Death at Rottingdean (34 page)

“We're wasting time,” Charles said. “We have to find the foreigner. Where is the ship putting in?”

Tudwell was struggling desperately to get command of himself. “Trunky an' John—they ... they signaled th' ship t' put in at Saltdean, a quarter mile to th' east of ‘ere. But th' foreigner—'e's not with 'em.”

Charles regarded him suspiciously. “How do you know?”

“Because that wasn't part of ‘is plan.” Tudwell licked his lips. “ ‘E thought th' ship was comin' in ‘ere, ye see. Won't 'e be bloody surprised when ‘e figures out that it's 'eaded east.”

“Where is he?” Kipling asked.

“Cut me loose, an' I'll tell ye,” Tudwell cried. Charles jerked Tudwell to his feet, pulled out his pocket knife, and slashed the cord that held the man's wrists. “Tell,” he snapped, and pushed the point of the knife into Tudwell's gut.

“Ow!” Tudwell cringed from the knife point. “ ‘E's gone t' th' Gap.”

“The Gap?” Kipling asked, surprised. The lantern glinted off his gold-rimmed glasses. “Why would he go there?”

Tudwell was babbling again. “T' get ‘is travelin' case, ye see. 'E sent it t' me this afternoon, with instructions t' lock it in one o' th' bathin' machines. ‘E also said t' pull up a skiff on th' beach, so I reckon 'e's plannin' t' row out t' th' ship.” He rolled his eyes, and the whites showed. “Ye don't think ‘e'd take th' boy with 'im, do ye?”

Kipling picked up the lantern and turned away. “Come on, Sheridan. There's no time to lose!”

Tudwell picked up his own lantern and took several unsteady steps after Kipling. Charles put his hand on the man's shoulder and swung him around. “One more thing, Tudwell,” he said grimly. “Mr. Kipling and I are both armed. If either of us even suspects a double-cross, you're a dead man. Is that quite clear?”

“Clear,” Tudwell gasped. “I'm with ye. I swear!”

“Right,” Charles said. “Come on, then.”

The three of them started downhill toward the town at a brisk trot. In just over five minutes, they were at the intersection of the coast road and the High Street, across from the White Horse, which showed only one light in the very back of the building. They paused to catch their breath, then turned left toward the Gap.

The street was deserted and the shops and cottages dark. There was no sound but the whistle of the wind through the chimney pots, and nothing stirred save a black dog, nosing through a rubbish bin for his dinner. Charles reflected wryly that the villagers—those who were not at Saltdean, ready to unload the ship—must have gone early to bed, prudently extinguishing their lamps so that no light would be cast on the smugglers at work and turning their faces to the wall to avoid any glimpse of them.

He took the lead, and with Kipling in the rear and Tudwell between them, they slipped through the shadows down the High Street to the stone wall overlooking the beach. The four bathing machines had been pulled up almost under the cliff's overhang, and a skiff was beached on the shingle not far away.

Tudwell set down the lantern. “There!” he exclaimed, pointing breathlessly to the empty skiff. “ ‘E's still 'ere!”

“Shutter the lanterns,” Charles said. When they were dark, he waited a moment, his eyes becoming accustomed to the stormy night. Seaward, lightning danced and the angry peal of thunder echoed from the cliffs. To the right were the steps to the beach and the shadowy cat's cradle of the pilings and trusses that supported the iron pier, the terminus of the Volk's electric railway. Thirty yards out, perched on its spindly legs high above the waves, was the boxy shape of the Daddy Longlegs, moored for the night. The wind was freshening and the seas were coming short and hard, white-capped. If the man intended to row out in this weather, Charles thought, he would have his work cut out for him—particularly since the ship was lying off Saltdean, rather than straight out from the Gap. But perhaps the storm had decided him to abandon his plans and sent him inland, instead. If so, had he taken Patrick with him? Or had he already disposed of the only person who had seen him in three of his disguises?

Charles turned to Tudwell. “Do you have the key to the bathing machine?”

Tudwell hastily went through his pockets. “ ‘Ere 'tis,” he said, handing it over. “Th' case is in th' first machine. 'E gave me th' padlock an' kept th' other key.” He frowned. “Ye're not goin' down there, are ye?”

Kipling spoke in a tense voice. “If the man is here, Sheridan, he's armed. He could be anywhere along the cliff, or in the rocks—or out there in that infernal contraption. You'll be a sitting duck on the open beach.”

“Nobody's going to get a good shot in the dark. If anybody fires, you cut loose with that revolver of yours. That'll give me time to find cover.”

Kipling shook his head stubbornly. “Whatever is in the traveling case, it can't be worth the risk.”

“We have to know whether the case is there,” Charles said. “If it is, we'll wait for him to pick it up. If not—”

If not, what then? What if the man had already retrieved his traveling case, taken the boy, and driven up to Falmer to catch the morning train? Or what if he'd picked up the case, but disposed of the boy? He could make better time and be less easily spotted if he were traveling alone. Master of disguise as he was, it wasn't likely they would ever catch up to him. Charles pushed the thought away. There was no point speculating before he checked the bathing machine.

Kipling bent close to his ear. “This could be a beastly trap,” he said, low and urgent. He jerked his head at Tudwell. “How do we know we can trust this man?”

“We don't,” Charles replied. “It might be a good idea to gag him so he can't give an alarm.”

“Right,” Kipling said, and whipped out his pocket handkerchief. “I'd better retie his hands, too, or he'll have the damn thing off.”

Tudwell groaned. “I'm
with
ye,” he protested.

“We'll just make sure of that,” Kipling said roughly, and went to work.

Charles took out the Webley revolver the chief constable had lent him the day before and double-checked to be sure that all six chambers were loaded. “Cover me, Kipling.” He nodded at Tudwell. “And keep a sharp eye on him. You're right—this could be a trap.”

It had been more than a dozen years since Charles had found himself under fire, yet in this moment of stress, the training and experience all came back to him. He took the steps quickly, then dashed to his left, aiming for the shadow of the undercliff. His back to the chalk face, he moved cautiously along it, boots crunching on the rocks, gun at the ready. He reached the bathing machine and glanced both ways, up and down the beach. Nothing moved except the rhythmic waves, cresting a few feet out and breaking heavily on the shingle. But the man he was watching for could be hiding among the jumble of rock slabs farther to the left, sighting down the barrel of a repeating rifle or ready to blaze away at him with that murderous handgun. Charles had been only partially truthful when he'd assured Kipling that the dark would protect him. An alert, attentive man whose eyes were accustomed to the dark could see the shadow of a movement, even on a pitch-black night. Armed with that Mauser, he had only to aim and squeeze the trigger.

But Charles had to take the chance. In a low, crouching run, making himself as small a target as possible, he moved swiftly out of the shadows to the bathing machine, slipped the key into the padlock and turned it, lifting the lock from the hasp and swinging the door open. On the floor just inside sat a medium-sized leather traveling case with a handle. Their man was still here.

Charles slid the case out onto the shingle. It was obviously full, but not overly heavy. The gold-colored metal clasps were closed and locked, and there was no identification anywhere—no name, no initials, no shipping labels. He closed the door, refastened the padlock in the hasp, and picked up the case. With a final, quick survey of all the landward approaches, he retraced his steps. A minute later, he was with Kipling and Tudwell.

“Good show, old chap!” Kipling exulted. “What do we do now?”

“We move to a spot on the cliff just over the bathing machines,” Charles said, “and wait for our man to pick up his case. I don't think it will be long—not if he means to get out to the ship before the storm breaks.”

They repositioned themselves. “He surely wouldn't be fool enough to row out in this storm,” Kipling said when they were settled behind the low stone wall. “It would be suicide!”

“Our man is daring,” Charles replied. “In pursuit of his dream, he's used to taking risks that would turn an ordinary man's hair white. And you know yourself, Kipling, the line between boldness and foolhardiness is hard to draw.”

“Ah, yes,” Kipling muttered. “Hard indeed. Hard, hard, indeed.”

There are some frauds so well conducted that it would be stupidity not to be deceived by them.

—CHARLES CALEB COLTON
Lacon,
1825

 

 

 

 

 

T
hey didn't have long to wait. Off to the left, where the slabs of fallen chalk tumbled almost out to the tide line, Charles saw a low, bobbing light. A lantern! As the light grew closer, he glimpsed two shadowy figures, a tall, cloaked figure walking behind a smaller one. The smaller was carrying the lantern.

Charles let out an involuntary breath of relief. Tudwell grunted excitedly and swiveled his shoulders in a pantomime of speech. “It's the boy!” Kipling whispered gleefully.

Charles tensed, waiting until the pair were almost directly beneath them. Then he stood, raising his pistol. “Halt!” he commanded loudly.
“Bewegen Sie sich nicht!”

The cloaked man stopped in midstride, as if unbelieving. Then he put out his left hand, seized Patrick's shoulder, and turned in their direction, keeping the boy between himself and them. “Lord Sheridan?” he inquired. “You are not going to make the effort to carry out this conversation in German, I hope. That would be too tedious. And silly, as well. We can transact our business quite adequately in English.”

A flicker of lightning lit the scene, and Charles saw that the man held a Mauser in his right hand. The barrel was pressed against the back of Patrick's head.

“My God,” Kipling exclaimed incredulously. “Count Hauptmann! The Kaiser's cultural representative. What the devil—”

“Herr Kipling, too,” the count said pleasantly. “So you have both come to see me off. I am sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen. I had to stop and fetch a little... insurance, shall we say.” He laughed in ironic amusement.

Kipling leaned over the wall. “Patrick? Are you all right?”

“All right, sir,” Patrick replied steadily. “But he's planning to make off with that skiff and—”

“That's enough, boy!” the count snapped. “Sheridan, you can see that I am armed. But perhaps you cannot see that this gun is—”

“I know about the gun,” Charles said brusquely.

“Ah. So you recognize Herr Mauser's clever invention? Do you also know of the way I have put it to use?” Patrick squirmed, trying to pull free. The count collared the boy more firmly and brought the gun to his cheek. “Stand still, my young friend,” he said icily, “or I shall be forced to do something you would not like.” Patrick stopped struggling and stood still.

“Yes, we have seen how you used the Mauser,” Charles said. “We discovered the ejected shell casing on the floor of the mill and X-rayed Captain Smith's body to locate the bullet. Given the opportunity to compare the grooves on the bullet with the rifling of that pistol of yours, we could likely prove that you used it to kill him.”

“Ah, this modern science,” the count said. “So up-to-date in its methods. X-rays, studies of bullets—soon there will be no escape for even the wiliest of criminals.” His tone grew harder. “I take it, then, that you have spoken to Mr. Tudwell since my conversation with him?”

“Mr. Tudwell has joined forces with us,” Charles said. “In fact, he is here now, although he is rather ... tied up at the moment.”

The count laughed dryly. “Then you know about the investors and the smuggling. What a pity that Mr. Tudwell could not be trusted to hold his tongue. He might have enjoyed a long and lucrative employment with us.”

Harry Tudwell made rude noises behind his gag.

“What we know,” Charles said in a deliberate tone, “is that there are no investors, and that whatever smuggling is going on here is a fraudulent cover for another activity altogether.”

There was a moment's silence; then the count said, archly, “Very clever, Sheridan. And just what might that activity be?”

“Captain Smith was not as careful an agent as you could have wished, Hauptmann. In his cottage, we found map overlays which suggest that an amphibious operation is planned for this vicinity. We also discovered George Radford's knife, which the captain used to kill Radford after he threatened to interfere with this plan. And in the tunnels, we found a supply of Mausers, explosives detonators, and telegraphy devices—equipment that could be used to expedite the infiltration of agents or saboteurs into this country. What we don't know, however, is whether you are acting in an official capacity, on behalf of the Kaiser's government and with his blessing, or whether this is a freelance project of your own devising.” He paused. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten us as to that detail. We are also curious to know why you killed Captain Smith.”