The Guinea Stamp (8 page)

His companion nodded.

“Then you will doubtless recall a small marble temple situated by an ornamental lake in that part of the grounds which slopes down towards the sea?” asked Jackson.

“I’m not sure,” replied Number One, screwing up his face in an effort of recollection. “The place is a landscape gardener’s nightmare, after all—any amount of pseudo-Greek temples and the like!”

“But only one ornamental lake, if you recall,” persisted Jackson. “The temple should make a very safe rendezvous, don’t you agree? Who, my dear chap, will wish to sit on a marble bench in mid-winter, admiring the prospect of a frozen lake? Only, I feel, the very eccentric.”

Number One professed himself to be in complete agreement with this point of view.

“That’s settled, then,” said Jackson. “And now let’s examine the drinking supply of Boney’s agents, for the night progresses, as no doubt you’ve noticed, and I have many calls on my time.”

“How if we were to try poisoning the stuff?” asked Number One, with a grin.

“Unless, if what I suspect proves to be true,” was the reply. “But follow me, and we’ll soon find out.”

He led the way through the maze of contraband until he arrived at a section where all the kegs were marked with a bright slash of red paint encircling their widest part. Here he paused.

“This is the cargo for which I shall receive no payment,” he said, frowning. “Well, every captain is entitled to know what cargo he carries, eh, my friend?”

He produced an implement, and proceeded to tackle the cork which was driven into the bunghole of the cask. After a short tussle, he succeeded in extracting it. He laid it aside, and pushed two exploratory fingers into the bunghole.

“Well?” asked Number One, expectantly.

Captain Jackson carefully withdrew the fingers, and silently displayed them to his companion after he had first made a brief scrutiny himself. The light was far from good in the cellar, but both men could plainly discern upon the fingers traces of a grey powder.

“What the devil—?” began Number One, puzzled.

The Captain carefully drove home the cork before replying. When he did, his face was grave.

“It’s as I feared,” he said. “These kegs do not contain brandy at all, but gunpowder. And I am not to be trusted with the secret. The question is—what’s in the wind?”

SIX - The Cottage by the River

Somewhere in the distance, a cock crowed. Miss Feniton awoke from a troubled sleep, and sat up in bed. Some matter weighed uneasily upon her mind, but for the moment, she could not determine exactly what it was. Perhaps her conversation with Kitty last night had been the cause of her present sense of uneasiness. She had managed to slip into her friend’s room unobserved by Lady Feniton, and they had talked earnestly for almost an hour.

She had taxed Kitty with coldness towards her betrothed.

“Oh, it’s so difficult, Jo! You do not understand!” Miss Feniton had said that she was only too anxious to try, if given the opportunity.

Kitty hedged a little, and finally burst out with the words: “There are times when I could wish that Guy were not a Frenchman!”

Joanna stared. “Frenchman? When he has been educated at an English public school, and even plays cricket at White’s Conduit Club—what can you mean?”

“I—I—oh, I don’t know! Only sometimes I wonder if his sympathies are not on the other side of the Channel,” said Kitty, in a low voice.

“This is a deal of nonsense, my dear! How much sympathy do you suppose he could possibly feel for the people who sent his parents to the guillotine, and brought him a refugee to his uncle’s home in Devon when he was still only a boy?”

“Then why,” asked Kitty, defiantly, “does he not join the Volunteers? When I see other gentlemen, such as Captain Masterman for instance, in their regimentals, I tell you, Jo, I feel downright ashamed!”

“Have you asked him his reason for this?”

“Oh, yes! But he always turns the subject off, without giving a direct answer.”

Joanna pondered this for a moment in silence.

“Perhaps he does not find the time, as he is so occupied with schemes for his uncle’s farming,” she offered, tentatively, at last.

“Farming!” retorted Kitty, her voice charged with scorn.

“Not romantic, perhaps, I grant you,” said Joanna, laughing. “But very necessary to the country in time of war, nevertheless.”

“It is not altogether that, either,” replied Kitty, slowly; and now Miss Feniton gained the impression that they were about to come to the hub of the matter. “It is surely strange that—oh, why is it that so far he has shown no anxiety to fix upon a date for our wedding? There is no impediment on either side that I can think of, and we have now been betrothed a full three months!”

This certainly had been difficult to explain: indeed, Joanna herself could think of no reason for such cautious behaviour on the part of one whom she would have judged to be an impetuous character. She had done her best, however, and eventually left her friend feeling perhaps easier on the subject than she herself could be.

Having gone over all this in her mind again, she slipped down between the sheets once more, and tried to doze. She did not know what time it was, but certainly it must be too early to think yet awhile of rising.

To her annoyance, she found herself quite unable to relax. She sat up in bed again, and, after a moment’s hesitation, leapt out and drew the curtains back from the window.

She looked out on a grey, windswept sky. A few last shrivelled leaves lingered on the gaunt trees, and the gardens were wet and desolate. She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. It was only half past five. She shivered as the cold air of the room struck through her thin nightgown. It was no use; she was too wide awake now to think of returning to her bed. She decided to dress.

She crossed to the other side of the room, and, picking up an ewer, poured some cold water into a basin. Hot water was to be had only by summoning one of the maids, and she had no wish to disturb the whole house. As she set down the ewer again, an unwelcome thought suddenly assailed her, bringing a wave of panic.

She had forgotten to clean the bloodstained carpet in the parlour downstairs.

So many things had conspired together yesterday evening to make her forget. She had been considerably flustered by the discovery that Jackson had gone, and by the reading of his letter. Scarcely had she recovered from the shock, than Guy Dorlais and Captain Masterman had entered the room, and it had become necessary to attempt some kind of explanation of what they had found there. She had accompanied them back to the withdrawing room without being able to think of anything except Jackson’s letter, and what it could mean. Later, when she had recovered a little, she had found herself caught up in Kitty’s doubts and fears. The result had been that here it was morning, and the carpet still as it was last night.

She must attend to it at once. She dared not leave it to the housemaids. Already, the stains had been noticed by two members of the household; she did not want anyone else to know. If the affair should reach her grandmother’s ears, she knew that Lady Feniton would never rest until she had found an explanation of it.

She completed her cold wash, and dressed quickly, doing up her hair with fingers that trembled with excitement and apprehension. Would the servants be astir yet, she wondered? She must find a pail and scrubbing brush, but it would cause a sensation if she were to ask them for such articles. All would be well if there should prove to be no one in the kitchen quarters of the house. She must hurry.

She finished at last, and, creeping from her bedchamber, stealthily descended the stairs. There was no one in the hall, as yet. She walked noiselessly along the many passages which led to the domestic quarters.

Again she encountered none of the staff. Well pleased, she turned a corner, and found herself confronted by the very thing she required, a pail of water with soap and a scrubbing brush laid ready beside it.

She felt her spirits rise at such a piece of good fortune. Then she heard voices coming through the partly opened door of the kitchens nearby. It was obviously two women indulging in a gossip before starting work. Perhaps at any moment one of them would come out, and seize upon the pail, exclaiming at seeing Miss Feniton standing there. It was now or never, she decided. She noiselessly lifted the pail, scooped up the other articles, and hastily bore them off by the way she had come.

She had barely rounded the corner out of sight of anyone issuing from the kitchen, when she heard a muted shriek from that direction.

“Well, I’m danged!” exclaimed a puzzled female voice, “Where can I’v’bin an’ gone an’ put that pail, then? I’d ‘a sworn I’d left ‘un ‘ere!”

Miss Feniton hastened her steps, doing her best to avoid spilling the water in the pail. It seemed a very long way to the parlour where she had yesterday evening talked with Captain Jackson, but at last she reached it. She set her burdens down, and thankfully closed the door, locking it as a precaution against being disturbed in her work. The curtains were still drawn; she pulled them back, and unfastened the French window, hoping that the gusty air would help to dry the carpet when she should have finished her task.

She rolled up the sleeves of her pin-tucked white gown, reflecting wryly that such attire had obviously never been intended for work. Then she went down on her knees, and once more examined the stains.

They were not, she decided, so very conspicuous, after all. Possibly the two gentlemen who peered so intently at this spot last night could not really have determined exactly what the marks were. No direct question had been asked, at any rate. If she cleared them away now, that might be the end of the matter.

She attacked her task with an energy which might well have been envied by the most robust of Lady Lodge’s housemaids. Her efforts were rewarded. When she finally paused, leaning back to rest on her ankles and dropping brush and soap into the water, there remained no trace of a bloodstain on the carpet. Instead, there was only a large wet patch close to the writing desk. She trusted to the air coming in from the open door to dry this out quickly.

She rose from her knees, drying her hands upon a kerchief which she had brought with her for the purpose. Then she moved away from the desk and stood with her back to the window, pulling down her sleeves.

A step sounded on the gravel walk outside. She swung round quickly, one sleeve still rolled up above her elbow.

“Good morning, Miss Feniton.”

It was Captain Masterman standing there.

“I—oh, good morning, sir,” she stammered.

“I trust you slept well?” he inquired, stepping over the threshold into the room. “It is an unexpected pleasure to see you astir so early.”

She began to pull down her sleeve, giving a great deal of attention to fastening the tiny buttons at the cuff.

“As a matter of fact, I slept but indifferently,” she answered, as carelessly as she was able. “I hope you were more fortunate, Captain Masterman?”

He inclined his head gravely. “You will no doubt recall that the Colonel and I are obliged to make an early start back to Totnes. That is why we took our formal leave of the family last night. But I am sorry to learn that you did not sleep well. I trust nothing occurred to discompose you yesterday evening?”

His glance travelled from the pail to the wet patch upon the carpet as he spoke. She gave a little forced laugh.

“Why, no! Nothing in the world! Why do you ask?”

He frowned. “No reason, of course. That is to—”

He broke off, studying her sleeves with evident interest. She became aware that there was a wet patch upon one of them, and a faint colour came into her cheeks. He lowered his gaze at once.

“One of our men told a strange tale last night,” he went on, abruptly. “He would have it that he saw a coach down at the inn on the river, and called upon it to halt. Its driver ignored the summons, so our man fired upon the vehicle.”

“The inn on the river?” asked Joanna vaguely, with some idea of gaining time to think.

He nodded. “The place where we called to try and obtain shelter for the night ‘The Waterman’.”

Joanna frowned. “But what is so strange about that, sir? Surely a coach may call at an inn without question?”

“Not this inn, Miss Feniton. The place is nothing but a wretched hedge tavern, and no coach can have been near it for years! No, our man was right to challenge it—that is, if any reliance can be placed on his word, for I regret to say that he was the worse for drink at the time, and had been left behind when the rest went to the village, on that account. Anyone there on legitimate business would have halted, and given a reasonable account of himself to a soldier of the Volunteer corps.”

“Legitimate business?” faltered Joanna.

“Well, ma’am, I have heard it rumoured that the landlord of The Waterman’ is hand in glove with a gang of smugglers.”

She drew in her breath sharply. He raised his eyes once more to her face, studying her expression keenly. Her colour had ebbed away now, leaving her face strained and tired. She had herself well in hand, however.

“But surely Sir George would know of it, if there were any truth in that?” she asked.

“Not necessarily. In such cases, often whole villages are concerned in the business, and they all keep together. Besides, as long as everything is conducted quietly, without any acts of violence, there is no occasion for a magistrate to interfere.”

“What do you mean to do about it?” she said, hardly daring to look into his face.

He shrugged. “What is there to do? I cannot be sure that my man has not conjured up these fancies in his drunken mind. Of course, if I were to be presented with any corroborative evidence—”

“But that is not likely, I take it,” said Miss Feniton, in a firm voice.

“No,” he replied, meeting her gaze.

Their glances held for a moment, then Captain Masterman turned away.

“I must not keep the Colonel waiting,” he said. “I believe he will be ready now.” He extended his hand. “I shall look forward to the pleasure of seeing you again when I and my sister join the party at Shalbeare House. It was good of Lady Feniton to invite us. Until then, Miss Feniton, I must bid you farewell. Your most devoted, ma’am.”

He bowed stiffly over the still damp hand which she reluctantly offered him. Then, with one last glance at the wet patch on the carpet, he stepped out on the path. He turned for a moment to smile at her, raised his hand in salute, and was gone.

He left her in a state of considerable mental stress.

How much did he suspect? It was impossible to judge from his manner: all that could be said with any certainty was that he must have seen that all was not quite as usual. It was out of the question that he should not have realized what she had been doing in the room before he came upon her, but did he understand the significance of her action? Had he been merely making conversation when he had recounted the story of the drunken Militiaman? Or had he been inviting her confidence, knowing that she was in some way involved in that affair?

Her thoughts flew uneasily to Captain Jackson. He had been wounded slightly last night, and now she had heard an explanation which fitted that fact. Could this mean, then, that Jackson was an associate of smugglers—was this the secret which he must guard so zealously, which was too incredible to be believed, and too dangerous to be confided? From what little he had let drop, she had begun to suspect that he was concerned in something of quite a different character something of which he need not be ashamed. Evidently, she reflected with a wry little smile, she had allowed herself to become infected with Kitty Lodge’s romanticism.