Not that the riddle had become any
clearer - quite the reverse - but after days of knowing nothing, I
would far rather a surfeit of facts which might at some stage admit
to a narrative, than the contrary. Vebb's story was clear enough, of
course: clearly he had ceased to be of use to the smugglers with whom
he had cast his lot, or perhaps he had been suspected of some
treachery in the matter of Cal Drake and they had decided to be rid
of him. The only mystery was the intervening six months, for if he
had become a fugitive it was unlikely he would have remained in the
area all that time. And how did his death relate to Mr Vitos's? If
Vitos had been another smugglers' informant, then surely someone
would have known him?

I
scratched away at these thoughts as we trod our way down the coast,
letting Isobel’s chatter wash over them. She must have endured
a harsh upbringing, between living in the poorhouse and being sold
into domestic employment, but if it had put a certain weariness on
her young shoulders, it had not crushed her humour, nor her
liveliness, and she made for pleasant company as she talked of
childhood games, of the places that were dear to her, and of the
ridiculous eccentricities of the families she had worked for. The air
around us grew hazy, and colder too as the light began to fade; I
wrapped my arm tighter around her thin waist and cupped my hand over
her hip.

She
stopped on a low rise. 'But they were the worst,' she said, pointing
to where the jagged rooftop of Sir Lawrence's house pricked up above
the rim of the valley. 'Some of the families were cruel without
meaning it, and some because they didn't care, but him, he was cruel
because he didn't have it in him to be kind.'

'Then
don't look at his house.'

I
pulled her round. The movement brought her up against me, and out of
instinct I moved forward so that she pressed yet closer. She did not
pull away. The sun was sinking before us - the only sunset, I think,
I ever saw in Dover - and its last beams reflected off the clouds
above, suffusing the air with a warm, copper light that coloured
Isobel's skin perfectly. A profound silence surrounded us, and it
seemed for that instant that we existed in perfect solitude.

I
inclined my head, and saw her mouth rising to meet mine. There was a
sharp breath as my cold nose grazed her cheek; then our lips brushed
against each other, hesitated, and met. I felt her hands against my
shoulders, pressing me forward, and was conscious that I did
likewise. For a long, tender moment, we held the embrace, letting the
warmth pass between us.

'We'd
be more respectable over there,' she whispered as we paused for
breath. She nodded her head towards the wooded valley where I had
thought to seek refuge from the storm.

'Respectable?
How does one do this respectably?' I gave her another long,
unrespectable kiss.

'By
going where no-one can see us, of course.'

She
pulled free from my embrace, though keeping hold of my hand, and
began running across the field. The earth crunched under our feet,
and the chill air rushed past us as we spread our arms like sails and
swooped down into the pines, laughing and whooping, letting go to
pass around trees and then touching again, until we stumbled into a
clearing on the valley floor. I swung Isobel in towards me, clasped
her tight and kissed her some more.

Disappointment
surged when she pushed me back, but it was only to bring her arms
forward so she could start fumbling at my breeches.

'Are
you sure?' I asked, startled. Suddenly everything seemed to be
happening very swiftly.

She
giggled. 'Course I'm sure. And you've been wanting this since you met
me, haven't you?'

'Well,
yes. But that was when I didn't know '

'When
you didn't know me?' There was a sparkle in her eyes. 'Are my manners
so revolting? Or do you think it's improper to carry on with a
washerwoman?"

'I'll
show you improper,' I answered, although my timing was unfortunate,
for she had just undone the last button on my breeches and pulled
them down to my knees.

Nothing
she hash 't seen before, I thought.

'Lie
down,' she commanded me, and I obeyed.

The
ground was cold, particularly against the exposed portions of my
skin, but the carpet of pine needles was soft enough. Isobel was
hitching up her skirts.

'You'd
better hurry,' I called, looking up at her. 'I can't wait for ever in
this blasted cold.'

'You'll
be warm enough soon,' she retorted, lowering herself onto her knees
astride me. I felt her hands moving deftly about under her
petticoats. 'You can't imagine how you could want this after living
locked up with six girls for three months.'

Having
spent months at a time locked up with seven hundred men in a floating
prison, I could imagine it all too well; not for nothing are the
girls in Portsmouth the most expensive in the country. But all that
was far from my thoughts at that moment, for Isobel, true to her
promise, was warming me quickly. I could feel my desire stiffening as
she wriggled herself into position above me, and

'Aaah-tc
hoo!'

A
sneeze from behind a cluster of ferns exploded into the hushed
twilight air like cannon fire. Isobel started back, damn near maiming
me, and stood up. Her skirts fell into place and she was instantly
the model of propriety, while I lay sprawled on my back for all the
world to admire. Cursing, I struggled to my feet and tugged at my
breeches.

'Who
the devil was that?'

My
face was scarlet, though not solely from anger, as I stared about;
Isobel, looking more irritated than alarmed, did likewise. It was
hard to see anything in the gloom, but as I stepped towards the place
whence the noise had come, I heard a scuffling. It sounded as though
it was retreating, and with a shout of vengeance I plunged in after
it. A shadowy figure was on the ground before me, crawling away on
his hands and knees, but I grabbed at his shoulder and held him back,
eliciting a yelp. He squirmed, but I was strong in my rage, and he
unusually light, and with a firm grip I hauled him into the clearing.