The Guinea Stamp (2 page)

“The place we seek is a mile or so beyond the village itself,” he said to the coachman. “We must go right at the crossroads, continuing along the road until we approach the Manor House. There is a turning hard by the house, which leads down to the river: it is this lane we must take. I am told that Teignton Manor is the only large house hereabouts, so there should be no difficulty in identifying it. I was also told that the lane is just passable for coach traffic, though it is narrow and rough. Let us hope I was not misinformed.”

The coachman glanced at his horses, and echoed these sentiments, if not aloud. He remounted the box, and carefully negotiated the turning at the crossroads. A short journey brought them to the high stone wall which surrounded Teignton Manor. They at once perceived the lane which they were seeking. It was bounded on its one side by a wall of the Manor, and on its other side by a high bank.

The passenger reflected with satisfaction that, once in the lane, they would at least be secure from observation. The coachman studied the track with strong disfavour. It wound downhill to the river bank, and therefore was well drained; but its surface of rough, uneven stones would play the devil with his horses, and it was so narrow that there could be no passing even a pedestrian in safety. He turned the vehicle neatly enough into it, however, and proceeded cautiously along the many twists and bends. Once the nearside wheeler stumbled and almost lost its footing, but was set right again with practised skill. The decline eased off towards the bottom, and the lane widened, revealing ahead an open stretch of rough ground on which stood a cluster of poor cottages, a small farm and a modest tavern. Behind these buildings was the misty river, grey and rainswept. The scene was inexpressibly dreary.

The coach came to a halt outside the tavern and the passenger alighted. He glanced at the sign, swinging on rusty chains. It badly needed a coat of paint, but its lettering was clear enough: “The Waterman.”

“This is the place,” he said. “Find an ostler, and stable the vehicle immediately.”

The coachman touched his cap, and wondered if such a place ran to a stable, much less an ostler. He held his peace, however, and drove his elegant, though mud-splashed equipage over in the direction where he supposed the stables to be situated.

Meanwhile, his passenger walked swiftly through the rain to the front door of the building. He found it fast shut, though it was barely four o’clock in the afternoon. He glanced at the small windows on either side of the door; they were unshuttered, but close curtained, and showed no light. He picked up the knocker and rapped gently, three times in quick succession. After a short pause, he rapped again, this time a single beat.

Nothing happened for a while, and he began to have misgivings. He stepped back a pace, and glanced at the upper windows. There was a faint light showing behind the curtains in one of these. He stooped, picked up a handful of loose stones, and flung them against the pane. Then he returned to the door, and repeated his performance upon the knocker exactly as before.

This time, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Presently the bolts were drawn noisily back and the door was opened cautiously an inch or two, and a round, rubicund face was revealed, topped by a shock of untidy red hair. A pair of bright blue eyes regarded the visitor suspiciously.

“Good afternoon,” began the traveller. “You are the landlord of the Waterman Inn, I take it?”

“I be,” growled a husky voice, reluctantly. “But if y’r honour be lookin’ for a bed for the night, I don’t take nobody in ‘ere. ‘The Three Fishers’ in the village is the place for that, clean and comfortable, and the good wife a rare cook, so they say.”

“I am obliged to you,” replied the visitor dryly. “But I don’t propose to entrust my person to a village inn, whatever its reputation. I am come here to meet an acquaintance of mine—and of yours, as I understand.”

The landlord’s glance sharpened, but his hold on the door did not relax.

“If that be so,” he said, slowly, “‘appen there’ll be a word by which I may know y’r honour.”

The gentleman nodded, and a shower of raindrops dripped from his hat.

“The word,” he answered briefly in a low tone, “is Horatio.”

The man’s brow cleared. He opened the door wider to admit his visitor.

“If y’r honour’ll ‘ave the goodness to follow me,” he invited.

The stranger stepped inside. The passage was gloomy in the fading November light, and exuded a smell compounded of stale liquor and cooking. He wrinkled his nose fastidiously. The burly red-headed man closed the door behind them and shot the bolts.

“You do not appear to do much trade,” remarked his visitor.

“Nobbut a few villagers and sometimes a servant or so from the big house,” replied mine host, casually. “I gen’ally opens up a bit later on, like.”

“One wonders how you contrive to make a living,” said the gentleman dryly.

“I manage,” was the short reply, as the man turned to lead the way down the passage.

They passed an open door on the left hand side of the passage which revealed a dingy taproom with sawdust-strewn floor. On the right hand side were two doors, both of which were closed. The visitor guessed that the first of these would lead to a small coffee-room, perhaps seldom in use in this strange hostelry. At the second, the landlord paused, and tapped softly before entering.

“Come in,” invited a low voice.

The landlord stood aside, to allow the visitor to precede him into the room.

“Good God! Peter!”

The man who had risen from his chair directed a warning glance at the speaker.

“Captain Jackson, at your service, m’lord.”

His bow was short, curt, yet curiously graceful. The tones of his voice were overlaid by a faint Devon burr.

The older man returned his salutation with an apologetic smile.

“Of course. I beg your pardon. I trust I am not too tardy? The journey was rough and dirty.”

“Be seated, sir.”

Captain Jackson waved his hand towards a comfortable looking chair close to the cheerful log fire. In contrast to the rest of the inn, this room appeared sufficiently cosy. Its walls were panelled in dark oak, and it was simply but attractively furnished as a parlour. He turned to the red-headed landlord.

“A bottle of the best, Nobby—and no interruptions afterwards. Understand?”

“As you say, Cap’n,” rumbled the landlord, and departed on his errand.

“‘Pon my soul, you take me aback!” said the visitor, apologetically. “Every time I see you, it strikes me afresh. Good God, it’s incredible!”

“Then I beg you will strive to conceal your amazement, sir. Up to a point, the good Nobby and myself work together; but I must warn you that he is not privy to all my secrets.”

“In the name of Heaven, who is?” asked the other, drawing closer to the fire and spreading his numbed fingers to the blaze.

“Only one other besides yourself—at least, so I trust,” was the wry answer.

“I doubt if even I am aware of the whole! You’ve come a long way since that day three years since—do you recall it?”

Captain Jackson came over and stood with his back to the fire. He stared reflectively ahead of him, his grey eyes less keen than was their wont.

“Perfectly,” he answered, slowly.

“You were foxed, and it was only three o’clock in the afternoon,” said the visitor reminiscently. “They said you had been half seas over in drink for days, and you only in your twenty-second year! Your parents—”

He broke off, and considered the younger man. A shadow passed across the Captain’s usually alert face.

“They were disturbed,” finished the speaker.

Captain Jackson nodded.

“Too much leisure, and insufficient occupation. Well, you found me a cure for that, my lord.”

The other man stirred uneasily in his seat.

“I had no notion of your going in so deep, Peter.”

“It will be better if you forget that name, sir. I and my confederates do not deal in names,” warned the younger man. “Yes, well, I had only half a notion of it myself. Would you believe it, during that first six months I used to be most abominably seasick?”

“You would not be the first sailor to suffer from that malady. Nelson himself, so they say—”

A discreet tap sounded on the door. Captain Jackson placed a warning finger upon his lips, and stepped softly to open it. On seeing no one but the landlord standing outside, his manner relaxed.

“I’ll take that, Nobby. Do you leave this gentleman and myself undisturbed for a while.”

He relieved the landlord of the tray which he carried, and shut the door.

“Now, sir. I think you’ll find that what I have here is almost worth a journey from London.”

The tray held a bottle of wine and two glasses. Captain Jackson set it down upon a small oak table, and uncorking the wine, poured it, and handed a glass to his guest.

“What shall be our toast, my lord?”

“Your health, my boy. It requires constant pledging. At all times you are in grave danger.”

The other shrugged.

“There are worse evils. Let us rather drink to victory over our enemies.”

My lord raised his glass.

“To victory, then—and to those, like yourself, who are helping to make it possible.”

He drank, then thoughtfully surveyed the wine in his glass.

“You are right, P—Captain Jackson. This liquor is indeed something out of the common way. Is it—?”

“Some of my contraband? You have conjectured aright. This never paid duty at any port, my lord.”

“Then do not tell me of it,” remonstrated the other. “As a member of His Majesty’s Government, I ought not to be drinking contraband.”

Captain Jackson laughed. “By all means leave it, my lord, since you feel so strongly.”

The other man registered his horror at such an unlikely course of action, and, for a few moments, the two drank in silence, savouring the excellence of the wine. At last, the Captain set down his glass with an air of finality.

“And now, sir, to business,” he said. “I have something here which I fancy would interest the Prime Minister himself.”

He produced what appeared to be a coin from a concealed pocket, and handed it to his guest. My lord took it, carefully scrutinizing the small object.

It was a medallion engraved on both sides, and bearing an inscription. On the one side was an image which the statesman managed at last to identify as that of the legendary Hercules crushing the sea giant Antaeus. The engraving on the obverse side was less difficult of identification: it was the Emperor Napoleon, victoriously laurel-crowned. What made my lord gasp with surprise, however, was the inscription which he translated, reading aloud in stunned accents: “‘Invasion of England. Struck in London, 1804’.”

He turned a puzzled face towards the Captain. “What can this mean?”

“Only that His Imperial Majesty believes in being beforehand with the world. This and others similar were struck in Paris, against the time when Napoleon should hand them out to his victorious armies in London.”

“Madman!” exclaimed the statesman. “Opinion in highest naval circles is firm that he can never bring off this invasion with such craft as we know him to have designed for the purpose. What, then, can he intend? Has he some other card to play?”

“Many, from what I myself have observed. To begin with, there are 175,000 men encamped in the vicinity of Boulogne and a flotilla of at least 2,000 boats of various kinds ready and waiting.”

“It must first evade the Navy,” observed my lord.

Captain Jackson smiled grimly. “True. With Nelson standing off Toulon and Cornwallis off Brest, their chances of pushing their noses out into the Channel are small indeed. But if they should come—”

“We shall be ready.” The statesman’s mouth set in a grim line. “Our Volunteers will be waiting on the beaches.”

“Armed with pitchforks,” said the other, with a grimace.

My lord finished his wine, and placed the empty glass upon the table.

“I grant you that we have not nearly enough arms to go round. But the spirit of the Militia is splendid, and a pitchfork can be a fearsome weapon in the hands of a desperate man.”

Captain Jackson nodded.

“On the whole, I agree with you, sir. But our most deadly enemy is not across the Channel, but within England.”

The statesman raised his brows.

“You refer, of course, to the French agents who are working over here?”

Captain Jackson nodded. “That medallion which you are holding has another use than the one for which it was originally made. It is also the link between Napoleon’s agents, the passport which one must show to another as a token of belonging to a common cause. God knows, sir, how many of these things are at present in the country!”

My lord looked thoughtful.

“Some of these agents have already been arrested,” he said consolingly. “Others, like your friends in this area, are left alone in the hope that one day they may lead us to the more important members of their organization. You say that you are convinced there is a key man in this area from whom all the others take orders; without him, the rest would be of little account.”