Death at Rottingdean (22 page)

Patrick felt a warmth within him, where before had been only an icy chill. “She's not a wicked woman,” he said.

Kipling smiled faintly. “I doubt you would tell me if she were. Ill-treated children have a notion of what they are likely to get if they betray the secrets of a prison-house before they are clear of it.” He cocked his head, his eyes sharp and searching. “But you don't fancy St. Aubyn's?”

“No, sir,” Patrick said.

“Well, I can't blame you for that,” Kipling replied. “I have met Masters Stanford and Lang, and found them wanting. Can't say much for the boys, either. But that's not the only public school in the country, you know. I went to Westward Ho! and it was great fun. I'm currently writing a story about some of the things that went on there.” He chuckled. “Dead cats and the like.”

Patrick wanted to say that Aunt Georgie had offered no choices, but feared to sound ungrateful. Whatever other possibilities there might be, they seemed as remote as a trip to the South Seas or a journey to the moon.

Mr. Kipling stood for a moment longer. “Well, cheer up, old man. We'll see what's to be done.” He turned on his heel and left, going back through the apple orchard toward The Elms.

And this was why Patrick was standing alone at the brick incinerator when the fuzzy-whiskered antiquarian came striding resolutely up the path toward the stables, his eyes masked with his smoked-glass eye preservers, his pack clanking like medieval armor, his waterproof flying out behind him like a magician's cloak. He did not see Patrick, who stared after him, frowning perplexedly, until the man disappeared around the corner of the stableyard in the direction of Harry Tudwell's office. He walked with the air of a man who knew exactly where he was going, who he expected to see, and what he aimed to accomplish.

Patrick watched for one minute more. Still frowning, he turned back to the brick incinerator, gave the fire a last poke to be certain that it was safely contained, and left it to burn by itself.

The game is afoot!

—SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange”

 

 

 

F
or the better part of the last hour, Harry Tudwell had been sitting at his desk in the office of Hawkham Stables, first drumming his fingers, then twiddling a pencil, then twirling his watch chain, all quite unconsciously. Harry was lost in thought. After what had happened the night before, he had a great deal to think about.

The most urgent matter, of course, was Foxy's murder, which was difficult enough to deal with in and of itself, never mind the other complications. Harry had taken his orders from the coast guard captain, who was in close communication with both the investors and the suppliers and knew precisely when each shipment would arrive, what it would contain, and where it was bound once it left Rottingdean. Now that Foxy was dead, where would Harry's instructions come from? How would he know when to expect the shipments? How would he know what to do with the goods? Troublesome complications in what had been an otherwise sublimely smooth operation.

With a dark look, Harry picked up the pencil and threw it, hard, across the room. There were other complications, as well, even more troublesome. Trunky Thomas's indictment of him was utter nonsense, and Harry was fired by the righteous wrath of a man who has been maliciously and wrongfully accused of a murder he did not commit. But at the Black Horse last night, the sheer volume of Trunky's accusations had overridden Harry's surprised protestations of innocence, and Harry knew that some of the others were inclined to side with Trunky. They were bound to talk among themselves and with other villagers, and Harry would soon become the
de facto
killer—not only of Foxy Smith, but also of George Radford, as well. When the authorities came to investigate, it would be very easy to offer him up, a convenient scapegoat for the sins of the village. It would be very easy, in fact, to put forward an eyewitness, somebody who claimed to have seen Harry do the deed.

This thought made Harry shudder, and he got up and began to pace back and forth in front of his table. To forestall such a disagreeable eventuality, he had to find out who had shot Foxy Smith. Was it Trunky, attempting to insinuate himself between Harry and Foxy, or Harry and the investors? Was it one of the others, angry at Foxy's high-handed way of doing business, or at the captain himself, who had never gotten along with anybody in the village? Or had the killing been arranged by the investors, who were frightened by Radford's death and anxious to back out of their arrangement with the village? And how was Foxy's murder connected to that of the younger coast guard? Had the same person killed both men? To protect himself, did he have to discover
two
murderers?

Harry went to stand before the window, hands behind his back, staring at the bustle of men around the smithy, behind them a boy leading a pair of horses to exercise. The most pressing problem of all, unfortunately, had to be solved immediately. What was he to do about tomorrow night's shipment, which Harry felt had to be signaled off, and which Trunky and the others insisted on signaling
in?
How could he determine what the investors expected him to do? How might he—

The door opened with a creak and Harry turned. A slender man with fuzzy gray side-whiskers, so tall that he had to duck his head to clear the doorjamb, had entered the room, without the formality of knocking. The staff in his hand and the canvas pack on his back, from which hung a variety of clanking implements, gave him the appearance of an old-fashioned peddler of pots and pans. His smoked-glass eye preservers, in conjunction with his waterproof cloak, made him look like a masked black bat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tudwell,” the man said, in a deep voice colored by a slightly gutteral Continental accent.

“Good afternoon,” Harry returned, feeling that he knew the man but unable, momentarily, to recall his name. Then, in the same instant, he remembered: this was the eccentric whom he had seen wandering about the downs on occasion in the last several summers, a foreigner with a peculiar taste for odds and ends of stones and bones. He had never known the vagabond's name, for the man seldom came into the village and had never required the stable's services, obviously preferring to do his perambulating on foot. Well, Harry thought, measuring him with an expert eye, it would not be advisable to hire out any of the better animals to the fellow. If he wanted to ride, he would have to be satisfied with old Jupiter, who was not so nimble-footed that he could get anyone into trouble. He was about to ask if a horse was what was wanted, when the stranger surprised him with an unusual question.

“Are you expecting any other visitor? I do not wish that we should be disturbed.”

“No,” Harry said, nonplussed. “That is, I—” He frowned. “Look here, sir,” he said. “Can I help you?”

The stranger seemed amused. “No, no, I rather think it is the other way around, my good Mr. Tudwell. I am here to help
you.”

The mysterious visitor waited while Harry digested this unexpected remark, then touched the fingers of his left hand to his forehead, as a magician might, pretending to see the unseen. As he raised his hand, his implements jangled.

“Just now,” he said, “just as I entered, you were asking yourself how you might contact certain gentlemen—gentlemen who have invested a great deal of money in this village, gentlemen with whom you have lost contact as a result of the untimely demise of one of your confederates. You were wondering how you should deal with a certain business transaction which has been scheduled for tomorrow evening.” He lowered his hand and smiled, stretching thin lips across his teeth. “I am here to answer those questions, Harry Tudwell, and to inform you of your good fortune.”

Harry recoiled, dumfounded. This clanking apparition obviously knew more of his business than he did. “What ... what good fortune?” he demanded. He smelled a trap. But if it was a trap, Harry knew with a sinking heart, he was already well and truly caught.

“Why, your advancement in rank,” the man said. He gave Harry a jovial grin, the effect of which was partially compromised by the fact that the expression in his eyes could not be read. “The unfortunate death of Captain Smith has left a gap, shall we say, a broken link in the chain. You, sir, are to fill that gap. You have moved one link up the chain. You have been promoted, as it were.”

Harry pulled in his breath. “ ‘Oo the devil
are
you?” he cried, trying to disguise the stark fear that clutched at his innards. “Wot business do you have, coming in here and—”

“I?” The stranger laughed with genuine amusement. “I am the next link in the chain, Mr. Tudwell. You will report to me.”

“Your name?” Harry was conscious that his voice was not too steady. “Wot's your name?”

“My name, sir,” the man said, “is unimportant. Perhaps more to the point, it would be dangerous for you to know it. What one does not know, of course, one cannot reveal, even under extreme duress.” The light glinted from the smoked lenses that masked his eyes.

Harry was beginning to feel like a small chip of wood being sucked willy-nilly into a drain hole. His ears were roaring. “But ... but if I don't know your name,” he managed, half-gasping, “or where you may be reached, 'ow am I to ... to contact you?”

“You are
not
to contact me.” The man spoke sternly, as if he were a schoolmaster and Harry a disobedient boy. “It would be hazardous to try, and this is a game where the risks run high. Your advancement, Mr. Tudwell, is of more consequence than you can know, and the game is larger than you can think. When it is required, I shall contact you. Is that clearly understood?”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to think it through logically. Obviously, the investors, whoever they were, were no fools. They had a system, well worked-out, well-organized, carefully scheduled. He had to try to understand their system so that he could use it rather than be used by it. But he must not allow himself to be rushed into any agreements. He firmed his voice.

“I'll need time to think about this. I can't commit m'self at th' moment. There are other factors to be considered, other—”

“There is no time,” the man said. His tone was conversational but the words knife-edged. “If you are not inclined to accept immediately, I shall walk down the High Street to call on a certain Mr. Thomas, who, I am reliably informed, has already expressed a great deal of enthusiasm for this particular position. If Mr. Thomas should be pleased to step up in rank, you will become, shall we say, superfluous.”

Harry stared at him.

“Superfluous, yes,” the man repeated, with a melancholy sigh, as if he rather liked Harry and wished it were otherwise. “In the same way that your unfortunate predecessor became ... superfluous.”

Harry gulped. A sudden intuition, as sharp and persuasive as the point of a dagger, told him that this man was Foxy Smith's killer, and that if he failed to do as he was told, he would go the way Foxy had gone. He felt himself being pulled into the vortex of the drain, the light closing down to a pinpoint over his head, the roaring in his ears almost deafening.

“I ... see,” he said weakly. “Well, in that case—”

“You have chosen very wisely, Mr. Tudwell.” The man lifted his head. “I am pleased that we have arrived at a meeting of the minds.” His voice became brisk. “Now, about the transaction that has been scheduled for tomorrow evening. The investors have decided that, under the circumstances, there is a very great danger of detection.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Right.” His mouth was dry, and his voice came out in a squeak. He swallowed, and put more force behind his words, anxious to recoup any status he might have lost by appearing tentative. “I told 'em at last night's meeting that we should suspend operations. I said it wasn't safe, with th' possibility of an inquiry an' all.”

The smile came and went quickly, although the smoked lenses hid the man's eyes. “A very intelligent caution, Mr. Tudwell. However—”

“They didn't like it,” Harry said. “They want t' go ahead with th' landing.”

The man sighed. “Unfortunately, we
must
go ahead with the landing. The arrangements have been made, the ship has sailed, and we cannot alter our plan. However, I must emphasize the importance of caution. Be certain that you have people you can trust.”

“That's th' trouble,” Harry muttered. “I don't know as I can trust anybody.”

“It is time,” the man said severely, “that your troops learned to follow orders. You must see to it that they understand and obey. Whatever Captain Smith's faults, he was not a man to brook any disobedience in his subordinates. In that way, he was quite satisfactory. He may have gone too far, but—” He broke off. “But that is neither here nor there.”

Harry frowned, seeing another difficulty. “Th' trouble is, they're not troops. I'm not sure exac'ly 'ow I can force 'em to—”

“The method, Mr. Tudwell, is not important. I leave it to you to find an appropriate way to compel their complete cooperation, bearing in mind that the operation is everything.” He pulled himself up.
“Everything,
you understand.”

“Yessir,” Harry said, although for the life of him, he could not think how he could compel Trunky Thomas to cooperate.

“Well, then. You will take your party to the position on the cliff tomorrow night. When the ship appears and shows the signal, you will answer with the appropriate designation for a landing at Rottingdean. You know the code?”

“Three lanterns,” Harry muttered.

“Very good. Three lanterns it is. One more thing. Tomorrow morning, a traveling case will arrive here in your office. Guard it well, for it is of great importance. After dark has fallen and before you take your position on the cliff, stow the traveling case in the first bathing machine and apply this lock to the hasp. I have the second key.” He handed Harry a padlock and a key. “Further, I wish you to see that a skiff is pulled up on the beach, near to the bathing machines.”