Moon Cutters (6 page)

She’d been a beauty in life, like her two daughters. The infant was in her arms; its skin was dark, as though it had strangled on the cord before it could take a breath.

They reminded James of his own wife and daughter, taken in the same manner all those years ago, except they hadn’t had to experience the indignity of dying in the open air. He hadn’t mourned that loss too keenly, since the marriage had been an arranged one. His wife had been a little on the dull side and had offered him no companionship of note, and she had been an unwilling partner in bed. James had been left with a son then. Barely five years old, William had died from typhoid six months later, and James had thought his heart would break. How many times could it be broken, though? He wondered. Now it was Fletcher’s turn to break it. He must make matters right between them. The argument had been his fault. He’d said some hard things to Fletcher, and he missed the boy.

Still, the young must defer to the old, and Fletcher would come to realize it.

He was tidying the woman’s skirts when he felt something hard along the hem. Taking out a knife, he slit along the fold and removed a heavy gold ring of the type a man would wear. There was a second ring to fit a woman’s hand, with a small, inferior diamond in it, and a couple of golden guineas. He searched the rest of Anna Jarvis’s clothing thoroughly and, finding nothing else, turned to Jack Pridie, the general foreman of the estate and husband of his housekeeper.

‘It’s a small amount for a legacy, Jack.’

‘Aye, it’s little more than a keepsake. What do you intend to do with those youngsters, Sir James?’

‘I don’t know yet. Perhaps there will be room in the charity school.’

‘They’re already overcrowded, I believe.’

‘They could probably fit them in for an extra fee. They couldn’t afford to pay from this legacy.’ He spun one of the coins in the air and laughed. ‘Have you shifted that stuff yet?’

‘It should be gone tonight. We could do with some extra storage.’

‘If Silas Asher sells me Monksfoot Abbey, we could use that.’

‘Aye, but somebody told him you intended to pull the Abbey down and mine the clay and gravel out from under it.’

‘I’ll have to convince him otherwise. Who started that rumour anyway?’

‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure, sir.’

James grunted as he grumbled, ‘I have a bloody good idea.’

They gently lifted the still figure into the makeshift coffin and wrapped it in the linen sheet he’d lined it with. Placing the woman’s head on a small cushion, he covered her face.

Jack said, ‘She was a bonny-looking woman … neat, but nicely built.’

‘That she was, Jack. I fancy the older girl takes after her. Come. Let’s go.’

They would hammer the lid on after the older girl had identified her.

The others had returned from town. There had been no sign of the couple from the road, but the authorities were keeping a look out for them.

There was other news. One of the maids, who had just come back from town, was brought before him by Pridie.

‘What is it, Pridie?’

‘It’s your nephew, sir.’

‘What of him?’

‘Maisie here overheard something in the market, and I thought it was important enough to bring her to you so you could hear it from her own mouth.’

‘What is it, girl?’

‘I overheard the Monksfoot coachman tell someone that Mr Fletcher Taunt had purchased Monksfoot Abbey, lock, stock and barrel.’

James felt as though he’d been punched in the midriff, and spluttered, ‘He’s what?’

‘He’s purchased—’

‘Yes, yes … I heard you the first time. Thank you, girl. Pridie, give the girl sixpence as a reward for keeping her ears open.’

Going into the drawing room, he slammed the door behind him. So that was what Fletcher was doing behind his back – using the extra money he’d made from James’s half of the ship to buy the very building that he’d always coveted.

Smoke billowed into the room from the chimney in the down draught he’d created and he began to cough. He poured himself a brandy and sipped it slowly while the dogs whined outside the door and scratched at the panels.

It was Mrs Pridie who found the courage to approach him. ‘What shall we do about the woman’s body, sir?’

James’s anger had forced the task at hand from his mind. ‘The elder of the two girls must identify her, and I’ll tell the doctor to issue a death certificate. Ask Jack to arrange for a plot to be dug in the local churchyard and to tell the preacher I’ll expect him to say some words over the body tomorrow morning.’

‘Reverend’s Swift’s wife turned the girls away from the parish … said they didn’t belong to ours.’ Pridie’s sniff displayed her affront. ‘Anyone would think she ran parish affairs.’

‘She does, since her husband is a sot. I don’t blame him with that nagging shrew as a wife. Tell the good reverend to lay off the holy wine. And if he doesn’t put in an appearance, sober or not, I’ll personally fetch him. I’ll haul him out of his pulpit by the scruff of his scrawny neck, tie him behind my horse and drag his skinny arse along the highway to the cemetery.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And Pridie?’

‘Sir?’

‘Tell Jack to say none of those things, just that we need his services to lay a body to rest in the old cemetery. We must leave him with some pride.’

Pridie smiled.

‘Also, ask your husband to get in touch with the quarry for an estimate. I want the walls and gatehouse reinstated between my property and the Monksfoot Estate, where the road passes through my land.’

‘But the folks at Monksfoot Abbey won’t be able to … What about the public right of way?’

‘There was no public right of way until my grandfather provided one. I’m about to withdraw the favour. They and their visitors can use the long way round.’

Her smile faded as the purpose of the wall sunk in. ‘Anything else, sir?’

‘See if the older girl is awake. Wrap her in a warm rug and I’ll carry her to the stable to do the indentification. Let’s get this business over and done with. She might need a bit of comfort afterwards, so make sure she has it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Once she’s properly identified the woman and infant, we’ll leave the body in the carriage house tonight, ready for burial in the morning.’

Pridie nodded and turned away.

‘And, Pridie, rid yourself of that disapproving expression. If you need to place any blame, it can rest on the shoulders of my rascally nephew, Fletcher Taunt.’

It was the second funeral in as many months. In that time, March had come in with a boisterous roar of wind and was beginning to calm its temper.

The first funeral hadn’t attracted much attention, Fletcher thought. It had been the body of a vagrant woman. The ceremony had been attended by his uncle, a couple of house servants and a worker from the Monksfoot Estate who had been passing by and stopped to pay his respects, Fletcher had been led to believe.

The deceased’s two children had also attended.

A modest stone was erected, with the date of death recorded. It stated that Anna Louise Jarvis died in childbirth and was buried with her stillborn infant.

‘“Beloved mother of Miranda and Lucinda” had been etched on the stone when I went back to have a look at it. They were pretty little maids,’ the worker had told Tom Pepper. ‘Almost grown.’

Tom had made further enquiries at the local inn before he’d approached Fletcher with the information. ‘It’s said Sir James has offered the children temporary accommodation while they recover from the privations their exposure to the cold had brought about.’

His uncle was known for his occasional philanthropic acts, and Fletcher nearly lost interest until he remembered Sir James’s shady business interests and the fact that the children were two young girls who had nobody to protect them.

Sir James owned the deeds to several waterfront investment properties along the coast to Southampton, and a couple in London. He rented them out for an enormous amount, closing his eyes to what went on in them, his reputation buffered by several lawyers, agents and rent collectors in his pay. Some were the haunt of smugglers and press gangs; others were houses of ill repute.

Not that Fletcher was himself totally pure in body and mind, but it was possible the ‘pretty little maids’ would end up in one of those houses or, worse, sent overseas and sold to the highest bidder.

Fletcher’s interest was piqued. His uncle’s guests would get short shrift once they no longer amused him, and he intended to keep an eye on the situation. He knew his uncle well, and out of sight usually meant out of mind with him.

Silas Asher’s funeral was vastly more spectacular than Anna Jarvis’s had been.

The evening weather was uncertain as to mood, for though the clouds and sea were stippled with the last reflections of a glorious setting sun, mad blusters of wind invaded the evening calm, sending coat skirts flapping and hats flying.

Silas had been a popular and colourful character in the district, despite being feared. He’d been the last in a long line of wreckers and smugglers, a man who’d carried on his family tradition without scruple. Half of the local law enforcers had their hands in his pockets.

Silas had blood on his hands. That’s the way he’d been brought up, and his defiance of the law collected only admiration, with little thought given to his victims and their families.

He’d been more notorious than Sir James Fenmore, who guarded his own privacy scrupulously and hid his deceit behind an honest front.

Silas had known too much about everyone, and there had been a couple of attempts to end his life. Fletcher had always got on with him, and his uncle had never objected to the relationship he’d formed with the man, as long as Silas didn’t lead him into danger.

Were they related by blood, as Silas had hinted? Fletcher wondered. It was entirely possible. He’d never met Adrian Taunt, who’d been a soldier of fortune without family or means – one who’d conveniently died abroad, leaving Fletcher’s mother a widow.

There were no paintings or sketches of Adrian Taunt for Fletcher to compare himself with. His mother would never discuss the man, except to say, ‘It was a marriage of convenience. He’s dead and gone, and good riddance.’ Fletcher’s looks were annoyingly like those of his uncle, except for the difference in eye colour.

Word of mouth had spread the news quickly. The cliff top was lined with onlookers gazing down into Axe Cove. Two of the house staff served brandy. Another preceded Fletcher and Tom Pepper, lighting flares as they carried the body of Silas down the path and settled it in the old dingy that was to be his pyre.

Everything smelled strongly of lamp spirit and the brandy Fletcher and Tom had poured into Silas to help incinerate him from the inside. Silas was as pickled as a dead man could get.

Fletcher turned to Tom. ‘I think we’re going to be half-seas-over on the fumes if we don’t hurry and get it over with. Did Silas intend for us to go up in flames with him?’

Tom chuckled.

The lugger, the
Wild Rose
, was fully manned, but she displayed only half of her sails on her three masts and headed for the harbour entrance in a manner so confident as to suggest she could find it by herself if need be.

In the dingy carrying Silas’s body, Fletcher hoisted the sail, and Tom freed the little craft from the shore for its final voyage and jumped in after him. The dingy was sluggish when compared with the
Wild Rose
, like a duck with one paddle.

Silas’s shroud was weighted down with heavy ballast bricks, secured to his body with chains. The weight would carry Silas’s remains down into the deep and away from the currents that might drag him back to shore.

Beyond the mouth of the Axe, the revenue men’s cutter came into view, almost blocking the entrance on the other side when it dropped its sea anchor. She was similar in style, and fast, but not as fast as the lugger in full sail. They didn’t risk coming through the entrance on this occasion.

Fletcher swore. ‘Don’t tell me they’re going to search the boats and the body for contraband. It will start an instant war.’

‘Bailey isn’t that daft; he’s just being provocative.’

The crew of the
Wild Rose
ignored the cutter and sped for the gap with the air of one who had every intention of sailing right through the revenue men’s ship. The cutter’s crew scrambled to pull on the anchor rope, leaving just enough leeway for the
Wild Rose
to sail alongside her with barely a gap between them. The crews hurled insults at each other, even while Fletcher admired both skippers for holding their nerve.

When the
Wild Rose
reached the designated spot, they dropped the sea anchor. By the time Fletcher got there in the valiantly struggling dingy, the water was up to his ankles and the funeral craft was leaking like a sieve.

He saw Bailey on the deck of the cutter, telescope held to his eye.

Fletcher put a finger to his cap in acknowledgement. He could have liked the man if he’d been a trifle less honest.

‘Signal to the
Wild Rose
to send their dingy over, else we’ll be going down with Silas,’ he said.

The sky was beginning to darken. While Tom signalled, the staff on the cliff top began to light flares. Fletcher saw his uncle, outlined against the sky, and affection for him arrived in an unwanted surge. He wished they’d got on better. Perhaps Sir James would come to the house later, and he could mend the rift between them, though he didn’t see why he should make the effort when it was his uncle who was in the wrong.

Fletcher used a flare to light a fuse and stepped from the funeral boat into the
Wild Rose
’s dingy with Tom. The oarsmen rapidly rowed it away.

They’d barely made it on to the deck of the
Wild Rose
when flames ran up the mast of the dingy containing the body, and the sail exploded into a raging fire. A cheer went up from those on shore, followed by silence as they watched the boat burn.

He glanced to where he’d last seen his uncle. He was watching him through a telescope. There was another man with him; from his outline he appeared well built. ‘Who’s that with my uncle, Tom?’