The Blighted Cliffs (8 page)

But
Ducker had no comment, and lapsed into silence.

We
passed the mighty bulwarks of the castle, where dozens of men
laboured at the walls, and moved into farmland beyond. The empty
fields were flecked white with the chalk that had been ploughed into
them, and rolled away to the horizon across the gently curving
landscape. It felt very high, and very open, though a few small
copses broke the horizon. The castle quickly disappeared behind a
rise, and we walked on in solitude.

'There,'
I said at length, gesturing towards the shore. A low building could
be seen behind a clump of trees, a few hundred yards from the cliff
and near to where I guessed the shot had been fired. 'They must have
heard something.'

'If
you says so.' Ducker showed little enthusiasm. I suspected the task
of chaperoning me was already becoming tedious.

'I
do.'

We
crossed the field, let ourselves through the gate and approached the
building. Or rather the buildings, I saw as we drew nearer, for there
were several: a low brick farmhouse, and half a dozen barns and sheds
in various states of repair forming a rough, open courtyard in front
of it. A vicious reaping hook lay rusting in a patch of weeds, and
hay covered the ground. From somewhere out of sight came the sound of
hens chattering, but the only living thing visible was a dappled
shire pony, his bridle hitched to a ring in the stable wall.

I
crossed the yard, taking care to step around the keepsakes other
animals had left, and banged on the thick front door. It sounded
muffled in the chill February air.

'They
must be out in the fields,' I suggested after a minute had passed in
silence. I banged again, but a snort from the pony was my only
answer.

I
heard a squeak of hinges to my left, and turned to see the door to
one of the sheds standing open. A thin man, with a weathered face and
bright eyes, had emerged and was leaning on a tall pitchfork,
surveying us in silence. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and
rolled up to the elbows; despite a lean build, there was no mistaking
the strength in his arms.

'Do
you live here?' I asked.

He
nodded slowly.

'I
am Lieutenant Martin Jerrold of his Majesty's cutter
Orestes
.'
I noticed Ducker stiffen beside me, as if he did not think I should
have said so. 'This is Mr Ducker.'

The
farmer took this impassively. 'Hamble,' he said at length, with
obvious reluctance. He did not offer his hand.

'Farmer
Hamble, we are investigating the death - which is to say,
suspected murder - of a man at the foot of those cliffs over there.'
I waved my arm in the general direction. 'Yesterday morning, shortly
before dawn. Did you hear anything untoward?'

'No.'

'Oh.'
I regathered myself. 'But I heard - that is to say, I heard reports
that a shot was fired, hardly any distance from this very
place.Surely you must have heard it.'

'No.'
Hamble
's
face tightened, and I fancied I saw the prongs of his pitchfork
incline ever so slightly towards me.

'Nothing
at all?' I did not hide my disbelief. 'Had you seen anyone pass by
here earlier, perhaps heading towards the cliffs?'

'No.'

'So
to recapitulate,' I struggled on, 'you neither saw nor heard
anything.'

Hamble
paused, weighing the words for some hidden trap, then nodded his
grudging agreement. He looked at me in silent expectation of the next
question, and I stared back, trying to muster a grave dignity, for in
truth I could think of little more to ask.

'Hamble!'
A shrill voice called from an open window, where a woman's head had
appeared above us. 'Dinner.'

'Mrs
Hamble?' I asked, lifting my hat to her.

A
pinched face craned a little further out of the window, its gaze
equal parts curiosity and suspicion, and I saw her eyes turn
fractionally to her husband before she answered in the affirmative.

'Lieutenant
Jerrold,' I shouted up. 'Investigating a murder.' If my words held
any shock for her, it was well hidden. 'Tell me, Mrs Hamble, did you
happen to notice anything unusual here early yesterday morning?'

Again
I caught a quick glance between her and her husband. 'No.' She shook
her head emphatically. I was almost resigned to another series of
fruitless exchanges, but she saved me the effort. 'Didn't hear
nothin', didn't see nothin', don't know nothin'.' Her tone admitted
to no challenge.

'Nothing
at all?' I tried to sound surprised. 'Not even a gunshot?'

'Nothin'.'
She was firmer than ever. 'We was asleep.'

'You
must sleep very soundly, Mrs Hamble.'

She
considered that carefully. 'We does,' she said at last. 'About here,
them what sleeps like the grave don't go rushin' into it.' I think it
was the longest sentence I ever got from either of them, nonsense
though it was. 'Your dinner's goin' cold,' she added, turning her
attention back to Hamble. The window slammed shut.

'Far
be it from me to keep you from your dinner,' I told the farmer, who
was clearly champing to be inside. 'But, tell me, is there anyone
else near here who might have heard something? Our enquiries have
some urgency.'

Even
the thought of a cooling meal could not hurry the man.

'John,'
he decided eventually. 'Fisherman. On the beach.'

'Excellent.'
This sounded far more promising - indeed, the only useful fact I'd
had from the pair of them. 'How might I find him?'

Hamble
pointed across the field behind him. 'Through there, an' down the
next cove.'

'Marvellous.'

I
was all primed to stride off when Duckcr's hand clapped down on my
shoulder. The sensation was becoming tiresome.

'Beggin'
your pardon, Mr 'amble,' he said, and I bridled that he should not be
begging my pardon. 'But you've a bull in that field.'

A
funny look crossed Hamble's face. 'Forgot that,' he said. 'Go by the
south field, then. Cliff'll take you down.'

I
nervously scanned the field he'd indicated. Lumbering beasts have
always worried me, unless on a plate with potatoes and gravy, and the
thought of a near miss with the bull was most unsettling.

This
way, however, seemed clear enough.

'Thank
you for your consideration, Mr Hamble,' I told him, pompous and
completely insincere. 'You've been most helpful.'

It
took us but a few minutes to cross the southerly field. Here the
breeze whipped about us, and I had to hold down my hat to keep from
losing it. The ground sloped towards the cliff, and the long grass
was thick with rainwater, but I was determined to be thorough in my
investigation. Dropping to my knees I crawled right to the very
brink, pushed my head over the edge and stared down.

I
hardly make a habit of peering over precipices, but even I could tell
that this was uncommonly sheer: the chalk face dropped almost plumb
to the shore. At its foot a few white boulders lay broken on the grey
shingle beach, and I realized with a start that they must once have
formed the very cliff-top where I now lay. A seagull's cry echoed
mournfully off the rock and cautiously I edged my way back a little.

'What
do you reckon?' I shouted over the wind to Ducker.

He
nodded. 'That's the place we found you, sir. An' the body.'

I
looked around, but I could see nothing to belie the coroner's view.
Any man who fell, or jumped, or got pushed off this place would fall
as straight as the cliff behind him. The tide was in well past where
it had been the previous morning, yet I doubted whether even now a
falling object could reach the water's edge. So aho broke his neck?
However much I puzzled at it, I could think of no answer save the
smugglers.

I
looked back over my shoulder at the Hambles' farmhouse: it was no
distance at all. I could see the buildings perfectly, see where
Hamble had left his pitchfork leaning against the front door, even
make out a hen clucking its way across the yard.

'Hamble
must have heard the shot,' I mumbled to myself. 'And there was at
least one of their lookouts up here.'

'Whose
lookouts, sir?' Ducker was in with his question before I'd realized I
had spoken aloud. 'An' what was the shot you was tellin' the farmer
about?'

Damn!
I'd completely forgotten that I had not yet mentioned my encounter
with the smugglers to Ducker, nor to Crawley nor to anyone, in fact.
I cursed myself for an idiot and tried to invent a plausible lie, but
Ducker's unyielding stare confounded me and I could think of nothing
that would do. Besides, I rationalized, the truth, inglorious though
it was, might as well come out. I could hardly afford to be seen
acting suspiciously, nor to have been concealing facts pertinent to
the murder. And I was sure that whatever Ducker saw would be relayed
immediately to Crawley.

As
best I remembered it, and as briefly as possible, I told the story.
Ducker listened without comment, though he must have inferred most of
it from what I had let slip already. Only after I had finished with a
lame explanation for my reticence did he offer any comment.

'So
the owlers was about that night.'

'Owlers?'

'Smugglers.
We'd been given the nod that they was makin' a landin' - that's why
we was there where we found you. Spent all night runnin' about in the
dark, an' all we caught was shadows. Though it sounds like we'd 'ave
'ad 'em clinked if it wasn't for your body.'

'M
y
body? Why, if you had arrived in time there might never have been a
body.' We glared angrily at each other, but he knew he could go no
further without risking charges of insubordination, and I had little
stomach for the quarrel. 'It would appear,' I offered by way of
conciliation, 'that we were both dislocated that night.'

'That
we was,' he agreed.

There
was nothing more to be learned from the cliff, and I did not like the
look of the heavy clouds massing behind us, so we pressed on along
the path, following where it swung sharply inland and descended
rapidly towards the shore. The noise of the surf grew as we clambered
down the thickly wooded hillside, until we emerged on the shoreline
to see rollers breaking over a shallow bay. It must have been a
well-protected spot, for the cliffs that cupped it were thick with
green vegetation, and a coarse sand was mixed in with the stones on
the beach. But apart from one tumbledown stone cottage, which could
not have been inhabited for fifty years at least, there were no signs
of life.

'He'll
be a wet man if he lives in that,' I observed, looking at the
roofless building and cursing Hamble for sending us on a fool's
errand.

I
was just steeling myself for the unhappy prospect of climbing back up
the slope when something caught Ducker's eye.