Moon Cutters (31 page)

Fletcher placed a hand on her arm. ‘I’m not going to just hand them over. I need to know your plan.’

‘It’s simple. After my husband’s funeral, Sir James is providing me with the use of his closed coach to take me to my sister’s house. It will have the Fenmore crest on the door. We will be accompanied by the bishop’s vehicle. Nobody will dare search us. The young ladies will hide themselves inside my coach.’

‘And if they’re caught?’

‘In that case, you must be prepared to offer a diversion, but I have great faith in the Lord to get us through without harm.’

Adrian chuckled. ‘I like the irony of your plan. I’m sure we can manage a diversion if we need one; in fact, I can almost guarantee one. You seem to have uncovered a talent for being devious, Mrs Swift.’

She smiled. ‘You don’t know how devious I can be. Kindly present yourself in the church at ten, gentlemen. Now come along, young ladies. Let’s go and get settled in before someone thinks to search the church. Close the lid to that coffin before you leave. They will be using it for contraband before too long and it will look out of place if it’s gaping open.’

‘We’ll return later and take up residence in your hall. I won’t feel easy leaving you to fend for yourself. Someone might take it into their heads to search the rectory.’

‘As you wish, Mr Taunt, but my windows have stout shutters and my doors bolt from the inside.’

‘I’m scared,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘I’ll feel better if you’re with us, Fletcher. Sir James will set his dogs to find us when he knows we are missing.’

‘We both will,’ Adrian Taunt said, ‘and we’ll use Caesar as a blind. They’ll sense his distress and will follow his scent first. But they will probably follow your scent through the tunnels as far as the water and go no further.’

They gained the rectory unseen, and there was enough food in the larder to sustain them for a day or so.

Mrs Swift smiled. ‘I preserve fruit and vegetables to give to the poor of the district, and the reverend used to help me deliver it. And there are eggs, and enough flour to make bread. And I used to collect clothing for them to wear.’

There was a box full and they found skirts, petticoats and bodices, carefully patched, but meticulously clean.

The men returned to the rectory, carrying Caesar. The dog limped when they set him down. He wagged his tail when he saw Miranda and thrust his nose into her hand.

Adrian said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Swift. He needs looking after.’

‘That’s Sir James’s handiwork, if ever I saw it,’ she said sourly. ‘That man will have a lot to answer for when he finally stands before his maker. She made a soft nest of blankets for the dog and dug the ham bone out of the broth. Caesar licked it clean and then went to sleep; his front paws anchoring the bone in position in case it decided to stray.

They spent an uneasy night together, the storm raging around the house.

The day dawned warm and soft. The funeral was well attended, mostly by acquaintances who liked to be seen offering their respects at such events. Simon Bailey was present, with two other customs officers.

Afterwards they chatted about an expected delivery of brandy at Christchurch and Bournemouth Bay, and a raid they were taking part in that night, not bothering who overheard or troubled by the fact that the information would be all over the district by nightfall.

The cemetery attached to the church was covered by a myriad of jewel-coloured flowers – the blush of foxgloves and irises so golden that they outshone the sunshine. Hedges were embroidered with dog roses, and the smell of honeysuckle drifted in the air, busy with the sound of bees and the flight of butterflies.

Carriages lined the outside of the weathered stones of the wall surrounding the cemetery. The cart containing Mrs Swift’s worldly goods had already departed, rumbling off towards Poole. Sir James was efficient.

Miranda and Lucy were concealed behind a family mausoleum near a break in the wall. An angel stood on a plinth above them, giving her blessing with two raised and crooked fingers while Mrs Swift issued her directions.

‘Wait until the church doors are closed and the carriage drivers are inside the church, and then use the wall to hide your movements as you sneak into the carriage. You know which one it is.’

Miranda had begun to admire Mrs Swift. She was strong and brave, though opinionated. ‘Thank you for being so good to us.’

Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes, as if she wasn’t used to being paid a compliment. ‘Oh, I knew the pair of you would be trouble as soon as I set eyes on you. It was plain that your mother was a decent, God-fearing woman who’d taught you some manners. That sort of innocence always attracts men of a certain type. And it was plain Sir James had some plan of his own – and just as he was about to offer for Sarah Tibbets, or so she would have us believe. She should count her lucky stars the scoundrel didn’t get a ring on her finger.’

Instead, Miranda had got one on her finger – the one that had belonged to her mother and put there by her own favourite scoundrel.

It seemed forever until the door to the church closed on the mourners. The horse turned a dark-fringed gaze their way, and the dark interior of the closed carriage pressed suffocatingly in on them when they scrambled inside.

Miranda hoped the horse wouldn’t take it into his head to move off. But, like all Sir James’s animals, it was well trained and behaved itself. They shrank into their respective corners when Mrs Swift got in, her wide black skirt and the black curtains drawn across the carriage windows, effective in hiding them from sight.

‘Thank you, Sir James, you’ve been so kind,’ she simpered when the coachman handed her in. ‘The bishop will be part of our entourage. And has kindly offered to precede us … such an honour.’

‘I’m pleased to be of help, dear lady,’ he said, his voice sounding totally sincere.

Watching them go, Fletcher heaved a sigh of relief and headed for his horse. He intended to follow, off road and from a safe distance, and make sure they got there safely.

He’d barely reached the outskirts of Poole when he heard horses coming up behind him.

He spun round to be confronted by Simon Bailey who was flanked by two of his men. ‘Mr Taunt, you’re under arrest. Best you come without making a fuss.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Simon smiled widely. ‘Someone might shoot you.’

‘I’m unarmed.’

‘Accidents happen, Mr Taunt.’

‘Obviously.’

He gazed from one to the other, wondering if he should make a run for it – but to what end? He hadn’t done anything illegal recently – at least, not anything he could remember.

‘I hope this isn’t going to be some nuisance trespass charge my uncle has concocted against me.’

Bailey and his men exchanged a glance and laughed. ‘I’m given to understand you became a married man barely two hours ago. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your bride by dying before she has a proper wedding night, would you?’

A smile flitted across Fletcher’s face when he thought of Miranda in her shabby patched skirt and her mismatched bodice, her eyes dewy soft with love and gazing into his while they took their vows before the bishop. Mrs Swift had gazed on smugly, pleased by the outcome of her own meddling. Lucy had wept.

‘How the devil could you know about my marriage?’

‘Let’s say I attended the wedding. I was quite touched.’

Fletcher felt a little desperate. ‘Look, Bailey, my wife and her sister are in the carriage up ahead. I need to convey them to a place of safety before I can allow myself to be arrested.’

‘One of my men is looking out for them.’

‘What man? I can only see my uncle’s second …
coachman.
’ He recalled former suspicions because the man was too friendly with Bertha, the Monksfoot Abbey cook. His suspicions had never progressed past that. Not that she was much of a cook. He shrugged. ‘Barnstable is one of your men? I’d never have believed it. He’s humping my cook. Bertha will brain him with the skillet when she finds out.’

Simon Bailey’s eyes lit up, and he looked as though he found it hard to control his laughter. ‘Come, come, Mr Taunt, you’re being a bit hard on them, especially since it’s obvious that you believe in true love. Now … come along with me and I’ll lock you in a nice safe cell until it’s all over … because my men will be going in hard.’

‘I can think of better places to be, so would prefer not to. I have unfinished business with my uncle.’

‘So does the crown, so join the queue. I’d be grateful if you had anything useful to tell me.’

Fletcher began to laugh; the man certainly had a sense of humour. ‘I can sense Oswald’s hand in this. If you think I’m going to allow myself to be incarcerated without reason, you can think twice. There’s nothing you can charge me with.’

Simon’s grin had a touch of the piratical about it. ‘It wouldn’t take long to think of something.’

‘Shoot me if you must, Mr Bailey, but I’m unarmed, and it will have to be in the back. I’m not a bad judge of character, and I doubt if that would sit well on your shoulders. I’m returning to defend my house and home, and to sort out a family problem, something I’m not looking forward to. Smuggling is your sport, not mine.’

He turned and headed back towards his home, his spine prickling and knotting even at the thought of a bullet tearing into his flesh.

‘Try to keep out of my way, that’s all, Mr Taunt,’ the man called after him.

Bastard!
Fletcher thought, but he allowed himself a grin. Damn it all, there was something he liked about the man!

Sir James had put it about that there would be a gentlemen’s wake for the reverend that evening. Very little mourning would go on, but plenty of drinking and gambling.

Fletcher hadn’t expected to be invited, so when his uncle told him he was welcome to attend, he was suspicious. Was it just another of the man’s eccentricities or, as he suspected, an attempt to undermine him again? ‘I’m entertaining a guest.’

‘A woman?’

Fletcher scrambled to give his father the first name he came up with. ‘A man. His name is Fryer … um … Hadrian Fryer.’

‘Hadrian Fryer? I had no idea there was a stranger in our midst. Bring him by all means, Fletcher. I might have some special entertainment for a select few of us.’

He couldn’t help saying, ‘Will Miss Lucy be playing the piano for us, then? Or Miss Jarvis?’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of sport: use them as hostesses for the evening, then auction them off as slaves. It will entertain the men.’

‘I thought you liked them, uncle.’

‘They turned out to be rather tedious. The younger one is empty-headed and prattles. As for Miranda, she disapproves of everything I do for her and needs to learn how to be grateful. But she has had her chances. I found the pearls I recently bought her thrown into a corner. I imagine I shall find a place of employment for them somewhere.’

And Fletcher could imagine where that place would be.

Blood beginning to boil, Fletcher had made a show of looking around him while he took a steadying breath. ‘I expected them to be at the funeral.’

‘The creatures are probably still abed. They will turn up for the evening entertainment, I promise.’

And that had alerted Fletcher to the fact that his uncle hadn’t checked on them yet, but was confident he knew of Lucy’s whereabouts. As for Miranda, it was only by luck that she’d found a way out of the tunnels. Thinking she was still down there, his uncle would send the dogs down to flush her out.

Now Fletcher stood at the window and gazed down over Axe Cove. It looked totally peaceful. The tide was out, the beach had been cleared of seaweed, and the sand stretched in little ripples to the water’s edge. There, seagulls fished amongst the froth. On the horizon, a smoky purple smudge heralded the approach of evening.

He loved it here – in its summer peacefulness and its winter fury, and all the stages in between.

The channel in and out of the cove was a dark blue slash of water. He’d always known that the stream servicing the well in the crypt ended up in the Axe. When he’d been a boy, and his uncle’s shadow, for he’d hero-worshipped the man, he’d been with his uncle and Silas in the crypt. They were directing the workers to stack bolts of fabric and other goods that had been unloaded from the
Wild Rose
. At the time, Fletcher had no idea that the activity was an illegal one.

He’d climbed down the ladder to drop a piece of wood into the well, one he’d fashioned into a boat. His little craft had been sucked under. He’d found it a couple of weeks later, floating in the cove.

His uncle had thrashed him when he’d come back up the ladder. ‘If you go down there, you’ll be swept away, and one day Silas will discover your remains lying on the beach, with the seagulls pecking your eyes from your head.’

Hands held over his sore buttocks, he’d said defiantly, ‘How will Silas know it’s me?’

Silas had laughed. ‘The bones will have your name on them, my lad. Fletcher Taunt from Marguerite House.’

The power of the current had fascinated him. When it rained hard, the water came up the well, and once it had spilled over on to the crypt. Sometimes it formed a whirlpool as it retreated. If the summer was dry, it became a trickle. The water was clean and cool and tasted fresh. But the thought of Miranda being sucked into that stream made him shudder.

His uncle had loved him then, after a fashion, but when he’d grown into manhood and developed a mind of his own, he’d suddenly become a rival.

The
Wild Rose
was resting on the sand, kept upright by the ropes tying her to the shore. Fletcher had warned Tom off as best he could, but would that stop the man from taking the lugger out? Tom had always been a law unto himself.

It would be a simple matter to stop him. All he needed to do was loosen a plank and the incoming tide would do the rest. As soon as it ebbed again, he could repair it. Fletcher was tempted.

He turned to his father. ‘I was thinking I could sink the
Wild Rose
to stop Tom taking her out.’

‘Why bother? Tom knows the risks, and you’ve warned him. If people believe the rumour that the raid will be in Christchurch, then they deserve to get caught. Even if they don’t, it won’t stop them coming across. If the reverend was right, this is a big push. It’s the dark of the moon, and the smugglers will try to take advantage of it. The authorities will be stretched to the limit.’