Smuggler's Moon (8 page)

“Yes,” said he, ”I have, and on more than one occasion.” Sir Simon had grown most serious of a sudden. Any hint of jocularity had vanished from his manner. ”And each time I have counted myself lucky to survive unscathed.”

“Why so? Is this spirit so dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough. His appearance, which is to say, his visible manifestation, usually means that someone in or around this house … will die, and die most horribly, within the next week or so.”

There was a sudden and quite audible intake of breath next me. It was Clarissa, of course, so overcome by Sir Simon’s lurid tale that she could but gasp for air; indeed she was truly afrighted.

Yet Sir John, having listened, primed his host with questions and comments through the recital, and in short, done all that a good guest might be expected to do, had finally had quite enough of ghosts, spirits, and apparitions.

“If you will forgive me, Sir Simon,” said he, ”I find all such tales naught but poppycock. Naturally, they frighten
children like Clarissa, who deep down rather likes to be frightened. But frankly, it would take a great deal to convince me of their validity.”

“What, specifically, would it take?”

“Well, since I am incapable of accepting the proof offered me by my eyes, I would have to be convinced by one or more of the other four senses.”

“Did I mention the smell which comes with his appearance?”

“No sir, you did not.”

“When he appears, and sometimes only when he is about and wishes to make his presence known, there is a rather overpowering smell of brimstone about.”

“Brimstone?” Sir John puzzled that about in his head for a moment or two. ”You mean sulphur?”

“That is what some call it today, yes.”

“It is sulphur, is it not, which gives off the foul odor of rotting eggs? It can be quite overwhelming.”

“Yes, that’s it!” said Sir Simon in sudden excitement. ”Rotting eggs—a terrible smell! That’s it exactly!”

Sir John began laughing quite abruptly. He threw back his head and let it peal forth from him in great waves of merriment. I had not the slightest notion what had, of a sudden, struck him as so terribly funny.

Nor was I the only one. Sir Simon Grenville recoiled slightly from his guest as he looked upon him in utter bafflement. Then did the baffled expression turn to one of slight though open annoyance. At last, when Sir John’s laughter had subsided, he risked a query.

“What, praytell, did strike you as so amusing, sir?”

‘“Twas but a passing thought which tickled my fancy.” And having gone only so far, he began snickering again. ”It came to me that yours may be the only house in the realm that is haunted by a farting ghost.” Then, having said it, he was once again beset by a laughing fit of a length and intensity quite like the last.

Thereafter the table remained rather quiet for quite some time.

For one unused to drinking wine of any kind, Clarissa did rather well drinking wines of every kind. In her own way, she kept up until the dessert course. It was not the piece of
gateau
, dripping with sweet sauce, that did her in. No, it was the accompanying sweet white wine from faraway Hungary which did finally seal her fate. She sipped it once in a manner most ladylike, then took nearly half a glass in a gulp. She replaced the glass upon the table, rested her chin upon her chest, and began snoring quite loudly.

It continued thus for less than a minute. Sir John did then become uncomfortably aware of the persistent drone.

“My ears tell me,” said he, ”that Clarissa has been summoned off to sleep. The poor child must be terribly weary. Perhaps we had best cut the evening a bit short and take her up to bed.”

“Oh, do stay a bit longer, Sir John,” urged the host. ”We’ve matters to discuss, those which brought you here, matters that we have not even touched upon.”

Sir John sighed. ”Indeed, sir, you’re right.” He hesitated but a moment, then turned to me. ”Jeremy, will you take Clarissa upstairs to her room?”

“Certainly I will, Sir John.”

“Can you find her room? As I recall, it is directly across from ours.”

I assured him I had the location of both firmly in mind and would bring her safely to her own.

“I could wake one of the staff,” Sir Simon offered. (One by one they had disappeared.)

“No, Jeremy is quite capable.”

By the time the discussion of my ability to deal with the situation had gone thus far, I had already persuaded Clarissa out of her chair, taken her firmly by the arm, and was marching her out of the grand dining room.

“I’ll be back shortly,” I called out quietly to them.

Yet I must have called loudly enough to bring her further awake, for she pulled herself up a bit and began to walk a bit more firmly.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Why, upstairs to your room, to put you to bed.”

“Mmmm. That should be interesting.” She had been making far too many such remarks of late to suit me—not quite lewd but of a sort which might be understood in a number of different ways. It had been so with her ever since that evening when we two had been trapped briefly in the darkened cellar of Number 4 Bow Street. I made no response to her sally but started her up the great stairway.

“Did I disgrace myself?”

“No,” said I, ”nothing of the kind.”

“That’s gratifying.”

We continued to climb the stairs until, quite near the top, she spoke up again.

“What if the ghost should suddenly appear at my door?”

“Ghost indeed,” said I with a sniff. ”If he should be so unwise as to hang about your door, I should simply tell him to be gone. I should say to him, ‘Here you, get back to your grave, if you know what’s good for you. And none of your smelly farts.’”

At that she giggled, and she continued giggling all the way to her room. I opened the door and glanced inside: a candle was burning on the bedside table, and her bed had been turned back.

“Would you truly address the ghost so rudely?”

“I would! You must be firm with his kind.”

“Then you are my hero and my champion, and I shall reward you by permitting you to kiss me good night.”

“Ah well,” said I, not wishing to kiss her but also not wishing to offend her, ”perhaps another time.”

“No,” said she insistently,
”now.
I’m prepared to wait right here until you do—all night, if need be.”

Well, why not? It would be the quickest way to be gone, would it not? I leaned toward her and chose a spot high on her left cheek just below her eye.

She stiffened and shrank back a few inches. ”On the lips,” said she in a manner which made it clear that she would brook no argument.

Steeling myself for a proper meeting of the mouths, I saw no way now to withdraw. Well then, thought I, in for a penny, in for a pound. I would do it all quickly and be gone.

But she would have none of that. Our lips had barely grazed when I felt her arms encircle me. Her lips pressed against mine. Her arms near squeezed the life from me. I felt utterly trapped. Yet it was for but a moment—for it was but the duration of a moment that she held me so. She stepped back, and I saw her cheeks redden with embarrassment: her boldness had exceeded even her own expectations, perhaps her own intentions, as well.

She leapt over the threshold and into her room. As she shut the door behind her, I heard her call a good night to me.

Well, thought I, hurrying away, the girl is obviously quite mad. Or perhaps it was the wine that she drank which has made her behave in this unaccountably wanton manner. She was truly making it difficult. Perhaps if I were to talk to her, reason with her, I might make her understand just how terribly awkward this will be for both of us.

I started down the stairs at a jog trot, but then did my pace slow somewhat, for as I descended, I heard a voice from the dining room—it was none other than Sir John’s. Quite unmistakable, for when he spoke in argument, his voice fair thundered.

“Again, if you will forgive me, Sir Simon, what I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend is how you could so swiftly and so completely alter your opinion of Albert Sarton in so short a time. You supported him. Without you, he would not have had a chance of becoming magistrate of Deal.”

I sighed, admitting to myself how weary I was. I had eaten too much. I had drunk far too much. I wanted nothing better than to go to my own bed. Yet that, I feared, would be sometime in the future. It appeared that we were in for a long night of it.

THREE

In which Sir John
meets Albert Sarton,
Magistrate of Deal

W
e were late leaving for town the next morning. By the time Sir John was up and had breakfasted, Sir Simon Grenville was long gone on his daily round of inspection. His vast holdings, which numbered near a thousand acres of rich Kent farmlands, had just been planted and so required his close attention—or so he told me that I might explain his absence to Sir John. Before leaving, he appointed Will Fowler, who had given us the speech of welcome at our arrival, to be our guide round the manor house. He took Clarissa on a proper tour of the place. I asked only that I be shown the library that I might choose a book to read whilst I waited for Sir John to rouse.

And so there I was, sitting outside the door to our room, reading
A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy
, by the Reverend Mr. Sterne, listening for the familiar sounds of snuffling and coughing which prefaced his rising.
I liked the book not so well as
Tristram Shandy
, yet liked it well enough to wish to read it through. Therefore I was, I confess, a bit disappointed when at last the morning overture did begin. Yet dutifully, I set the book aside and entered the room.

“Jeremy? Is it you?”

“It is, Sir John.”

“Is it late?”

“It’s getting on.”

In answer to that, he simply grunted, made use of the chamber pot which I fetched to him, and expressed his desire to be shaved. It took a few minutes for me to make preparations, during which he began a recapitulation of his discussion the night before of Mr. Albert Sarton’s record as magistrate. Though it angered him to do so, he dwelt upon the details of the baronet’s argument—or rather, the lack of them.

“I asked him to be specific,” said Sir John, ”and he could not be. Oh … well, he kept referring back to one case—only one, mind you—wherein Sir Simon had attempted to tip him on one gang of smugglers, yet he felt the magistrate had, ever afterward, turned a deaf ear to him and his tips. I must say, there seemed to be a good deal of personal pique involved in that. I should like to hear what Mr. Sarton has to say about it.”

Sir John continued to grumble even as I proceeded to shave him.

“You heard him, Jeremy. Did I miss some several proofs of his? I ask you, was he specific?”

“No sir, he was not.”

It is a risky matter to shave one who insists upon talking on, even as the sharp blade of the razor plays about his bobbing Adam’s apple. I warned him twice against it.

“He did mention that Eccles fellow often, though, did he not?”

“Yes sir, he did.”

”His contention seemed to be that if Eccles was against Mr. Sarton, then that was all the proof that was needed. He and Eccles may have formed a sort of alliance. I wonder who turned who against Sarton.”

“Sir?”

“I mean to say, was it Sir Simon or Eccles who first became prejudiced against the magistrate? And who then won the other over?”

He went silent as he considered the questions he had raised. Carefully, watchfully, I resumed shaving him.

“And
why
sh—
ow
!”

I had cut him—or perhaps more accurately put, he had cut himself upon my innocent blade. Not, thank God, upon or near his throat. No, it was the tip of his chin that bled. Yet I was prepared. I reached into the kit and pulled forth the plaster preparation given me by our medico, Mr. Gabriel Donnelly. I dolloped a wad upon the cut and saw the bleeding stop.

“How is it?” he asked.

“All right now.”

“Stopped bleeding, has it?”

“It has, yes.”

“You should be more careful.”

“
I
should be more careful? Why, I told you
twice
you were taking a chance continuing to talk whilst I was shaving you.”

He said nothing for a long moment. ”So you did,” said he at last. ”So you did.”

When we two were deposited at Number 18 Middle Street, and I waved goodbye to Lord Mansfield’s driver and coachman, I felt an odd, sinking feeling. It was as if Sir John and I had been cast away upon an isle from which there might be no return. They would go back with the coach to London. How much, of a sudden, did I envy them!

Yet why? Why this sense of desertion when, coming to Deal, I had been buoyed by a grand sense of adventure?

In any case, they were gone, and there would be no calling them back; even less was there a chance of stealing away with them. Ah well, with Sir John about to inspirit me, I had not yet failed to rise to the occasion, nor did I intend to ever in the future.

“Well, we are here, are we not?” said he. ”Shall we go meet the magistrate?” He placed his hand upon my forearm, and thus together we made direct for Number 18.