Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1) Page 22

  “Nicely cleaned,” Middleton said, his shy smile boosting Connie’s confidence. She watched carefully as he examined both wounds, then dusted powder on them and applied a new bandage. “All you can do is keep him warm,” he said. “Give him a drink—water, not wine—if he asks for it.”

  “Laudanum?”

  “A few drops in water, if he needs it.”

  Holding the lantern close, Connie observed little change in the man’s face, the greyish tinge still there.

  “You must stay until daybreak, at least, Mr Middleton,” Connie said. At this time of year, that wouldn’t be long. “Do have a cup of tea, or something stronger, if you wish, then we’ll find you somewhere to lie down. You can check on him again before you leave.”

  Mrs Curnow made tea while Connie chattered to Middleton, relating injuries she’d helped to tend in the past. The poor man’s eyes were beginning to glaze over with boredom, but she made him listen by plying him with questions about the treatments she’d used. Finally she worked around to the time when the imaginary Jacky Smith had fallen off a roof and hit his head, but the only advice she gleaned was to keep the patient in bed, warm, but not too hot, and to give him something to drink if he came round enough to be able to swallow. That wasn’t much help.

  Will and Connie left Mrs Curnow to see to Middleton’s comfort, and stepped out into the hallway.

  “Go to bed, Connie.” Will put his arm around her as he had earlier. She leaned back, enjoying the solid feel of him, and the comforting pressure of his hand on her arm. “There’ll be much to do tomorrow,” he went on. “I’m going to let Archer know about our man in the cellars, then I’m for my bed, too.”

  “Very well.” She’d need to be alert if she was not to let fall any hints about their second patient when the Captain returned. “Goodnight.”

  Chapter 32

  Monday 7th July

  Will knocked on the door to Connie’s room, hoping she was awake. He didn’t want to disturb her, but she needed to know why he was leaving her alone in the house this morning.

  “Come in.”

  He pushed the door open. Not only was she awake, but she was dressed and sitting in the window seat with her feet tucked up.

  She looked up as he came in. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. No more than was wrong last night, that is. Are you all right?”

  She looked well. No, lovely, with a tentative smile on her lips and her hair spilling down her back. It was longer than he’d thought, a gentle wave to it. It would feel silky—

  He dragged his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Er, I came to let you know I’m going to see Nancarrow. We need a few more men about the place.”

  She nodded. “And best not recruited locally?”

  “Exactly. Will you be all right here? I’ve told Archer to keep a close eye on things.”

  “You do trust him?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’ll be fine, Will. I won’t go out of the house unless I have Archer with me.”

  “And not beyond the gardens, even with Archer?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” It was tempting, so very tempting, to lean down and kiss her. But he didn’t think he could stop at just a kiss, and he had to get more protection for her.

  Connie remained on the window seat for a while after Will left. He’d gone back to being distant again, avoiding her touch. Last night he’d put his arm around her, touched her shoulder—reassuring, but warming too. She wanted more of that, more of the closeness she’d felt when they were dealing with problems together.

  She swung her feet off the seat. Time to finish getting dressed—she had wounded men to see to.

  “Who is that for?” Connie asked. The tray of ham, eggs, and tea Mrs Curnow was preparing looked too substantial for either of their patients.

  “Mrs Strickland, still wanting waiting on.” The cook rolled her eyes and picked up the tray.

  The housekeeper should be able to get around by now, Connie thought, even if she needed a stick. But she was quite happy not to have to confront the woman’s superior attitude.

  “What about the soldiers?”

  “The one with the cut arm, I sent him to sleep over the stables last night. He’s been in for his breakfast, was looking all right to me. A little pale, maybe. Haven’t looked in on the others.” She gave a quick nod to Connie and carried the tray out.

  To Connie’s inexperienced eye, the wounded soldier in Warren’s room seemed to be improving. He was still pale, and could hardly lift his head off the pillow, but he agreed that he would try to eat a little gruel if someone could help him to sit up.

  Warren could deal with that, and help the man to use a chamber pot if he needed it.

  She found the butler sitting with the injured smuggler and sent him off, saying she would sit with the patient for a while. Warren had undressed him down to his shirt, and he lay on a pallet covered by a blanket. He was restless, his hands plucking at the covers and his mouth working a little as if he was trying to speak. A tray with a jug of water and a glass stood ready near his head; his outer clothes lay neatly folded next to it, together with a leather satchel.

  “Water?” Connie asked.

  His mouth moved, as if he was answering. She knelt on the floor, bending closer to him, and repeated the question.

  “Mes lettres.”

  His letters? Was he French?

  She sat back on her heels. That shouldn’t be surprising—the smugglers would have many dealings with Frenchmen. What were the letters—orders for the next shipment, perhaps, or payment details?

  “I’m sure your letters are safe,” she said, making her voice sound as reassuring as possible. He must understand English, surely, if he was here.

  “Laissez-moi les voir.”

  Laissez… let… let me see them?

  “Where are they?”

  “Manteau.”

  Connie turned to the pile of clothing; his coat lay on the top. She felt through the pockets, finding coins, a handkerchief, a card case, and a folded sheet of paper.

  “Here you are,” she said, holding out the paper. The man turned his head towards her, then away again.

  “Non. Mes lettres!”

  Had she misunderstood ‘manteau’? She picked up the satchel and opened it, but all it contained was a clean shirt, stockings, and a couple of neckcloths.

  “Mes lettres!” he muttered again. “Manteau!”

  Sighing, she picked up the coat again, this time laying the contents of the pockets on the floor. She’d checked the inside pockets. A hidden pocket?

  She couldn’t see any signs of one, but the lantern light was dim. Patting the coat and the seams revealed a section of the front, beneath the buttons, that felt stiffer than the rest of it.

  Ah, there was a small slit in the lining, just wide enough for her to stick two fingers into. The stiffness was a long, thin packet with the feel of oiled silk, not paper.

  “Is this what you wanted?”

  He reached a hand up to touch it. “Oui. Personne ne doit savoir…”

  No-one must know?

  “All right,” Connie said. She put the packet on the floor. No-one would know, down here.

  The ‘letters’ surely could not just be details of smuggling runs. She could see the need to keep such things dry, to ensure they survived a trip across the Channel in a small boat, but why hide them inside a coat?

  Curious, she turned to one side so he couldn’t see what she was doing, and unfolded the paper she’d first shown him. Tilting it towards the lamp, she made out a letter from an attorney in Cornwall, introducing Mr Jonathan Devizes as his business representative. The card case held cards with the same name on them.

  She looked again at the man lying on the pallet. It was possible that someone who spoke French as their native language would have an English name, but it didn’t seem likely. But if he wasn’t a smuggler, what was he doing here?

  “Elles sont cach
ées?”

  She held up the coat, patting the hiding place. “Well hidden,” she said. “You must sleep now.”

  The packet had been well hidden—not even the smugglers would know about it. It was important, then. Waiting until he closed his eyes, she slipped the packet up her sleeve. She should show the packet to Will. Or perhaps open it herself?

  Footsteps approached, and Warren entered. “How is he, my lady?”

  “He was talking a little,” Connie said. Why hadn’t he asked Warren about his letters?

  “He was before, but I couldn’t make out what he wanted.”

  That explained it. She needn’t worry about the man asking Warren again. Not until he’d recovered enough to realise he needed to speak in English, at least.

  “The captain is here, my lady, with the doctor. He’s going to take away the one with the wounded arm, but wants to leave the other here.”

  Captain Burke—she should show him the packet, but she knew Will would want to see it. Handing it over was a tempting idea; telling the captain what they knew about Sandow would end Will’s involvement with the business. Unfortunately, it would also destroy all the trust she felt had built up between them.

  “I’ll see him,” Connie said, standing and smoothing her skirts, moving her hands cautiously to avoid letting the little packet slip from her sleeve. “I’ll come down again in a couple of hours. Fetch me if there is any change in his condition.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Connie pushed the packet further up her sleeve as she ascended to the entrance hall. She must remember to keep that arm bent.

  “Good day, Captain.”

  “My lady.” He bowed. “Doctor Harris says that Vance will do better if he is not moved for a couple of days. Would it be possible for him to remain here?”

  “By all means, Captain.” She’d feel safer with a soldier in the house, even a wounded one—it might help deter the smugglers from coming to check on their comrade.

  She turned to the other man. “Doctor Harris, could you give me some reassurance? Our gardener fell off a ladder last week and hit his head. I made him rest, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. He seems to have recovered, but is there anything else I should have done?”

  “It is difficult to tell without seeing the man himself,” Harris said. “But the main principle is to keep the patient calm and rested, and allow them a little drink and easily digestible food if they request it. Bleeding, too, may help to reduce any pressure on the brain.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  “I do recommend, my lady, that you always send for a physician. I would be happy to attend should you require my services in the future.”

  Connie inclined her head graciously. “Thank you sir, I will bear it in mind.”

  She waited in the hallway until she saw them ride away down the drive. The man in the cellar would have to manage without being bled. That was not something she was prepared to attempt.

  In her small parlour, Connie sat out of sight of the open door, and spread out the patterned muslin gown she’d picked as the next one to remake. Then she pulled the packet from her sleeve. She would hear anyone approaching in time to hide the packet beneath the fabric of the gown.

  The oiled silk wrapping was held closed with a line of stitches. Connie inspected it carefully, deciding that she could re-sew it so no-one would know it had been opened. She hesitated before reaching for her scissors—what if Will did decide to just take the packet to the authorities? Would it matter if it had been opened?

  She reached for her embroidery scissors. Of course Will would want to know what was in it.

  The sheets of paper inside were thin, the writing on them small. They weren’t letters, but lists. One was a set of names and amounts of money—that looked like a wages bill. Another had what looked like dates, next to numbers and sets of initials. A third was just row after row of numbers—was it possible that it was a code of some kind?

  They could be details of payments for goods bought or sold, or bribes to revenue men, but she didn’t quite believe it. A French courier using a false name, with the papers hidden. This was something more. She’d been right to take them for Will to see.

  Refolding the papers carefully, she put them in the bottom of her sewing box and replaced the reels of thread. Then she took them out again. The man might not be content to have seen the packet once, in his semi-conscious state. If he asked for the papers again before Will returned, and made Warren understand him, it would not do to have him find nothing. She could copy them, and show Will the copies, but copying lists of numbers correctly would require care. She could not do it quickly.

  The man in the cellar had shown no inclination to open the packet. She folded a couple of pieces of her writing paper until they formed the right bulk, and wrapped the oiled silk around them, carefully stitching the seam using the needle holes already made in the fabric. Examining it when she’d finished, she thought it would pass muster in the dim light in the cellar, and probably in daylight, too.

  Warren might get suspicious if she returned too soon, but she could pass on the news that Vance would be staying for a few days and find some excuse to get him out of the room while she replaced the packet.

  Chapter 33

  Will’s mind was busy as he rode home from Ottery. Nancarrow had promised to send some outdoor staff as soon as possible—within a week, if he could—and had confirmed that the Traskers were still safe. He’d also provided a list of prices paid locally for smuggled goods. Will would need to compare that with Pendrick’s estimates of the cost of the goods in France, but from the details he remembered there must be a huge profit involved. There would be other costs, but if they used the fishing boats they owned anyway…

  No, he needed to sit down with paper and pen to make a list of all the factors. The profit made was immaterial; the real problem was the way Sandow ran the operation. The man must be got rid of somehow, he knew that. But with Sandow gone, someone else would take over—the profit to be made from smuggling was too great to be abandoned if their leader was killed or imprisoned.

  He turned Mercury into the drive, slowing to a walk to allow the horse time to cool off. Sandow’s replacement could be as bad, in which case the only way to solve the problem was to stop the smuggling altogether. Archer had said that some of the villagers were forced to contribute to the funding, but that didn’t mean they all were. And it did seem as if they made a little extra from it, even if not a fair amount. Trying to close the whole operation down would earn the enmity of the villagers—not a good way to start his life in the area.

  Those thoughts fled as he emerged from the woods and saw Connie waiting for him on the terrace, one hand shading her eyes from the sun. A warm glow started somewhere inside.

  His pleasure dimmed a little as he drew closer and swung down off his horse. Her expression was strained, and her smile of greeting as she came down the steps towards him was a mere movement of her lips.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice low. Glancing up, he saw Warren appear behind her in the doorway.

  “Walk with me to the stables.” He offered her his arm as he led Mercury around the house. “What is it?”

  “I have something to show you.” Her voice was only just audible. “But no-one else must know, or see.”

  His brows rose, but Stubbs approached them to take the horse so he could ask nothing further.

  “Would you care for some refreshment after your ride, my lord?” Connie continued in a louder voice. “Perhaps you will join me in my parlour when you are ready?”

  Will’s curiosity grew while they waited for Barton to finish setting out the tea things on a small table in Connie’s parlour. Finally the footman left them alone.

  Connie opened her sewing box and handed him several thin sheets of paper. “Our injured smuggler had these on him,” she said. “In a hidden pocket, sewn up in oiled silk.” She explained how she had found them as Will opened out the sheets.

 
; A man who appeared to be using a false identity, with hidden documents written in code. It could be some criminal enterprise more involved than free trading. Or could it be more serious than that.

  “He could be a spy, Connie.”

  “A spy? But why would a Frenchman be spying on Britain?” Connie asked. “We’re not at war with them.”

  Will shrugged. “We have been in the past, and doubtless will be again. We are at war with the colonies, and the French sympathise with them. It’s possibly easier to get information from France to the Americas than it is to send it directly from England.”

  “Is this going to France, or could he have come from there?”

  Good point—why had he been so sure the spy was on his way out of the country? “The boat last night… the dragoons attacked before they landed anyone, or anything. Our spy must have been waiting there to meet the boat. They’d take him back to France once they’d unloaded their cargo.”

  “Do you think Sandow is spying as well?”

  That was a good question. “He lives here—Archer said nothing about him going away from the area, so what could he be spying on?”

  “So Sandow’s gang are only being paid to take the letters?”

  “Yes… I mean…” Will stopped. There was a difference between transporting the letters and transporting the messenger. “No. If Sandow’s being paid to transport the letters, he wouldn’t have needed to bring the spy here to be looked after. He could have just sent the letters to France.”

  “So Sandow doesn’t know about the letters,” Connie said. “He may not even know the man is a spy.”

  “He probably suspects—he’s not stupid. But a man like him won’t care what the information is as long as he gets paid.”

  “So what are we going to do, Will?”

  Will threw his wig onto a chair and ran one hand through his hair. “He may not be a spy, but I think we have to assume that he is. What if he’s only a messenger, though? Arresting him would stop this information getting through, but they could easily find someone else to take it.”