The Blighted Cliffs (44 page)

'It
is decided,' he said. 'Colonel Copthorne will lead a substantial
force from the castle tomorrow night, and array his men and guns at
the top of the slope leading down to the beach. It is the only way
up. If the soldiers escorting the contraband choose to fight, they
will, he assures me, be cut down in a cauldron of fire and death.'

'Bravo,'
I said reflexively, and promptly flinched under Crawley's sceptical
stare.

'We,'
he continued, 'will take
Orestes
out immediately, so as to catch the smugglers unawares tomorrow
night. We will attempt to make contact with
Lancelot
and persuade her to join us. Otherwise, the duty of cutting off the
smugglers' retreat will be all our own.'

Even
he, incorrigible gloom-monger that he was, could not hide his
excitement at the prospect.

'If
we are exceptionally lucky,' I observed, 'we may even catch the
bullion on the ships. Add it to the prize money.'

Crawley
gave me a disapproving look. 'You realize, of course, that if that
were to happen, the dragoons would have failed to apprehend the
smugglers ashore.'

Unlikely
though it seemed, I thought I sensed a note of mischief in his voice.

'We
can only prepare for the worst,' I said dutifully. 'Speaking of
which, sir, I must repair to my inn for a moment to fetch my pistols.
And my sword.'

'Mine
is with the smith having an edge put on it,' said Crawley. 'I shall
meet you back here presently.'

I
crossed the square and turned down the lane to the inn. Wan sunlight
was breaking through the clouds above, and I whistled an invented
tune as I reflected on the course events had taken. Vitos's death
seemed less important now. If the intelligence from the smugglers
were true, then action the following night could make or mend many
reputations, not least my own. If the army did their bit on land, it
might even pass without subjecting me to mortal danger. And when the
smoke had cleared and the smugglers been hanged, there would be no
denying that the significant moment of the affair had come when I
noticed the landing being made the day before. Even my Uncle could
not overlook that.

The
stable yard at the inn was silent and empty, as was the house within;
it took me but a little time to mount the stairs, buckle on my sword,
check the flints in my pistols and go back down. For all my
excitement, I could not shake a lingering regret that Isobel had not
been there, impatient though Crawley would be. And why had she not
come last night? I asked myself, tumbling through a mire of
half-formed, unhappy thoughts. Had she tired of me? It would not be
the first time a girl had done so, though on those past occasions it
had merely saved me the embarrassment of having to end it myself.

Or,
I wondered, had the same ruffians who had assaulted us in the
churchyard come for her again, alone this time and unprotected? That
thought did not sit well with my squeamish sensibilities. So
advanced, in fact, had my contemplation of her fate become that I
almost missed her; only the blue woollen dress, and the strands of
dark hair escaping the modesty of her mobcap, caught the edge of my
eye as I regained the street. She did not notice me, and I might well
have passed her entirely had I not been drawn to a second casual
glance by the dim tugging of memory.

As
my interest firmed into recognition, all other thoughts fled my head;
I crossed the road at an undignified run and laid my hand on her arm.
She turned, and her worried smile checked me momentarily. In the
pause, I noticed for the first time that she was pushing a small cart
piled high with canvas sacks.

'Isobel,'
I said, breathing hard. 'What are you doing here? Where were you last
night?'

'I
couldn't come,' she said nervously, looking about. 'Miss Hoare took
me back in, said she'd turn the cheek one last time. Now she's got me
delivering the laundry.' She waved at her barrow.

'That's
good news, surely?' I struggled to understand her tentative, awkward
manner. I looked closer. 'She didn't chastise you, did she?'

Isobel
shook her head. 'No, nothing like that. It's... I'd better be going
on, anyhow. Miss Hoare won't like it if the laundry goes late.'

She
lifted the handles of her cart.

'Damn
the laundry,' I said angrily, and rather too audibly to spare the
sensitivities of the passers-by. 'I lay awake half the night waiting
for you, with not a note nor a handkerchief to allay my hopes –
my concern - and now that I do find you, you cannot run away fast
enough.' I became aware that the traffic in the street had paused,
that I had become a spectacle. 'If you find me repellent, or
inconstant, or... or anything, then tell me and have done. But don't
come to my bed once and then cut me every time I try to see you.'

'You'd
not understand,' said Isobel, looking mortified at having her affairs
thus discussed in public. 'And if you thought for two seconds about
what I've said and done, you'd see how wrong you're thinking. Believe
me, Martin, there are reasons I can't--'

'Believe
you?' I echoed. 'I'll believe you when I see you – and that, it
seems, is something I should refrain from.'

In
an instant, a rush of wounded frustration choked my capacity for
speech, and from a deeper part of my being I kicked out with my foot.
Not at Isobel, but at the nearest insensible object I could reach:
her cart. For a weak man, in a weakened state, I managed to pack a
fair charge into my blow (though my toes felt it afterwards). My foot
connected with one of the wheels on her barrow, and with a protesting
lurch it toppled onto its side. Someone in the crowd about us
screamed, which I remember seemed a little much; perhaps she owned
some of the laundry which now lay straggled out in the muddy street.

That
thought drew my eyes away from Isobel and down to the havoc I had
wrought on her wares. Among the scattered canvas sacks, some of them
spilling open to reveal the fine underclothes of the Dover gentry,
there seemed to be a splintered pile of broken wood. I looked closer.
Surely I had not been so frenzied as to have kicked apart the barrow?
But no, the cart was intact; the wreckage I could see was from
something that had been carried on it, hidden under the bags of
laundry, a wooden box or barrel that had cracked open with the fall.
A wooden box or barrel that was now leaching out a rich, golden
liquid which trickled over the cobblestones in rivulets. It seeped
into the scattered petticoats and shirts and undid all the hard
scrubbing Miss Hoare's young ladies had administered.

I
bent over and sniffed it, though I knew it well enough.

'Brandy,'
I said, my thoughts unravelling even as I tried to gather them
together. 'A tub of brandy, hidden under your laundry.'

All
anger had left Isobel's face; now she just looked terrified,
vulnerable.

'Please,
Martin,' she pleaded. 'You can't understand.'

'You're
right, I cannot.'

All
sense, all passion, had drained from my body like the brandy in the
road before me. I noticed vaguely that the crowd which had been so
enthralled to witness our dispute was now wholly gone. Of the few
people who passed us now, none looked for a second at the tearful
girl, the dazed officer, or the soiled laundry blocking their way.

'So
did you betray me?' I asked, without emotion. 'Were you the reason
the smugglers always knew our movements? The reason they knew to find
me in the churchyard that night? Was that why you came to my bed, so
you could pass on my secrets to your masters?'

Isobel
shook her head fiercely. 'No,' she whispered. 'No – never
that.' She touched her cheek, where the thin line of dried blood was
still there. 'And this was real enough.' Her tiny bosom heaved under
the neck of her dress. She seemed to want to speak further, but could
not find the breath.

'I
suppose it hardly matters.' I found it easier, safer, to allow cold
flippancy to mask my anguish. 'But you had better get your wares off
the street. Miss Hoare will not approve of her laundry being so
carelessly abandoned. And Mr Stubb is surely never far off.'

I
stepped away, the stabbing pain in my toe the least I had to contend
with.

'Martin,'
said Isobel plaintively, but I did not turn.

I
pushed my way across the square, heedless of the offence I caused,
under the arches of the guildhall to where Crawley's blue uniform
stood outside the gaol. Through my consuming bitterness, I noticed he
appeared very grim.

'Jerrold.'
The coldness in his tone snapped my thoughts away from Isobel. 'Come
with me.'

Without
explanation, he crossed the threshold of the gaol. Perplexed, I
followed him, aware as I did so that there were others behind me.

Gibble
was at the far end of the room on the wrong side of the bars, holding
a lantern as high as his crooked frame would allow. 'What do you see,
Jerrold?' asked Crawley tautly.

I
looked into the yellow gloom around Gibble. The cell was empty.

'He
is... gone,' I said, struggling to grasp this new turn of events.

'Indeed.'
A harsh voice rang out behind me. 'Our indispensable witness,
escaped. I told you, Crawley, that Jerrold's character would reveal
itself in time; I am only sorry I did not condemn it when I had the
chance, before he could work this mischief.'

I
turned in shock to see Cunningham louring in the doorway.

'Do
you imply that I had some part in this?' My legs were quivering.

'The
gate was locked after he'd bolted, Jerrold, so he must have had the
key.' Cunningham spat out his words like grape shot. 'The key that is
still in your belt. You helped him escape, lest he betray you for the
spy and traitor that you are.' There was a chill, unadulterated
triumph in his voice. 'The traitor I always knew you to be. Mr
Stubb!'

Stubb
stepped out of the shadows and clamped his burly hands about my arms.
Through my confusion and horror, I was aware enough to wince.
Meanwhile, Gibble had emerged and was bending before me; cold iron
snapped about my ankles as he shackled them together.

'No
need to add weights, Gibble,' said Cunningham. 'You may save them in
case he gives you trouble.'

I
looked desperately to Crawley, but his face was a mask of anger. He
pulled the sword and pistols from my belt, as well as the key, and
handed them to Ducker in silence. He would not look at me.

'Now,
gentlemen,' said Cunningham savagely. 'We ought perhaps to devote our
attentions to more significant matters. Hunting down the fugitive,
for example. We may even suppose that with this traitor out of our
path we shall enjoy more success than we have lately been accustomed
to.'

The
room began to empty, though Stubb never relented an inch of his
numbing grasp. When only Cunningham remained, he spun me about and
pushed me forward through the cell gate. With my legs bound, I fell
inevitably onto my face with a howl of agony.