The Guinea Stamp (3 page)

“I am certain of it. And yet, ever since I brought those French agents across the Channel by Napoleon’s orders, my helpers have kept constant watch on their movements without once coming within reach of this man.”

“You are certain that he exists?” asked my lord.

“Positive. We know that the others receive orders, for at times, these messages have been intercepted—just as I myself receive orders, without knowing whence they come.”

The older man nodded.

“I understood you to say that these messages are left for you in the cove where you also go to pick up the dispatches for France. What arrangements have you for making these collections?”

“I go to the appointed place in the first week of every month. It is a tiny cove some few miles north of Torbay, inaccessible from the shore save by a steep and dangerous climb over the cliffs, and only accessible from the sea at low tide. There is a deep cave into which a man must crawl for a matter of ten yards or so; after that, its height increases so that he may stand upright. No one who did not know the place would venture in. The dispatches and messages are left for me in a plain wooden box—there’s no clue there, sir—on a kind of recess high up on one side of the cave. The dispatches are sealed, of course; but you know how little that has prevented us from reading and making a copy of them.”

My lord nodded again.

“And the messages? They are never written by hand?”

“No,” Captain Jackson shook his head, regretfully. “They are made up of printed words cut from the pages of a book, and pasted on to a sheet of ordinary letter paper, such as may be readily purchased by anyone. It is some time, however, since I received one of them.”

He paused a moment, then added, slowly, “I have reason to think that I am no longer completely trusted.”

“What makes you say so?” The older man’s tone was sharp with anxiety.

The Captain shrugged. It was a very different gesture from that which he had made in the presence of the French Emperor: this time, it was restrained, casual, totally English.

“A combination of circumstances,” he answered. “In the first place, I have undoubtedly been followed about on several occasions; although I have always, I trust, succeeded in evading my pursuers. Then, too, this long gap in the receiving of orders—that is unusual, particularly in view of the fact that I’m positive there is some important scheme afoot at the present time.”

My lord let out a quick exclamation. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I’m not sure,” replied the other, slowly. “I may be wrong. But for the first time, I’m being told to do something quite out of the common way. I have orders to deliver a number of kegs of brandy to the cove of which we’ve just been speaking, and to leave them there in the cave.”

“But I thought you said you were no longer given these orders?”

“This was a shipping order, given me in Rochefort by Napoleon’s agent,” replied Captain Jackson. “What’s more, the casks have been specially marked, so that there can be no mistake.”

“And is this all?” asked my lord. “I see no positive signs of anything untoward in that.”

“Perhaps not; but I’ve never before been given cargo for any destination but such as my own men had decided upon. It’s unusual, sir, and in this game anything out of the common way merits attention. I mean to discuss it with Number One tonight, when you have left.”

The older man leaned forward in his chair, an earnest, troubled expression on his usually urbane countenance.

“I beg of you, Peter, give up this mad game now! You have done enough. When I suggested, three years since, that you might relieve your boredom by pretending to turn smuggler, thus obtaining news from the French coast, I had no notion of your being so thorough about the business—much less of your pretending to spy for the French! That was a rash, unconsidered move, in my opinion.”

“And yet necessary,” replied Jackson. “You see, sir, I soon found that it would not do merely to act the part of a smuggler. The French authorities welcome English smugglers to their coasts just so long as they bring the precious gold guineas which are needed for building boats and manning them. Without the gold, I would very soon have found myself gracing the interior of a French prison. That could serve neither my country nor myself. No, the smuggling had to be genuine—and from that one step, the rest followed inevitably.”

“I suppose so,” conceded the statesman, reluctantly. “But tell me, how did you set about becoming a genuine smuggler? I have never heard the whole.”

Captain Jackson laughed softly.

“Inquiries made in one or two unconventional Quarters along the Devon coast soon put me in touch with a genuine band of freebooters, as they call themselves. They were a harmless enough group of men who looked on the business simply as a means of getting a livelihood—it may surprise you to know that they are patriots to a man, but they see no reason why a war with France should put an end to their trade. I was fortunate enough to be able to be of some service to the leader of the gang—he was on the run from a Preventive officer at the time!”

My lord tut-tutted. “It all sounds most improper. Perhaps I had much better know nothing of it.”

Captain Jackson grinned. “As you will, my lord. The ostrich, I believe, works on the same principle.”

The older man ignored this thrust. “How much do these people know of your own personal concerns?”

“Very little,” replied Jackson. “Their leader—whom I can trust, as he owes me his liberty—knows I am an English agent. To the rest, I am simply a man who can obtain the best contraband out of France. Once it is landed in England, running and selling it is their affair provided that they sell only for gold. The guineas are paid over to me, when they have taken the profits, to procure more contraband. Thus English smuggler and French authorities both get what they want.”

“So you are a guinea smuggler,” said my lord, uneasily. “That in itself is a serious matter—an act of treason, in fact. Do you realize that the currency regulations—”

The Captain grimaced.

“Spare me your Civil Service jargon, by your leave, sir. I am fully aware of the precarious legal position in which I stand. But to keep faith with England, I must needs betray her. Only as a guinea smuggler could I gain the confidence of Napoleon.”

“There was no need for you to aim so high! I had it in mind that you might bring us news from the Iron Coast; not that you might penetrate to Napoleon’s very Council chamber.”

“As I have explained, my lord, one thing led to another. Once I was known as an English smuggler, I was approached by the French—firstly to collect dispatches from this agent of theirs in Devon, secondly, to act as an agent for them myself. It would have been impossible to refuse, even had I entertained such a consideration. But how could I do so? What better way could a man find to serve his country, than to have a foot in the enemy’s camp?”

“True, true: and we have learnt much from you, my boy. But you must end the affair now, before it is too late. You say that already they suspect you. Should you be arrested here, in England, it would be difficult to bring you off safely: and should you be taken in France—”

He broke off and shook his head.

“No,” he resumed. “My conscience cannot acquit me of doing a serious injury to your parents by allowing you to continue in this way. It must end, my boy.”

“My parents cannot feel what they are in ignorance of: nevertheless, I am inclined to agree with you, sir. For some time now, I have felt that I had reached the limit of my usefulness in this particular sphere. My work henceforward must lie with the Navy. But there is one last task I have to perform before I quit my free-trading for good.”

The other man nodded. “You mean to expose this French agent? Have you any plan to that end?”

Captain Jackson frowned.

“There is all too little to go upon, at present. He must live somewhere in this area, for two reasons. One is that the dispatches have always been concerned with news and maps of this part of the coast: the other, that the agents who are known to us are all stationed in this area, and are of little value unless they can easily be reached. The only contact I have with him is the collection of orders and dispatches from the cove. It is not a locality which lends itself readily to snooping, and in any event, it is many months since I found any orders there when I have called. I must simply wait for something to turn up, I’m afraid.”

“Then I can only wish you speedy success, my boy, and recommend you to be careful. But, from what I chanced to hear in Town, you have other problems—”

He broke off, startled. A thunderous knocking had sounded on the door of the inn.

The two looked at each other in some perturbation.

“Now, who can this be?” said the Captain, softly. “Not, I believe, one of Nobby’s regular customers.”

Almost on the words an alarmed Nobby arrived hotfoot in the room. The knocking continued to grow in volume.

“‘Tis a body of men outside, Cap’n,” he said, in trembling tones. “I caught a glimpse from the upstair winder: too dark to say ‘zackly who they be, but my guess is it’s they Preventives! What’ll I do? I’ll ‘ave to open up to ‘em!”

Captain Jackson nodded.

“Naturally,” he said, calmly. “But there’s no need for alarm. Your secret cellar is safe enough from discovery, and we shall make ourselves scarce in yonder cupboard.”

He nodded towards the wall which separated the parlour from the small coffee room beyond. My lord followed his glance, but could see no sign of any cupboard.

“Well, go on, then, man!” urged the Captain. “Best take that guilty look off your face, too!”

The big man nodded, and turned towards the door. Abruptly, the thunder of knocking ceased, and a loud shout rang through the inn.

“Open in the King’s Name!”

TWO - The Eavesdropper

“That’s our cue!” grinned the Captain, and propelled the other man towards the wall which he had indicated a moment since.

His long, sensitive fingers groped for a second along the panelling. Suddenly, there was a sharp click, and a section swung inwards revealing behind it a large space in which they might easily stand upright. He was about to follow his companion into the cupboard, when he checked with an exclamation of impatience, and turned again into the room.

“I’d forgotten these,” he muttered as he snatched up my lord’s hat and gloves from the table. “And we may as well bring some refreshment along too!”

He thrust the articles hastily into the other man’s hand, and returned for the tray which held their bottle of wine and glasses. This he proceeded to stow away on a shelf at one side of the cupboard.

“Have a care!” protested my lord in a whisper. “You’ll ruin my topper, old fellow!”

“Damn your topper,” was the cheery retort, delivered in an undertone. “Can’t think why you brought it on a jaunt like this, anyway!”

“You could not possibly suppose—” began the statesman, but broke off as the Captain squeezed himself into the cupboard, and shut the door.

The resulting darkness was momentarily overpowering.

“How long do you think it will be necessary to remain here?” asked my lord, doubtfully.

“God knows. Depends how long it takes Nobby to get rid of the Preventives.”

The older man groaned inwardly, and asked himself what exactly a respectable member of His Majesty’s Government was doing in such an unlikely situation. To be crouching in a cupboard in the company of an acknowledged smuggler, hiding from those officers whom he himself had helped to appoint, was suited neither to his style nor his time of life! Then he thought of the man at his side. While he served his country in this particular way, Captain Jackson must always remain on the wrong side of the law. If he were to be taken by the Preventive Officers, not even his friends in high places could count on bringing him off safely. The thought brought beads of perspiration to my lord’s forehead.

“Don’t worry,” the Captain was saying in his ear. “We may stay here indefinitely, for there’s a ventilator in this cupboard. It also makes a useful peephole into the room beyond, and it’s concealed from view in there. The only snag is that sound carries through it, so should anyone come into the coffee room—”

He broke off, as a tiny ray of light pierced the gloom of the cupboard. The next moment, they heard voices in the room beyond. Evidently someone had indeed entered the room, and the light of a lamp was striking thinly through the ventilator.

The voices drew closer. Captain Jackson stood on tiptoe, and peered through the ventilator. He could see no one as yet, for the aperture afforded a view only of that section of the room which was nearest the fireplace. He could hear Nobby’s voice, however, explaining the impossibility of something which his visitors were urging.

“Well, at least the men may have a drink, and warm themselves for a while by the fire in the taproom, I suppose,” came the reply in irritable tones. “Send in a bottle of wine and a bite to eat for this officer and myself. It’s damned cold in here—can’t you offer us a fire?”

“I’ll have the wench kindle one for your honour at once,” said Nobby. “But I dunno about victuals—”

“Do so, and look sharp about it. The men must be better off in the tap than we are here,” was the terse reply.

The listeners heard the shuffling of the big man’s feet as he hastened to obey this command, and just then the visitors moved into Jackson’s line of vision. He saw at once that they were not, as Nobby had feared, Customs men at all, but two officers of the local Volunteers, arrayed in a striking uniform of scarlet with dark blue facings. The younger of the two bore the insignia of a captain: he was a tall, handsome man with very blond hair curling over his head in the fashionable style known as a Brutus. His senior officer was short and stocky with iron grey hair. He carried himself erect, and spoke in short, clipped sentences. He awakened a chord of recollection in Captain Jackson’s mind. He felt that he had certainly met the Colonel before; though where, he could not for the moment remember. It was this circumstance which caused him to remain a little longer at his peep hole.

The door opened again to admit a thin little serving maid in grey homespun, carrying materials for kindling a fire. She set about her task with the energy of a terrier worrying at a rat, and in a short time, the wood burst into flame.

“That’s better!” remarked the Colonel flinging himself into a chair and extending his booted legs towards the blaze. “Give it another go with the bellows, girl!”

But the maid seemed not to attend. The Colonel, nettled, repeated his command in a military voice. She looked round, vaguely, then appeared to comprehend, for she applied the bellows vigorously.

“I think she’s hard of hearing, sir,” explained the captain, who had been watching her keenly. “Come to think of it, she must be, else she would have roused the landlord sooner when we were trying to get into the place.”

“Very likely you’re right,” agreed the Colonel. “That’ll do, girl—I say, that’ll do! Off you go!”

She did not hear the first remark, but at the second, she gathered up her tools and scuttled away like a frightened grey mouse.

“Queer place this,” said the Colonel in a casual tone. “Evidently don’t welcome visitors—wonder how they make a living, stuck down in the river like this, away from trade?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to learn,” remarked the younger man, with a slow smile, “that the really important part of the ‘The Waterman’s’ business is not conducted in the taproom.”

“Eh?”

The Colonel looked up sharply.

“Of course, you know the place, Masterman. You guided me here, after all, when we were hopelessly lost.”

“I can claim but small knowledge of it, sir. I have merely noticed it in the distance on the few occasions when I’ve been staying at Teignton Manor. There is a fine view of this stretch of the river from the bedchambers situated at the back of the house.”

“So they put you in a back room, these folk at Teignton Manor—what’s their name?—Ah! yes. Lodge, that’s it. Shabby, b’God, Masterman!”

A shadow crossed Captain Masterman’s face.

“My sister and I are of small account in the world, sir, as you must know,” he said, bitterly.

“Nonsense!” replied the other, hastily. “Miss Masterman’s as handsome as she can stare. And you’re not a bad-looking feller yourself, m’boy! Good family, too!”

“But no money,” said Masterman, in a harsh tone.

“What’s that signify?” asked the Colonel, gruff with embarrassment.

“My dear sir, need you ask? If a man cannot live in the style to which he was born, as far as Society’s concerned he does not exist.”

“Nonsense!” repeated the Colonel. “You’re asked everywhere for twenty miles around Totnes. Tell you what, m’boy, you need a drink. Where is that damned rascal of a landlord all this time?”

Thankful to turn the subject, he rose from his chair and strode to the door, hailing the landlord in stentorian tones which carried all over the house.

“Beg pardon, y’r honour,” panted Nobby, coming up the passage almost at a run. “I’ve brought y’r honour’s wine, but there was a difficulty about the victuals. Will a cold meat pasty be to the liking o’ you gennelmen? ‘Tis all we can lay ‘ands on at present.”

“Then it will have to do, won’t it?” was the impatient reply. “Very well, man, don’t stand there dithering! Bring in that wine, and tell them to fetch the pasty at the double.”

Nobby mumbled some reply which the eavesdropper could not catch, and heavily departed.

“Lunatics, the lot of ‘em!” pronounced the Colonel.

He dropped into his chair again and extended his legs to the rapidly developing blaze, while he signalled to his junior officer to pour the wine. Captain Masterman complied, and presently handed a glass to his Colonel before taking a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. His face was now in full view of the hidden watcher’s eyes.

“Tell you what,” said the Colonel, suddenly. “Not a bad idea if we asked these people Lodge for a bed for the night. No sense in going on to Totnes tonight—men tired, wet through, hungry—far better in the morning.”

“But I thought the landlord said—” began Captain Masterman.

“So he did, but we can bed the men at that inn in the village he was talking of,” was the reply. “What’s its name—‘The Three Fishers’, that’s it. Know Lodge slightly, y’know, but only in the way that one’s acquainted with most people who matter in the county. Still, enough to ask him for a shake-down for the night—matter of patriotism, anyway, ain’t it? At the present time, I mean.”

“I’m sure Sir George will be only too happy,” replied Captain Masterman. “He and his lady are the soul of hospitality.”

“Pretty little gal they’ve got, too,” remarked the Colonel, thoughtfully. “Damned shame she’s to marry a Frenchman!”

“Dorlais can scarcely be accounted a Frenchman nowadays,” replied the junior officer. “He’s been in England since he was a boy, and his sympathies and tastes are entirely English.”

“Don’t know that a Frog can ever change his spots—ha, ha, ha!” laughed the Colonel, overcome by his own wit.

The Captain laughed dutifully, but without conviction.

“Anyway, little Miss Kitty’s wasted on him,” went on his superior officer. “Pity it wasn’t t’other one—her friend.”

“You mean Miss Feniton?” asked Captain Masterman, in a guarded tone.

“I do, indeed! She’s a stuck up piece of goods, if you like!” said the Colonel, with a snort.

“Miss Feniton is perhaps a trifle reserved,” admitted the other man, reluctantly, “but I have never observed the least height in her manner.”

“Reserved! Ice is warm in comparison. Give you my word! But I mustn’t say too much—fancy you’re a little taken in that quarter, yourself.”

A trace of colour showed on Masterman’s high cheekbones.

“Don’t mean to poke my nose in,” the Colonel assured him, soothingly. “None of my business, as I dare say you’ll tell me.”

The hidden watcher’s mouth curved in amusement. It was quite evident that the junior officer knew his business better than to make any such remark.

“My fillies don’t get on with the chit, that’s all,” finished the Colonel. “Easy going girls, too: defy anyone to quarrel with ‘em.”

Captain Masterman said all that was proper concerning the Colonel’s young ladies. The senior officer looked gratified.

“No bamboozling me, though, my dear chap,” he answered, with a shake of his head. “You prefer Miss Iceberg, I can see! Well, no hard feelings, though I don’t think there’s much hope for you, I’m bound to say. Got a suitor already lined up, by what I hear.”

Captain Jackson saw Masterman’s hand tighten on his glass, but the younger officer said nothing.

“That old fool Feniton’s godson, Lord Cholcombe’s son,” continued the Colonel. “The dearest wish of Miss Joanna’s dead parents, according to m’wife.”

Masterman knew that his Colonel’s wife was an inveterate gossip; there was no real harm in the lady, but she had a nose for news, and liked to be first with it.

“Lord Cholcombe,” repeated Masterman, evenly; and Captain Jackson silently paid tribute to the man’s self-control. “I don’t think I am acquainted—”

“Mostly lives in London,” explained the older man. “Haven’t met him myself, but know him by repute, of course. Got a house in Exeter which the son uses from time to time. He’s a rare dandy, by all accounts.”

“Who, sir? Lord Cholcombe?”

“No, the boy. One of these fellers who considers the choosing of a waistcoat matter for a se’enight’s debate—no use for ‘em, myself. Like a man to look well turned out, but no sense in overdoing it!”

Masterman agreed, and offered to refill his superior officer’s glass. The fire was by now blazing merrily. Warmth and the wine had mellowed the Colonel’s mood, and combined to loosen his tongue a little.

“Queer upbringing that filly’s had,” he said reflectively, taking the fresh glass from Masterman’s hand. “Parents died when she was in swaddling clothes, pretty near, and been under old Lady Feniton’s influence ever since, except for a few years when she managed to escape to one of these ladies’ seminaries. The old battle axe stuffs her head full of the pottiest notions, according to m’wife. Talks a deal about remembering her rank, and not marrying beneath her. You’d think Feniton was at least an earl, instead of only a baronet. Disappointed in not having a boy left to carry on the name, shouldn’t wonder. Can sympathize—old family—damn shame Geoffrey being snuffed out suddenly like that, before he could get an heir.”

“It was a coaching accident, wasn’t it?” asked Masterman. “I remember my father speaking of it when I was a boy. In those days, as you know, we lived not far from Shalbeare House.”

Kellaway nodded. “Sad business—both killed instantly. All for the best, though, perhaps, in a way. Old lady never liked the bride—what was her name? Forget now. Anyway, it don’t signify. She always felt that Geoffrey had married beneath him.”

“I believe I remember my father saying she was a clergyman’s daughter.”