The Cornish Heiress (20 page)

After a moment he started to wonder who did up all the tiny
buttons if Meg found them difficult. In fact, those on the right sleeve must be
almost impossible to do with the left hand alone. Surely it was necessary to
hold the, sleeve together with one hand and button with the other? Could Meg
have a maid? Nonsense, Philip told himself. It was ridiculous. The buttons were
only difficult for him because he was unused to such tiny things so close
together. Women knew how to manage from long practice, and the only reason Meg
had asked him to help was, no doubt, that she was in a hurry to use the jakes.

When Megaera returned they breakfasted, Philip substantially
and Megaera lightly, then went out to complete their round of the warehouses.
Neither had ever been so comfortable or content. The underlying tension of the
preceding day—the desire and uncertainty—was gone. Passion remained, but both
knew it would be satisfied at a proper time and place, and it gave a warm,
heady spice to the day’s doings rather than making them nervous. Deep back
there was a shadow of course, but it did not come forward to cloud the mind and
heart while one was busy and happy.

At last they came to the end of Pierre’s gold. Philip was
relieved that two carts would not be needed. A really large one with four
horses plus loading the carriage with as much as it would hold should be
sufficient. Philip spent the afternoon picking up from one warehouse after
another, then arranged to have the loaded wagon stored in a strong locked shed
so that the goods would not be stolen overnight. He said he was exhausted, for
he had helped load and was not accustomed to that kind of work.

Megaera received that statement with more sympathy than
Philip expected and promptly urged that they should have dinner in their room
again rather than dining out. She did not ask whether Philip was revived by the
rest or by her presence or had perhaps pretended to be more tired than he was
to encourage just the decision she had made. Megaera did not know and did not
care. Any of the suppositions were flattering to her, and she had intended to
find an excuse of her own to stay in if Philip had not provided one. She told
herself she was trying to avoid the danger of meeting someone she knew in the town,
but she certainly made no effort to avoid Philip’s advances. In any case his
fatigue—if he was fatigued—did not affect his sexual performance. It was
Megaera who had to remind him, reluctantly that they were to be called at first
light It would take much longer to draw the heavy wagon mostly uphill toward
Bolliet than it had taken to drive the light carriage down to Falmouth.

For Jean and Henri the weeks, since they had lost Philip had
not been nearly as pleasant as they had been for their intended victim. It had
taken far longer to fix the carriage than could have been expected. Jean
believed that the wheelwright put off working on their job whenever any other
work was offered to him, because he was prejudiced against the French. This
added to the fury Jean felt over Philip’s escape. His first impulse to abandon
the project disappeared, and as his rage increased, it made him more determined
to catch and kill St. Eyre.

When at long last the carriage was repaired and Jean had
grudgingly paid the charges, they resumed their journey. Because Jean did not
wish to leave a trail of inquiries about a man who soon would be found dead,
they took the chance of driving directly to Bodmin. There Jean sent Henri to
ask the questions. Perhaps he would be able to be rid of two problems at once
by having Henri associated with Philip.

Once St. Eyre had been killed, Henri could be killed also.
The weapons could be left, one in each dead hand. A duel in which both had died
would explain both deaths without any need for further investigation, which
might be embarrassing. It would clear up the problem of how to be rid of Henri
without suspicion falling on himself. All he had to do was appear as little as
possible. This was not difficult. Jean allowed Henri to question ostlers, stableboys,
and innkeepers while he did the heavier task of unstrapping the luggage and
following the servants up to inspect their room.

After Bodmin their progress was slow because it was
necessary to stop at every inn where Philip might possibly have spent the
night. Henri became rather overfull of tea and coffee, but he did pick up
Philip’s trail. He had made no effort to conceal it, of course, but it would
have made no difference if he had. Henri remembered how he had identified Spite
in Exeter. Although more than a week had passed and many innkeepers and
servants had forgotten Philip, the ostlers and stableboys remembered Spite’s
frightening if harmless habit.

At Penzance the trail ended. They tried St. Just first, then
St. Ives, then all the towns that were well-known havens for smugglers. Henri
had a reasonably logical story now. They were on the trail of a French agent, a
man who pretended to be either born of a noble English family or an
émigré
loyal to the country that had provided a haven for him. This man was trying to
escape via a smuggling ship, with stolen papers that would protect either
himself or another spy and was also carrying out important information.

To support this tale Jean had prepared some papers with
large seals stamped on red sealing wax. Since most of the people to whom Henri
spoke were illiterate, these seals were sufficiently impressive. A few could
read, but even they were ignorant people. Jean took good care to direct Henri
to avoid anyone who might have authority or knowledge enough to realize the
documents were only a crude sham.

They were not ill received. Cornishmen might be sympathetic
to smugglers, but they were as opposed to “Boney” as any other Briton. Along
the roads questions about the “French” stranger were answered with alacrity and
honesty—no one had seen him in any inn past Penzance where he had asked the
road to Drift. But at Drift no more had seen a “Frenchman” riding a horse that
laid back its ears and showed its teeth.

If Henri had asked for Mr. St. Eyre in Drift, he would have
been directed to Moreton Place. Everyone in the town knew Philip, but they knew
him as Lord Kevern’s school friend. What was more, he had never stabled Spite
in Drift nor, after the first time when he asked directions to Moreton Place, had
he ever ridden Spite into town. He had been resting his hard-worked mount and
taken a rest from Spite’s cruel gait himself by riding Perce’s horses. Thus,
whatever Philip’s accent and however close his features to Henri’s description,
no one connected the two. Lord Kevern’s friend, who escorted the Misses Moreton
and was so elegant and polite could not possibly be in any way connected with
this French spy who was being sought.

Two days later—in fact Philip and Megaera were about halfway
to Falmouth at the time—Perce stopped at the Rich Lode in Drift. Naturally
enough the landlord told him of their one bit of excitement.

“What did they say this man looked like?” Perce asked. It
was a likely story, and Perce wanted to spread the word among his own friends.

The landlord obliged with a description of Philip and Spite.
Perce himself did not recognize the description of Philip particularly—there
were a large number of dark-eyed, black-haired, dark-skinned, tall, athletic
men in the world—but the moment the landlord mentioned the rawboned bay that
put back his ears and showed his teeth, Perce had all he could do to keep his
mouth from dropping open.

“Why didn’t you send the man along to m’father, Felton?
Surely the one to help catch a spy is the JP. What did he look like? What did
he say his name was?”

“I didn’t see him myself, my lord,” the landlord replied.
“He talked to Jemmy the ostler. To tell the truth, I didn’t think about it ‘til
now but it’s a bit odd he didn’t come in and speak to me. As to Lord Moreton, I
just supposed he
had
been at the Place and his lordship told him to come
down here and ask.”

“I’ll check that, but I don’t think he was. I don’t like
this either, Felton. That horse they mentioned is Mr. St. Eyre’s mount.”

“Mr. St. Eyre?” Felton echoed. “But surely that must be a
mistake. Mr. St. Eyre isn’t a French spy.”

“Of course he isn’t! Went to school with him! I’ve known him
since we were boys and he hates Bonaparte worse than we do. What I don’t like
is this man sneaking around asking about him. If you want information for an
honest purpose you go to the authorities. Now, it may be a coincidence, but if
it’s Philip he wants—well, I want him first. Do you mind if I have a talk with
Jemmy?”

“No, of course not, my lord. Do you want me to have him in?”

“No. He’ll think he’s done something wrong and forget half
of what he knows out of fright. I’ll go out to the stable. But if that man
shows up again or if anyone asks for Mr. St. Eyre by name or by description,
send him up to the house. Mr. St. Eyre isn’t there anymore—but don’t you say
that. I want to know why someone is looking for Philip and who it is.”

Having received the landlord’s assurances, Perce went out to
the stable. Jemmy was by no means an idiot; indeed, he was very clever about
horses, but there his mind stopped. All Perce could ascertain was that Jemmy
had been shown a paper with a big red seal on it. This had so fixed his mind
that he had no idea what his questioner looked like. He could describe the
carriage and the horses minutely; however, this was not much help since both
were the commonest kind of rented article. Jemmy would even be able to
recognize them again, but it was unlikely from his lack of articulateness that
anyone else could.

There was nothing more to be discovered, Perce decided at
last, tossing Jemmy a coin and telling him that he must tell Mr. Felton at
once,
at once
, if anyone came around showing papers like that again.
Also, Jemmy was to tell anyone who showed him big red seals to go up to Moreton
Place, where his questions would be answered better. Perce was just turning
away, much disturbed, when Jemmy dredged one more fact from his memory.

“They wus two,” he announced.

“Two?” Perce repeated, puzzled.

“Niver give me t’orses t’old. Summon in t’chaise ‘eld ‘em.
Niver come out, though.”

That did not make Perce any happier, but he thanked Jemmy,
took his own horse, and rode slowly home. Never in his life had he been at such
a loss. He had no idea what to do. It was clear enough to him that the men who
were hunting Philip had simply reversed the situation to some extent. They must
be French agents. Whether the talk of the papers and information Philip was
carrying was true or not was irrelevant. Someone was trying to stop him from
getting to France. Perce cursed so long and so viciously that his horse picked
up his pace, sensing his master’s rage.

He could not warn Philip because he had not the faintest
idea where Philip had gone. There was a chance that he was already in France,
which would solve part of the problem, but Perce did not think so. Philip had
said that he would send or bring Spite back to Moreton Place before he left. It
would be safe enough to leave him there where there were so many other horses
that Spite would be lost in the crowd.

However, even if Philip was safely across, these men should
be apprehended. They were a danger in themselves, being spies. In addition,
they might lie in wait to catch Philip on his return. Perce had no idea when
this would be. Philip had implied a few weeks but admitted this was only a wild
guess and it might be considerably longer. In fact Philip had said that he
might not be returning to Cornwall at all. In that case, Perce was to bring
Spite back to London when he came to Town for the Season.

What impeded Perce was the fear that any action on his part
might endanger his friend or expose him. What was necessary was to spread the
word that the spy hunter was really the spy. Perce gave this matter
considerable thought and decided that French agents, although not welcome,
would scarcely raise the same passion in Cornwall as Customs inspectors. Yes,
that was it! That would work!

Perce decided he would pass the word that the man or men
claiming to be seeking a French spy were really Customs inspectors attempting
to obtain information on the smuggling gangs through this device, that the
person they said they were seeking did not exist. The only trouble was whether
the tale would spread fast enough. Unfortunately Lord Moreton was of a
sufficiently ethical nature that he would have no dealings with smugglers. He
did not carry these principles to any ridiculous lengths, of course. He bought
his wine and brandy from the “gentlemen”—although at present it seemed to be a
“lady” who was delivering the goods—just like everyone else. Nor did Lord Moreton
go
looking
for evidence of smuggling. However, he would not out of hand
acquit a man against whom evidence was brought, and he would not ignore
evidence concerning smuggling if a complaint was made.

Thus, the “gentlemen” did their best not to provide evidence
around Moreton Place. Aside from actual deliveries, the gangs avoided Drift,
Catchall, and Sancreed. If any of the tenants on Moreton lands were employed by
smugglers, they kept it secret. Ordinarily this was an agreeable arrangement
all around. The smugglers were safe as long as no one complained, and Lord
Moreton was not forced to choose between offending his neighbors or his
conscience.

In this case, however, Perce was at a marked disadvantage.
He did not have the direct leads to any gang that many members of the gentry
had. He would have to pass the word through his friends, who could pass it
along to their tenants who were involved with smugglers. On the other hand,
word that came out of Moreton Place would carry considerable weight. Lord
Moreton would not
support
the smugglers, but no doubt people would
believe that he would resent “foreigners”—that is, Customs inspectors from
London or any area outside of west Cornwall—who invaded his territory.