Death at Rottingdean (27 page)

“Look here, lad,” Kipling said sternly, “how do you know where the tunnel goes? And about Hooker, too, for that matter.”

“I know about the Reverend Hooker because Mr. Forsythe—he's the village schoolmaster—told me. And I know about the tunnels because I go...” He corrected himself. “I mean, I used to go down there with the other boys.”

“Used to?” Charles asked.

“When I first came here. Now, though, we're not supposed to. Mr. Tudwell told me to keep clear, and Ernie Shepherd got an awful beating from his father for going down there.”

“Because it's dangerous?” Kate asked. “I suppose there might be cave-ins, or you could get lost.”

“Because we're not supposed to know that the men are working down there,” Patrick replied off-handedly. “Last year, you see, they repaired the old tunnels and dug some new ones and made the underground cellar much bigger.”

“ ‘They'?” Charles asked. “Who was in charge of the excavation?”

The boy bit his lip. “Mr. Tudwell.” He raised his eyes. “But he's a
good
man,” he burst out. “Good to me, anyway. He ... he's looked after me.”

“I see,” Charles said. “Well, then. You were saying that you weren't to go into the tunnel.”

“Right. We weren't to know anything about it, but the end of it comes out in the cliff. It's behind a rock fall, but we found where they tipped the spoil out on the beach so that the waves could wash it away.”

“I don't suppose,” Charles said pensively, “that you did as you were told. About the tunnels, I mean.” He looked straight at Patrick, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “If I were your age, nothing would keep me out of them.”

“Yes, m‘lord,” Patrick said, unblinkingly. “I daresay that's true, m'lord.”

Kate suppressed a giggle.

Charles took out the scrap of paper on which the tunnel was drawn and showed it to Patrick. “This is a sketch of the tunnel system, isn't it? Is this accurate?”

The boy studied it for a moment, then nodded. “More or less, sir. This is where it comes out on the beach. And this”—he pointed—“is the new section.”

“Where's the underground cellar?” Charles asked.

“Here.” Patrick put his finger on the map, at a point not far from Seabrooke House. “Where this circle is.”

“How big is it?”

Patrick looked around. “Bigger than this room. The ceiling is a lot lower, though.”

“What are you getting at, Charles?” Kipling asked.

“I'd like to see this tunnel for myself,” Charles said. “Where can we get in without attracting any attention?”

“How about my cellar?” Kipling offered. “We'd have to unblock the passage, but it probably wouldn't be very much work. We'd have to do it, though,” he added ruefully, “without waking Carrie. She wouldn't be quite easy if she knew we were larking about in the old smugglers' tunnel.”

Patrick shook his head. “It would be easier from the cellar here, sir. There's an entry behind that big wooden rack where they keep the wine bottles. All you have to do is unhook a wire and push the rack to one side. There's a hasp on the door, but it isn't locked.”

“Of course there's an entry there!” Kate exclaimed, thinking of the broken brandy bottle. “But how do
you
know about it, Patrick?”

“Mrs. Portney is Mrs. Higgs's sister,” Patrick said. “I've helped her carry things up and down the stairs.” He looked at Charles. “If you want to see the tunnel and the cellar, sir, I could show you. We'd need lanterns, though.” He glanced at Charles's smoking jacket. “And you'd need to wear something else. It's filthy down there.”

“There are lanterns hanging on the wall in the back passage,” Kate said, standing up. “I'll get them, and we can all go.”

Charles gave her a firm look. “Not all of us,” he said. “You must stay here, Kate.”

“But that's not fair!” she protested. “I
want
to go. I've never been in a tunnel. And besides, Beryl Bardwell is considering putting the tunnels into a story, and she can't do that if she hasn't seen them.” She looked down at her full yellow skirt. “Wait while I change. It will only take a moment.”

“When this is all over,” Charles said, “you can climb into a pair of my trousers and you and Beryl can explore as much as you like. But tonight, we need someone to stand watch for us, in case there's difficulty.”

Patrick gave her a sympathetic look. “I'll be glad to go with you and this Beryl person,” he volunteered helpfully. “I can show you all kinds of interesting things. If you don't mind rats,” he added. “And bats, at the beach end.”

“Good,” Charles said. “Now, where will we find those lanterns?”

And with that, Kate had to be satisfied.

“I warned the old fox and his neighbours long ago that they'd come to trouble with their side-sellings and bye-dealings; but we cannot have half Sussex banged for a little gun-running.”

—RUDYARD KIPLING
Puck of Pook's Hill

 

 

 

 

 

“
A
re we ready?” Charles asked, checking his trousers pocket for his compass, the map, and a small notebook. Patrick seemed confident enough, and Charles doubted that either compass or map would be necessary, but it might be good to get a sense of where they were with reference to the aboveground features.

“Ready, by heaven!” Kipling exclaimed, lifting the lantern to peer into the dark opening in the cellar wall. “Yo-ho-ho and a dead man's chest. How Stevenson would have loved this adventure!”

As the boy had said, the wine rack was easily pushed aside and the plank door readily opened to reveal a narrow, low-ceilinged passageway.

Charles turned to Kate. “We'll leave the door open,” he said, “and one of the lanterns here with you. When do you expect Mrs. Portney to return?”

“I don't know,” Kate said, her worried look giving her away. “Do you really think this is a good idea? What if you're discovered? What if you meet some of the villagers in the tunnel?”

“We won‘t,” Patrick said in a reassuring tone. “It's such a beastly place that nobody ever comes down unless they're hauling or digging or something. And if they were doing that, we would hear 'em. Sound carries a long way in the tunnel. Sometimes you can hear people talking all the way at the other end.”

“Then I'll hear you,” Kate said, “if you call out.”

“You will,” Charles promised her. He suspected that they were in greater danger of discovery by Mrs. Portney than by anyone else. But he patted his jacket just the same, making sure that he had the pistol that the Chief Constable had lent him. He did not think there would be trouble, or he would not have allowed the boy to lead them; on the other hand, it was well to be armed.

By the time they had gone fifty yards or so in the direction of the beach, Charles had decided that the boy was right: the tunnel was a beastly place, indeed, a place for gnomes and earth-people. It was scarcely wider than Charles's shoulders, and too low for him to stand erect. The chalk walls were grayish-white and bore the marks of picks and chisels, like the toothmarks of some ancient beast, and here and there clusters of embedded flint nodules, glinted in the lantern light. The ceiling was covered with soot, where it had been blackened by the burning pitch of long-ago torches. At one point, a date had been hacked roughly into the rock, with soot rubbed into it so that it stood out against the whiteness.

“Seventeen-forty,” Charles read, and whistled to himself, thinking back to a time, a century and a half before, when desperate, angry men had cut this passageway, foot by laborious foot, through the solid chalk. He shivered, feeling ancient eyes on him, and thought that the rumors of ghosts in the cellars of Rottingdean might not be just idle gossip. The air was damp and still and cold, like the air in an icehouse. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped, the sound magnified by the rock walls.

“There's a section that crosses the drain along the High Street,” Patrick said, just above a whisper. Being shorter, he was walking more comfortably. “That's where the water is running. But mostly it's dry.”

“I must say,” Kipling whispered hoarsely, from the rear, “there's not much in the way of elbow room. How do they move the goods in such a tight space?”

“In pushcarts and on sleds,” Patrick said. “They've built wood ones that just fit. You'll see them in the big cellar.” They walked in silence for a moment, then he added, “There's a sort of junction just ahead. We go to the left. It's not far after that.”

Walking behind Patrick, Charles felt himself fascinated by the boy, who seemed to know everything and moved so effortlessly and without fear in this dark place. There was more to this bright, inquisitive lad than there was to the average village boy, that was certain. It was a damned shame that Patrick's father was so far away and took so little interest in his son. The boy deserved better. What's more, he was at a vulnerable age, in a vulnerable position. Without further formal schooling and under the influence of these enterprising village fellows with their get-rich schemes, it was likely that he would follow in their foot-steps. Better to get him out of the village, into something more settled and with greater promise. He would talk to Kipling. Perhaps, between them, they could come up with something suitable.

Patrick held up his hand, halting their forward progress. “Here's the junction,” he said. “The big cellar is to the left. If we keep straight on, we will come to the beach.”

Charles peered ahead. The tunnel was wider and more obviously traveled, and there were deep scratches in the chalk walls and gouges in the floor, as if something heavy had been shoved along. He looked down at the crude map. “There seem to be several branches. Are they still open?”

“Only one,” Patrick said. “The branch that goes to the cellar of the White Horse. It's used quite often, as it is the only entrance at that end, except for the opening onto the beach.”

Charles took the lantern from Kipling and held it up, looking to the right. That tunnel was narrower and much lower. He would have to bend double to enter it.

“Where does that lead?”

“To the cellar at the Black Horse,” Patrick said. “Mostly what goes that way are small wooden barrels of spirits. They rope them together and drag them.” He grinned knowingly. “Perry organizes that part. He owns the Black Horse.”

No doubt Perry organized that part very expeditiously, Charles thought—moving the liquor straight from the ship to the cellar of the alehouse, where it was let down. As he understood it, spirits were usually smuggled over-proof, and were diluted to bring them to a strength that was both drinkable and profitable. Perhaps some letting down had occurred in the cellar at Seabrooke House, and might account for the spilled brandy.

“And who organizes the rest of it?” Charles asked.

“Captain Smith always managed the ship—signaling, and all that.”

“Who oversees the transfer of the goods?”

The boy looked cornered. “Mr. Tudwell,” he muttered at last.

“And the distribution? That is, moving the goods to their final destination.”

The boy did not answer.

Charles nodded. “Well, then, shall we carry on?”

They turned to the left. Fifty paces later, the tunnel widened suddenly into a square, cavelike room, carved out of the chalk. The lantern flickered eerily against the white walls, casting grotesquely misshappen shadows, and the flint nodules winked like wise eyes. Boxes, crates, and small barrels were stacked against the walls, the lids stamped with their contents, although there were no attached bills of lading. Charles stooped to read. Tobacco, fabric, lace, tea—it was no wonder Kate had been able to purchase in Rottingdean the same goods she might have bought at an exclusive shop in London. All this merchandise, stored here against the day when it would be hauled out and distributed for sale. He glanced around. Still, though, it was a very large room, not even partially filled, and obviously constructed at great effort.

“This is newly excavated?” he asked Patrick.

“Most of it. There was a smaller cellar here to start with, maybe twelve feet by twelve feet or so. The rest was dug last summer.”

“How many people were involved?” Kipling asked. “It looks like it would take an army to dig it out.”

“Most of the men in the village were in it one way or another, either digging or hauling the rock to the beach.”

“Last summer,” Charles said thoughtfully. “Is that when the smuggling began in earnest?”

The boy nodded. “Trunky Thomas did some before then, but he was the only one. His father was a smuggler before him, you see.”

Kipling was looking around. “What strikes me as strange,” he said in an amazed tone, “is the sheer size of this room. Imagine the rock that had to be moved. And think of the appalling work involved!”

“And yet,” Charles said, “it's not much used.” He turned to Patrick. “Has it ever been filled to its capacity?”

The boy shook his head.

Charles spent the next few moments looking at the crates of stores and finding very little of real interest. At the back of the room, however, he came on something vastly more intriguing. A dozen empty crates were stacked precariously high, and behind them, there was a shadowy opening in the wall.

“Give a hand here, Kipling,” he said. “Let's move these.”

A few moments later, they had uncovered a shallow alcove, empty except for three small wooden crates. They had been hidden, Charles thought. Why?