The Blighted Cliffs (37 page)

He
turned away. 'Sergeant, get the men back on their feet. They look
like a herd of cattle there.'

Little
happened that afternoon. Although Bingham did not avoid my
conversation for more than half an hour, his easiness was gone, and
it seemed he spoke to me only with reluctance. Few travelers passed
on the road, and soon the light began to fade. The trees took on a
dusky, purple hue, and the air over the fields grew misty. A dog was
barking somewhere in the valley, but otherwise all was still, silent.
There was now no banter among the men, nor officers: I was thoroughly
distracted with my turbulent thoughts of Cunningham and Mazard, while
I imagined Bingham was wondering how far I would take these lunatic
allegations, and how he could avoid having any part of them. Of the
two of us, I feared he was probably the wiser, but he had a full
stomach to anchor his thoughts, while I felt the absence in my belly
ever more keenly.

Just
on the cusp of evening we heard a rumbling in the distance towards
Dover. Bingham, who had been poised to order his men home, looked up.

'It
appears to be our esteemed acquaintance Lord Arlington,' he said,
peering into the gathering shadows. 'I doubt there's another coach
like that in Dover.'

'Let's
hope there's still light enough for his coachman to see us,' I
muttered.

But
this time the driver did not charge our line; instead, he slowed his
horses to the gentlest of walks from the moment we came into sight.
It seemed an interminable wait for them to cover the ground between
us, and every second the day grew darker and the air chiller. At long
last, the carriage rolled to a gentle stop before us.

'Still
here, are you?' said Lord Arlington from the carriage. He sounded
disappointed.

'Still
here,' confirmed Bingham. 'And still obliged to search all passing
traffic.'

'Still
obliged to be a damned nuisance, you mean?' grumbled Arlington, but
he was obviously playing for form. 'Do as you must, Captain. Not
going to get out, though - too damn cold.'

I
looked through the doorway as Bingham climbed in. The strongbox was
gone, but a wooden crate had taken its place at Arlington's feet.
Perhaps in anticipation of our encounter, it had not been sealed.

'A
fine selection,' Bingham complimented him as he lifted the lid and
looked at the array of bottles inside. 'You must have a great
familiarity with spirituous liquors. You have a receipt, of course.'

'Of
course. Why the devil wouldn't I?' Arlington kicked the box
dismissively. 'Nailed to the top.'

Bingham
held the lid close to his nose. 'Of course. And in there?'

He
gestured towards a small leather case on the bench beside Lady
Arlington. 'Another purchase?'

'Devil
take you, Captain, that is my wife's. I will not have you insulting
her dignity by prying into her personal effects.'

But
Bingham ignored the outburst and deftly lifted the case, snapping it
open.

He
laughed. 'See this, Jerrold - a poppet.' He held it into the light of
the carriage lantern. It was a cloth doll, perhaps a foot tall, its
white linen skin stretched over a surprisingly detailed woman's body,
swelling in all the right places, and in profile remarkably like Lady
Arlington. It even shared her fair hair. 'And a wardrobe for it as
well.' Bingham picked a dainty doll's dress out of the case. It too
was exquisitely made, more like the miniature of a real garment than
a crude toy. 'The latest French fashion, if I recall my wife's
magazine correctly,' he said. 'Tell me, Lady Arlington, who is your
dressmaker?'

'My
dressmaker?' she asked coldly. 'Sir, my dressmaker is in London. What
you hold is merely a fancy I found in Dover.'

'Of
course.'

Bingham
handed back the doll to Lady Arlington, who bundled it swiftly into
the case.

'Have
you quite exhausted your duty now, Captain?' Arlington was biting his
knuckle. 'We have many miles yet to travel, and the road can be
dangerous after dark. I do not care to be assaulted by brigands on
it. Again.'

'I
wish you a pleasant journey.'

Bingham
stepped backwards out of the door and hopped onto the ground. The
driver lashed his whip, and we watched the lantern pass down the road
and out of sight.

'What
was your purpose with the doll?' I asked, intrigued by Bingham's
words. 'And why ask of her dressmaker?'

'Because
I have seen the poppet before, and not in a toy-shop window. On a
smuggler we captured some months back, carrying a load of calicoes
and silks, together with several dolls of near identical appearance.'

'Have
we banned French toys?'

'It
isn't a toy,' Bingham explained. 'It's a model, a dressmaker's doll.
Shows off the latest styles from Paris without the need for a
travelling wardrobe. The good ladies of society choose their
dresses, then buy the cloth for it from the same smuggler who brought
the doll.' He looked up at my uncomprehending face. 'France may be
our sworn enemy, Jerrold, but she is still the height of fashion.'

Bingham
led his men back to the castle; I made my way to the docks to
rendezvous with Crawley. I feared he would barrack me for returning
nearer to the supper hour than lunch, but he seemed careless of my
apology and sent me back to the inn.

'Get
a good night's sleep, Lieutenant,' he ordered me. 'I hope to have
Orestes
ready for sea tomorrow, and thereafter we must double our efforts to
hunt down the smugglers. Neither of us can long afford continued
failure.'

With
my uncle
's
letter of the day before still exercising my thoughts, I could hardly
disagree. I thought of proposing my idea of Cunningham and Mazard's
involvement, but the doubts Bingham had voiced, and Crawley's
unpredictable, combustious temperament, dissuaded me. Perhaps I would
try when I was feeling bolder, and when I was not standing almost in
the shadow of Mazard's building.

On
whose roof, I noticed, a lamp still glowed orange.

15

ISAAC
WAS
IN THE BAR WHEN I ARRIVED BACK AT THE INN.

'There's
an 'andkerchief for you,' he said when he saw me.

'Damn
the handkerchief, and fetch me some pork and a large glass of claret.
What do you mean, a handkerchief?'

My
thoughts on the short walk back had been occupied with ever more
elaborate constructions of what Cunningham and Mazard might purpose
together, and those had quickly given way to even more fanciful
imaginings of what they would do to me if they knew I suspected them.
I had little patience for enigmatic bar-boys.

'I
means this.'

Isaac
began pulling out his pockets, producing all manner of disreputable
objects, most of them filthy, until, with the flourish of a
travelling magician, he extracted a balled-up handkerchief. I took it
gingerly by the corner.

'This
is mine, you little thief.' I just about recognized it, although a
nasty black stain had leached into one of its edges. 'Where did you
get it?'

'Laundry
girl left it for you,' said Isaac defensively. 'Said to tell you to
blow yet nose on it.'

'I
shall certainly do no such thing.' I would sooner have blown my nose
on a hedgehog.

I
shook open the handkerchief, keeping it well away from my face, and
tried to ignore the damp yellow lines spidered across it:
'Red
Cow
tonight'. As I had expected, there was writing on it; unfortunately,
it left me none the wiser.

'What's
the
Red
Cow
?'
I asked Isaac.

'It's
a tavern.'

That
sounded plausible. 'Whereabouts?'

'On
Red Cow square.'

'Which
is doubtless on Red Cow lane near the Red Cow river,' I snapped. 'How
do I reach it from here?'

The
Red
Cow
was built on the north-western corner of the town, right at its very
edge, where the inland road came in, and doubtless it was meant
primarily to lure the sort of traveller who falls upon the first
hostelry he finds in his destination, without discernment or thought.
I speak as one who knows. The ramparts of the heights behind loomed
over it, and the adjoining houses were dark.

For
all its lonely location, though, it attracted enough custom to make
it an effort to reach the bar, and an even greater effort to catch
the eye of the stout landlord behind it. I was just wondering how I
would find Isobel, when I felt a tugging on the back of my coat; I
turned to see her dark eyes staring up at me, a smile on her face.

'Hallo,'
I said, more stiffly than I meant. It was, I realized, the first time
we had met publicly since that first night in the
Crown
and Anchor
,
and I suddenly felt pressed for conversation.

'Over
here,' she said, pulling me to a table by the wall which had just
become vacant.

I
put down the two glasses I carried, and sat on the wooden stool. It
was lower than I expected, and I fell onto it, knocking into the
table leg and splashing wine out of the glasses.

'How
many have you had already?' asked Isobel, giggling at me.

'There's
nothing improves with drink, you know, saving perhaps my face.'

'Absolutely
not,' I said chivalrously.

She
pulled a frown. 'You mean, even spirits won't make me look pretty?'

'I
mean,' I floundered, 'that, er, nothing can improve your face.'

No.
'Because, viewed in any state, it remains the picture of perfection.'

That
was better. It was obviously what she wanted: she leaned across the
table dragging her sleeve through a puddle of wine, I noticed –
and squeezed my arm.

'Anyway,'
I said, my embarrassment calmed by her touch. 'Why did you insist on
bringing me out here? There are any number of more convenient and
more convivial places in town.'

'Further
away from eyes that talk,' she said, lowering her voice.

'Cunningham
and his agents, you mean?'

'Them
too.' She shook her hair loose. 'Anyhow, I thought you came to see
me, not to review the tavern for the Gentleman's Magazine.'

There
was a pause in our conversation.