The Guinea Stamp (7 page)

“There is no need, thank you,” said Joanna, hurriedly. “I am now quite myself again. It was nothing—the heat of the room, no doubt.”

She placed the letter carefully in her reticule, while both men watched her in silence. Then Captain Masterman closed the doors, secured them firmly, and pulled the curtains back into place before them.

As he stepped back into the room, his sleeve caught at the penknife which lay on the desk, sweeping it on to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, then paused. Following the direction of his gaze, she noticed with misgiving that it was fixed upon that portion of the carpet which was stained with Captain Jackson’s blood. The stains were not visible from where she stood: but surely at such close quarters, he could not miss them?

“Anything up, Masterman?” asked Dorlais curiously, seeing the other man’s hesitation.

“Nothing,” replied the captain, straightening himself, and laying the penknife down upon the table.

He turned to Joanna. “I trust you found your scarf, Miss Feniton?”

Joanna felt the beginnings of a blush rising to her cheek. She turned and set about tidying away the writing materials from the desk, in order to conceal it.

“I must have left it in my room, after all,” she replied, as carelessly as she was able. “It’s of no account. I am warm again now. Shall we return to the withdrawing room, gentlemen?”

Captain Masterman nodded, and opened the door for her to pass through. She started towards it, then turned back to see why it was that Guy Dorlais was not keeping pace with her.

She saw that he was bending earnestly over the spot where the penknife had fallen.

FIVE - Conference at “The Waterman”

It had begun to rain again, and a gusty wind caught at the bare branches of the trees, making them creak and groan. The night was black, with the impenetrable darkness of November, the time a little after midnight. A man trod catlike across the yard of “The Waterman,” and softly raised the cellar trap. It opened on well-oiled hinges and he entered, closing the trap carefully behind him and noiselessly shooting the bolt.

A lamp suspended from the ceiling showed a small dark chamber, thickly covered with cobwebs, and having a very uneven stone floor on which stood a few empty barrels. One of these was upended, and the landlord was perched upon it, patiently waiting. At first sight of the other man, he started to his feet, frowning.

“So you’re still alive, then,” he stated without emotion.

Captain Jackson grinned. “And kicking,” he said. “Did you give all that venison pasty to the good Colonel, Nobby?”

Nobby briefly described the Colonel in other, more colourful terms, before volunteering that he might perhaps find a portion of the pasty in the larder, if he looked hard enough.

“But there’s someone waiting to see you upstairs.” He gestured with his head at the ceiling. “That makes the second caller today—danged if I ever knowed sic goings on! Ye’ll mak’ this place too ‘ot to ‘old us.”

“Who is it?” asked Jackson.

“Same feller as gen’lly comes—’im as ye calls Number One,” explained Nobby, briefly.

The Captain nodded.

“I’ll go to him at once. But first tell me what happened earlier this evening—d’you know who fired that shot?”

The landlord snorted. “One o’ they Militiamen—drunk as a lord, ‘e was. They ‘ad to leave ‘im be’ind when they went off to the village. The noise o’ the coach must ‘a roused ‘im. The poor fool jumps up an’ takes a pot shot at it, then falls down agin, dead to the world. I rushed out when I ‘eard it, an’ found ‘im lyin’ there. ‘Twas too dark to see proper, though I ‘eard the coach goin’ on up the lane as though the devil was after it. I couldn’t be sure whether you was in it or no, much less whether you’d been ‘it, but I guessed as I should see ye soon enough if ye’d been wounded, an’ if not, that ye’d keep clear for a bit, to see ‘ow matters stood, like.”

“What’s happened to the fellow now?” asked Jackson with a frown.

“Don’t ask me! I threw a bucket o’ water over ‘un, an’ that soon sobered ‘im up. Started ‘ollerin’ that Boney’d come, so I let ‘im ‘ave another for good measure. Then ‘e says where are ‘is mates, an’ I says they’m over to the village. ‘E asks me the way, an’ off ‘e goes, soakin’ wet as ‘e is. Whether ‘e ever gets there or no, I can’t say, an’ don’t rightly care.”

The captain pondered this information for a moment in silence, then shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Not much he can tell, after all,” he said, ruminatively. “And no one will attach much importance to the story of a drunkard, anyway.”

Nobby used a descriptive word for the unfortunate soldier.

“We can forget him,” said Jackson, walking towards the door of the cellar. “Bring me that pasty and a mug of ale upstairs, there’s a good chap. Better make it two mugs,” he added, remembering his visitor.

Nobby acquiesced, and the Captain made his way to the parlour where he had earlier entertained a prominent member of His Majesty’s Government.

The man who was standing before the fire when Jackson entered the room was not nearly so distinguished looking as the former visitor. Like Jackson, he was wearing fisherman’s attire: a dark woollen cap was pulled down at an angle over one eyebrow, and his face was almost concealed by a thick black beard. In spite of the beard, it was evident that he was of no very advanced age.

They nodded a casual greeting, and fell to exchanging information. Nobby appeared presently, bearing a tray which held the refreshment earlier bespoken by the Captain. Having dismissed the landlord, Jackson fell to with a will, but the other man showed little interest in the food.

“I ate a good dinner earlier,” he said by way of explanation.

“Lucky fellow!” said his friend, with a rueful grin. “At least your life is not quite so topsy turvy as mine is.”

“It’s bad enough,” replied the other. “I don’t mind telling you, Captain, that at present I feel almost like throwing in my hand!”

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Woman trouble?” he hazarded, shrewdly.

“The same! You may thank Heaven, my dear chap, that you are heart whole and fancy free.”

“Mm,” replied Jackson, thoughtfully, and fell into a momentary reverie.

He roused himself after a moment, and drained his mug.

“You say that all the local French agents have unaccountably moved their quarters, and are being watched by ours,” he said, frowning. “And so far you have heard nothing concerning their new hideout? Or is there anything fresh to report?”

“Yes, there is,” replied Number One. “Four got word to me yesterday. Two of them have been traced—to a farm situated about a mile from Kerswell Cove. There is no news yet of the others.”

Captain Jackson whistled.

“The Cove!” he said, and it was evident that the information startled him. “Do they mean to make a run for it, think you? If so, that is proof positive that I am no longer trusted by the other side.”

“Lord knows! What makes you think that they don’t trust you, anyway? Have you anything definite to go on?”

“I’ve been followed on a few occasions,” said Jackson, slowly. “But that might possibly be a matter of common precaution with all agents who are not of French extraction. No, what I mislike particularly is the fact that for some time past, I’ve had no orders from them—no printed orders, that is to say. Also I’ve been told nothing of what’s afoot at the present moment—and there’s obviously something very important in the wind when they whistle all their watchdogs from their holes in this way. There’s that business of the brandy, too—I don’t like that.”

He broke off, frowning.

“D’you know, Number One,” he said, suddenly, “I think it might be no very bad idea to take a closer look at those kegs which are destined for the Cove? I’ve suddenly had a notion—fantastic, I grant you, but then the whole business is deuced odd.”

“What exactly have you in mind?” asked Number One, rising.

“It’s scarce likely that they should run brandy out of France for the pleasure of taking it back into the country again, is it?” asked Jackson. “Yet why else should it be left in Kerswell Cove? The place is nothing but a post office for Boney and his agents.”

“It might be destined for the farm nearby, which appears to be their new headquarters,” suggested Number One.

“That’s exactly what I have in mind.”

“Nothing extraordinary in that, then, is there?” asked the other, puzzled.

“You don’t find it out of the way that Boney’s agents should be supplied with large quantities of best brandy, presumably for their own consumption?” asked Jackson, derisively. “
Vive
L’Empereur
!”

The other man frowned. “Yes, I see what you mean. They’ve got more important concerns than running contraband, too, so that isn’t the answer—anyway, your gang handles that side of the business skilfully enough. No need for any outside help. What do you suggest, then, Captain?”

“That we find out exactly why these kegs are so very important that they can’t be handled in the usual way,” replied Jackson, and started for the door, snatching up a candle from the table as he passed by.

The two men made their way to the kitchen quarters of the inn. At this time of night, these were deserted. The only sign of life was the smouldering fire, damped down to last until morning.

Jackson lifted a lantern from an iron hook beside the fireplace.

“We’ll need this,” he said, sliding back the horn shutter and lighting the candle within. “Best shield it, though. By rights, there should be no one about at this time of night, but one can’t afford to take a chance.”

His companion took the lantern, and together they made their way to the back door, which Jackson softly unfastened. It gave on to a yard which overlooked the river, and which was bounded by a stone wall. Blackness enfolded them as they stepped outside the door, and, crossing the yard, moved along in the shelter of the wall. The rain blew softly into their faces, and their nostrils were assailed by the dank river smell. They came at last to a strip of rough, miry ground which separated “The Waterman” from the small farm. This they traversed as quickly as possible, their boots squelching into the sodden earth, which was crossed and recrossed by the tracks of a farm cart.

“Must remember to tell Dick Stokes to throw some shingle down,” muttered Jackson. “Getting beyond anything just here!”

Presently they arrived at some roughly constructed outbuildings. In the largest of these, my lord’s coach had reposed earlier in the evening. The two men were not bound for this, however, but turned instead into an open barn. One half of it was piled high with sweet-smelling hay; across the other half was set an old, rusty, broken down wagon, almost blocking the entrance. With some difficulty, they squeezed behind the wreck, uttering a few muffled oaths.

“My cursed breeches!” muttered Number One, feelingly. “I’ve ripped the damned things!”

“Small clothes appear to be in the wars, tonight,” returned the Captain, with a grin that was lost in the darkness. “Never mind your confounded breeches, man, but lend me a hand here!”

He seized a hayfork from its place against the wall, and began shifting the pile of hay which lay behind the old wagon. He had soon revealed an iron ring set into the stone floor of the barn. Number One set down the lantern, and tugged at the ring. A square of the flooring rose up, revealing underneath a short flight of stone steps. The two men climbed into the aperture, bearing their lantern.

“We’d better close it, I think?” asked Number One. The other man assented, and took the lantern while his companion carefully lowered the heavy slab. “Phew!” he said, expressively, as he followed Jackson to the bottom of the steps.

Captain Jackson did not trouble to reply, but removed the cover from the lantern, so that they would have more light. He then reached upwards, and hung the lantern upon a hook which depended from the low ceiling.

The light fell upon a large cellar. Apart from a small space near the foot of the steps down which they had just come, the whole place was stacked to capacity with barrels and cases. Narrow lanes between the merchandise allowed a man to edge his way from point to point amongst it.

Number One laughed. “Your contraband appears to be a flourishing concern—pity you don’t reap any of the profits yourself!”

The other agreed wryly. “More particularly as I must pay the penalty if they nab me,” he said, carelessly. “However, a man can’t expect adventure and security to go hand in hand.”

“Reckless devil, ain’t you?” asked Number One. “Won’t even take the trouble to adopt a reasonable disguise.”

The Captain surveyed his friend’s black beard with an amused eye.

“Are you suggesting, my dear chap, that I should enshroud my features in fungus similar to that which you wear?” he asked, derisively. “Heaven forbid! My art must be sufficient disguise.”

“It is, too,” admitted the other, with grudging admiration. “All the same, have a care, Captain.”

The warning was uttered seriously, in the tones of one who had Captain Jackson’s welfare very much at heart. Jackson smiled.

“Don’t worry, I will. As you know I must go aground shortly for a while we must make fresh arrangements for that.”

“As to that, there is a slight complication on my side,” admitted Number One, and told him briefly what it was.

“Damnable luck!” exclaimed the Captain, when he had heard his companion out. “But I suppose it was only to be expected. That puts us both out of the running, and at what I suspect to be a time of emergency, too! Is there nothing to be done?”

“Not on my side, at any rate,” said Number One, firmly. “As much as my life’s worth to default, give you my word! The fact is, I’m hamstrung, my dear boy! Don’t know about you,” he added, hopefully. “Is there any chance that you could—”

Jackson pondered deeply for a moment or two.

“I could do it, of course,” he said, reluctantly. “But, truth to tell, I’m not sure that I wish to.”

“Your own affair, naturally, my dear chap. But it isn’t as if the lady means anything to you.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Jackson, cryptically. “I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?” asked the other, his curiosity thoroughly aroused.

Jackson shrugged. “I’ll tell you at some other time. At present I don’t think we need concern ourselves unduly, for I fancy I see a way whereby we may very well handle the affair as matters stand. The farm where these French agents are hiding is only a mile or so from Kerswell Cove, you say.”

The other nodded.

“And Kerswell Cove, Number One, is about the same distance from Shalbeare House, the residence of Sir Walter Feniton, is it not?”

“True. So you think—”

“Lady Feniton is hospitable, and entertains widely,” remarked the Captain. “It is one of her few virtues. You must surely have been at Shalbeare House at some time or other in your chequered career, Number One?”