Death at Rottingdean (32 page)

“Trunky's right,” John said. “Nobody's ‘eard nothin'. It's all clear for t'night.”

Harry smarted under the suggestion that Trunky's intelligence network was superior to his, but he said nothing. For all he knew, Trunky was right—but that did not dispel the nagging feeling, growing stronger by the minute, that they were being watched. They walked the rest of the way to their signaling station, the old farmhouse on the cliff, arriving shortly after eight o'clock. It was full dark.

When the flint-walled farmhouse was built two hundred years before, it had stood a safe distance from the cliff. But the ocean had eaten away the land, and half of the building had vanished into the surf below. Open to the sea on one side, with three partial walls still standing to shield the lanterns from sight, it was an excellent signaling post.

Harry shuttered his lantern so that his eyes would grow accustomed to the dark and sat down on a fallen timber, staring seaward. The wind was gustier now and the lightning flickers were brighter, and he began to wonder whether the ship captain would respond to their signal or would decide to abort the landing. The three lanterns instructed the ship to put in at Rottingdean, where the villagers were waiting to unload it; if they showed only one lantern, the ship would shift course for Saltdean Gap, a quarter of a mile to the east, and the men would hurry to meet it. Two lanterns would send it even further east, toward Newhaven.

The three of them sat in an edgy silence for the better part of an hour. Once or twice Harry thought he heard something—a footfall, a scattering of rock—and got up to investigate but found nothing. Then John pointed to a single brief flash of light perhaps a mile offshore. “There 'tis!” he exclaimed. “Ship's light.”

“Good thing, too,” Trunky growled. “I was beginnin' to wonder if plans 'ad changed an' nobody told us.”

Relieved that the ship had gotten this far in without incident, Harry stood up and prepared to unshutter his lantern. “Ready with your lanterns,” he directed briskly. “We'll flash on the count of three, all together.” He began the count. “One... two ... three.” On the final count, he raised the shutter, sending out a gleam of light into the blackness.

The ship responded with another single flash. For a second, Harry stared, not quite taking it in. Then, “They've got it wrong!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “They're going to Saltdean! Didn't they see your lanterns?” He turned to his companions. “We'll have to repeat the signal.”

But Trunky's and John's lanterns were still on the ground, shuttered, and their faces told the story. They had intentionally botched the signal.

“Wot d‘ye think you're doin'?” Harry demanded angrily. “Why would ye send th' ship to—”

“Take him!” Trunky commanded. Lansdowne seized both of Harry's arms from behind, pushing him to his knees and swiftly lashing his wrists.

“You bastards!” Harry cried. “I trusted you, John! I—” Struggling furiously, trying to get to his feet, he felt the cold hardness of a gun barrel pressed behind his ear.

“Shut yer mouth,” Trunky said. “There's a good chap.” He pushed Harry over on his side. “Tie ‘is feet, too, John, an' stuff yer 'andkerchief in 'is mouth. Lively now, th' men are waitin' for us.”

“But why Saltdean?” Harry demanded, as John whipped a stout cord around his ankles. “It's far ‘nough to th' tunnel as 'tis. Why—”

“The tunnel?” Landsdowne laughed harshly. “We ain't usin' th' tunnel tonight, ‘Arry. We're takin' th' goods an' movin' 'em east, along th' coast road to New'aven. There ain't like to be any coast guards to th' east.”

“John,” Trunky snarled, “you're talkin' too much. 'E don't need to know our business.”

“You blighter!” Harry kicked out with his bound feet. “When I get free o' this, I'll show ye wot th' business is all about! It won't just be me, neither. Th' investors will be after you.”

“ ‘Oo needs th' investors?” Trunky's tone was surly. “We'll make more on our own than wi' them.”

“But they paid plenty o' money for wot's on that ship,” Harry cried, “an' ye're stealin' from ‘em.” He appealed to John. “ ‘Ave a care wot ye're doin‘, John, ol' friend. D'ye think they'll take this lyin' down? D'ye think—”

“I said
shut up,”
Trunky said savagely. A second later, Harry felt the shock of a blow to his temple and he was lost in black unconsciousness.

... In my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will—
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside ...

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
As You Like It

 

 

 

 

 

W
hile Amelia laid the tea things, Kate paced impatiently up and down in front of the drawing-room fire. Shortly, Charles arrived from Brighton, having dropped Kipling off at The Elms, but he had little to offer in the way of suggestions about finding Patrick, only a fierce exclamation of dismay.

“Kidnapped! But who the devil would—?”

“The photographer I saw by the barn was the same man we talked with on the Quarter Deck on Saturday,” Kate said intently. “Gray bowler, gray knickerbockers—I'm sure of it. And Patrick recognized him too. I don't know how that man is connected to this awful business, Charles, but I'm sure he's taken the boy. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

Hurriedly, Charles finished the last of his sandwich. “Describe the man to me, Kate. Tell me everything that you remember about him.”

Kate closed her eyes and thought back to the encounter. “Gray bowler, gray knickerbockers,” she repeated. “I can't recall anything about his face, except that he had very pale blue eyes. He spoke with a Continental accent, French, perhaps. And he wore polished black boots. I remember that, because he clicked his heels when he saluted, in a military way.” She frowned and opened her eyes. “Somehow, that detail seems important, but I can't think why. Anyway, he made some sort of remark about the natives killing themselves by jumping off the cliff. And he said he liked Rottingdean because it was so quaint and peaceful. He said he was looking for accommodations in this vicinity.”

Charles sat silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then he leaned forward, his eyes alight. “A Continental accent? A military salute?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he clicked his heels together, like ... like that antiquarian we met on the road to Black Rock. The same antiquarian that Patrick overheard talking to Harry Tudwell in the stable office.” She stared at him. “Charles! The photographer and the antiquarian—they're the same man!”

Charles took her hand in both of his. “Kate, my dear—”

She jerked her hand back. “Charles, you've got to believe me. I know it doesn't make sense, but—”

“I
do
believe you, Kate,” Charles replied. “You have given me the one clue that just might make sense out of this whole damned muddle! If this photographer-cum-antiquarian has taken Patrick, it can only be because the boy can identify him. And if his identity is
that
important to the success of the game...” His voice trailed off and he sat, thinking.

Kate bit her lip. “Charles, I'm frightened. That man—do you think he will harm Patrick?”

Charles was grim. “I won't lie to comfort you, my dear. Yes. I fear that he will harm the boy. He's already killed one man. His future success in this country depends on his real identity—whatever that is—remaining concealed. He doesn't want anyone to know his name or who he is, and if Patrick can tell—”

“Then we must
find
him!” Kate cried. “We must find the boy!”

“I'm sorry, Kate. I can't help you.” Charles looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “I have to be on the cliffs in a half-hour. I have a feeling that tonight we'll get to the bottom of all this, one way or another, and everything will come to light.” He paused, his eyes on her face. “I suppose you've told the constable that Patrick has gone missing.”

“Of course, but he's useless,” Kate said bitterly. “Aunt Georgie and I talked to several of the villagers, too, about organizing a search, but they refused to be involved. She has gone back to North End House with a sick headache. I think she has given up.” Kate bit her lip. “How about Rud? Perhaps he could help.” But help
how?
she cried out to herself. She already knew that it would be fruitless to search the downs, for she was sure that the man had taken Patrick somewhere else. Where else—?

“I need Kipling with me tonight.” Charles stood and touched her face tenderly. “I am so very sorry, Kate. I know how deeply you feel about this. Please, have another cup of tea—or better yet, a glass of brandy. Try to be calm, and for heaven's sake, don't do anything rash. In fact, I am giving you an order: you are to stay in this house for the rest of the night. As soon as this venture is over, I promise we'll turn the whole village out for a search.”

“But by then it will be too late,” Kate said despairingly. “And it is all my fault! If I hadn't fallen asleep, if I'd kept a closer eye on him—” She began to weep.

In answer, Charles tipped up the decanter, poured a glass of brandy, and set it in front of her. Then he kissed her and was gone.

Kate was not a woman to yield easily to tears. She wept only for a few minutes, until it came to her that she was weeping more for herself than for Patrick, and more out of guilt than sorrow. Then she stopped weeping and swallowed the brandy Charles had poured for her, feeling its warmth go all through her. She sat back in the chair, leaning her head on the cushion, thinking. She refused to consider the possibility that Patrick was dead. He had to be alive, somewhere—and somewhere close by, most likely. If Beryl Bardwell had created a plot in which a child was kidnapped, where would the villain hide him? The old windmill, perhaps? The tunnel?

The tunnel! She jumped to her feet just as Amelia came into the room to clear away the tea things. “Forget the dishes, Amelia,” she commanded. “You can clear up later. Just now, I need you to help me change.”

“Yes, milady,” Amelia said, blinking at the unexpected urgency in her mistress's voice. “You're going out this evening?”

“Yes,” Kate said. “Yes, indeed. I am going out.” She paused, frowning. She was not afraid to go by herself, but if there were difficulties, she might be grateful for help. And she would certainly require a light of some sort, and a weapon. And yet she needed to move swiftly, without being encumbered. “Is Lawrence available?”

“Why, yes, ma'am,” Amelia said, her eyes opening wide. “ ‘E's in th' kitchen wi' Mrs. Portney, ‘aving 'is tea.”

“Good,” Kate said with satisfaction. “Lawrence can go with me. Now, come upstairs quickly and help me find some clothes.”

“Surely, milady,” Amelia said, following Kate into the hall. “Your green silk is fresh pressed. Will you be wearing it?”

Kate smiled. “I think not, Amelia. Stout boots and woolen trousers and a dark waistcoat will be more suited to the occasion.” To Amelia's gasp, she replied firmly, “Now, come, and I shall tell you what I plan to do.”

The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

—OSCAR WILDE
The Importance of Being Earnest

 

 

 

 

 

H
arry swam up out of the blackness, pain hammering like an angry smith at the anvil of his skull. He was face down. His arms, pulled tight behind him, felt as if they had been wrenched out of their sockets, and his wrists and ankles were bound with fire. His nose was stopped with dirt, his mouth stuffed with a wad of cloth, and he could scarcely breathe. Under the roaring that filled his ears, he thought he heard voices. He did not open his eyes. If they were going to kill him, let them get it over and done with. He didn't want to see the gun.

“Tudwell.” Someone shook him roughly, rolled him over on his back, toed him with a boot.

“Tudwell!”

Hands yanked the wad of cloth out of his mouth. A torrent of icy water spilled across his face. He choked and gasped and his eyes popped wide open.

Two faces and a lantern loomed over him out of the dark.

“Ah, he's coming around,” Rudyard Kipling said briskly. “Come on, Harry. Time to wake up.”

“Snap out of it, man,” said a deeper voice. It was the toff with the fancy hat and the creased trousers, except now he wore a canvas jacket and a pair of old tweeds. He didn't look quite so toffish, somehow. “We want you to tell us what's going on.”

Harry closed his eyes, trying giddily to sort through the dire misadventures that had befallen him. It was true that he had been deceived and double-crossed, but that was all in the line of work, so to speak, all part of the game. Betraying his betrayers to an outsider, to a representative of the Crown—that was a far darker dishonor than any that had been done to him. He could not bring himself to it. He opened his eyes. In the sky above, lightning flickered. A cold wind was blowing, bringing with it the first spits of rain.

“I took a fall,” he muttered.

“And tied and gagged yourself into the bargain.” Kipling sounded half-amused. “Quite a trick.”

“Come, come, Harry,” Lord Sheridan said sharply. “We've been watching. We saw what your two compatriots did to you, and we know it is part of a plan. We want to know what they're aiming to do.”

Harry was sullenly silent.

Lord Sheridan sighed. “Look here, Tudwell. There is more to this than you know. These investors you believe to be backing your enterprise—they are not what you think them to be. In fact, if I'm correct, there are no investors. You have been deceived, Harry.” His voice dripped scorn. “You have been a fool.”