The Cornish Heiress (23 page)

Actually Pierre had only intended to warn off whoever had
been lying in wait. He assumed it was a case of mistaken identity, since no one
could possibly have known where he and Philip would come from. An ambush laid
on the road could not have been intended for them. It had been blind chance
that brought them there. Pierre’s mind went no farther than that, but Philip’s
leapt to the next conclusion. An ambush on the road might have been meant for
Meg. She would come that way and she would be carrying a large sum of money.

The Lorenzoni in his right hand spat fire, and the shot was
returned with better aim—or better luck than could be expected in the dark. The
ball whistled by fairly close. Pierre uttered a wordless protest, but before he
could reach out and catch Philip, the younger man was up and running along the
ditch. Pierre’s mind formed some choice expletives, but he did not utter them
aloud. He was using his mouth for the more sensible purpose of tearing open a
cartridge to reload. There were two more shots fired, and another scream before
he was ready. Now he had time to curse, and he did.

Three brief points of light close together coupled with a
roar of sound betrayed the position of more of the attackers. Pierre fired in
their direction, and the corner of his eye caught two more flashes too close
together to be separate men. That was Philip, firing both guns. There was no
vocal response to any of the shots. All had seemingly missed. Pierre cursed
again, but with relief at the knowledge that the second cry he had heard had
not been Philip’s. Without stopping to reload this time, he continued along the
ditch in the hope of catching his too-adventurous companion. It was clear to
Pierre that there were too many attackers for simple robbery to be the motive.
He thought they had got mixed into a war between two smuggling groups or
between a smuggling gang and Customs.

It occurred to him that the one French word nearly every
smuggler knew was Customs—and that he might have been talking too loudly. It
was just after he had said something about Philip being of the
Douane
that
the voice had cried, “It is he!” and the shooting had started.

“Philippe!” he shouted, reaching for him but missing. He had
underestimated the distance in the dark.

Pierre was not as young as he had been, and dashing around
in ditches after a scrambling climb was telling on him. If Philip heard, he
gave no sign. Pierre was close enough to see him dimly. He was working the
lever of one of the Lorenzonis—presumably the other was already loaded. Hastily
Pierre leapt and grabbed, but Philip had already moved. Pierre’s foot came down
on a stone that shifted, and he fell headlong, just as a gun went off nearly in
his ear.

He did not see what happened next but knew from the results.
Before he could get to his feet, another gun went off, very close, and a heavy
weight smashed him flat. Apparently some fool, seeing both Philip’s pistols go
off, had run down to the edge of the ditch to shoot him at point-blank range,
assuming he couldn’t reload in time. That was his last mistake. The Lorenzoni
repeaters could fire twelve shots each at only two- to five-second intervals. Nonetheless
this was a near disaster. Pierre heaved frantically at the dead weight pressing
him down into the glutinous mud. With no one to protect his back, it would not
be long before Philip was shot down despite his superior guns.

It was a devil of a job to get out from under the body. The
ditch was narrow and the weight could not be thrust off by rolling over. Gasping
for breath, Pierre tried to crawl out from under by going forward. He had just
freed his head and shoulders when he heard a woman shriek briefly in surprise,
two more shots, a hoarse gobbling, an agonized male scream that went on too long
and broke too abruptly, some alarmed shouts—and then silence.

The confusion immediately after the precipitous departure of
the remaining ambushers was little less than the confusion of the gun battle
itself. Philip shouted both Meg’s name and Pierre’s, not knowing which one to
succor first. Pierre’s hoarse bellow that he was all right sent Philip in the
direction he wanted to go—and almost got him killed because John grabbed him, not
recognizing him in the dark. Megaera had to fling herself right on top of John,
and even at that she only saved Philip a broken neck because her weight knocked
John’s hands loose.

When that little fracas was over, it took a few minutes to
calm John, who was weeping with fright at nearly having killed his only friend
and displeased his “goddess”. Then they were able to look for Pierre, who had
sensibly stopped struggling as soon as he realized the attack was over. John
heaved the body off him at once and helped him to his feet and out of the
ditch. There were a few more incoherent sounds while everyone made sure
everyone else was unhurt.

“Lunatic!” Pierre exclaimed, as soon as he was sure
son
fils
was intact. “Why did you return their fire after my warning shot? Why
did you not give me a chance to say we were not Customs agents?”

“Customs? Good God, I never thought about it. I assumed it
was Black Bart after Meg again.”

There was a moment of silence. Meg shuddered and Philip held
her close. Pierre emitted a low whistle.

“Of that I had not thought,” he admitted. “I do not think ‘e
know this place, but we ‘ad better see if we ‘ave the good fortune to ‘it ‘im,
or if anyone is alive ‘oo tell us what was this about. Our lantern is in the
ditch somewhere. Do you ‘ave one, Mees Meg?”

“John dropped it, I think. It must be somewhere, but I
suppose the oil is all spilled.”

After they wiped the lantern so the whole thing would not
catch fire, there was still enough oil to burn for a little while. The body
John had heaved out of the ditch obviously had no life in it and was not
recognizable. One whole side of the head had been blown away. Megaera choked
and hid her face in Philip’s breast. He swallowed hard himself and looked away.
Pierre shrugged and moved on to where a shadow lay, darker than the road
surface. When Pierre shone the light on it, his breath drew in sharply. He had
seen many, many dead men in his life, but there was something terribly wrong
with this body. It was crushed and twisted in a most peculiar fashion, all out
of shape like a bug that had been stepped on.

Just as he was about to move away, the eyes opened. Stifling
his pity and revulsion, Pierre knelt down. “‘Oo were you trying to get?” he
asked urgently, quite loud. Sometimes the dying will respond to something far
outside their own concerns when there is enough force in the question.

“Agent,” the broken body sighed.

Pierre grimaced angrily, it
had
been a mistake, and
three men were dead because of it. He hesitated a moment, fumbling for his
knife. This poor creature could not survive long and it was senseless to let
him suffer. “French agent…said papers for Boney…not…” The thread of a whisper
finally stopped.

Knife in hand, Pierre waited, bending still lower. Then he
sat back on his heels and slid his knife back into its sheath. There was no
need to use it. The open eyes still stared at him, but they were empty with
death now. So it had
not
been a mistake after all, and it was fortunate
indeed that Philip had reacted as he did. The attempt had been meant to take
Philip. Pierre did not need elaborate explanations to understand that the real
agent had reversed his and Philip’s roles and had hired men to kill Philip.
Both men he had examined were local hired help. He moved on to the last body
and his breath drew in again, but not because of the wounds—one in the shoulder
and the second in the throat. It was pleasure that made him breathe deeply this
time. For once luck seemed to be with them. This was no local hired man; he was
dressed like a gentleman.

“Philippe, come ‘ere,” Pierre called. “We were both wrong.
Eet was not a gang after Customs men nor Black Bart after Mees Meg.”

Philip tried to make Meg stay with John, but she clung to
him and perforce he brought her with him. She began to shake when she saw the
body. This was the man who had run right into her pony, waving a gun. She had
shot him in frightened reaction, her pistols being drawn and cocked because she
had heard gunfire and also heard Pierre shout Philip’s name. It was only after
she had fired that she realized the man had not been attacking her but had been
running away from the battle behind him Then, before she could do anything,
John had grabbed another man and broken him.

It was horrible! She felt sick and weak, and then she heard
Philip exclaim, “Jean! Good God, Jean de Tréport. But what—”

“The dying man said they ‘ad been hired to kill a French
spy—’e can only ‘ave meant you, Philippe.”

“God in Heaven! I felt there were two of them that first
time in my room, but when I killed the one on the road and no one tried to help
him, I thought I was mistaken. I can hardly believe… But he knew I was no spy.
Yet you must be right. It was my name, not the fact that you mentioned Customs.
Do not cry, Meg, my love. You have saved my life.”

“You mean that man—those men were trying to kill
you
,
Philip?”

“It looks that way,” he said grimly. “Jean knew me. I
thought, in fact, that we were friends. Now, I suppose it was because—” He
hesitated, unwilling to say too much but realizing he must give Meg some explanation,
“Because I knew too much about him and would not give him information.”

“Oh!” Meg exclaimed, having absorbed what Philip had said.
“Oh, the monster!” She pulled herself more erect, no longer trembling. “I am
sorry I only shot him twice!” she said ferociously.

Philip and Pierre both burst out laughing. “Twice ees
enough, Mees Meg,” Pierre chortled. “’E could not be more dead if you ‘ad shot
‘im a ‘undred times.”

“No, and it is a shame to waste powder and ball,” Philip
remonstrated with mock seriousness.

Indignation had completely eliminated any shred of sickness
or remorse. Megaera looked at the corpse with the cold, indifferent, glance she
would have bestowed upon a rat in a barn. “Do you want John to get rid of the
bodies by dumping them off the pier, or should we just leave them here?” Then
something odd struck her, and she looked toward the huddle of huts. “But where
is everyone? It sounded like a war was going on when I was riding down the
road.”

“That is just why it is so quiet,” Pierre pointed out,
grinning. “People ‘ere do not intrude on other people’s wars. And yes, Mees
Meg, eef the poor John can take away the bodies, eet would be better for all.
Those ‘ere, as I said, do not wish to draw the attention. They would be angry
with us for causing so much inconvenience.”

“No, we cannot drop them off the pier,” Philip said, “at
least not de Tréport. He must be found. I will go with John while you and
Pierre finish your business, Meg. I will take them across to the main road.
That will be a nice neutral place, not too close to any village.”

John had followed them, and Meg signed swiftly that he was
to go with Philip and obey him. She gave Philip one long look, but he was not
standing on ceremony because of Pierre, and took her in his arm and kissed her.
He could not see her face clearly, but he felt the warmth of her blush and he
kissed her nose and murmured that she should not be such a goose. It was an
enormous relief to him to know that the attack had not been directed against
her. Doubtless the Black Bart man had left the area when she threatened him.

Pierre took Megaera away, and Philip set about his cleanup
job briskly. He and John loaded two of the bodies on the pony which, being of
placid disposition, had not run far. John slung the third corpse over his
shoulder, as indifferently as if it were a sack of wheat. When they reached the
road, Philip went through Jean’s pockets, but he found nothing of significance.
He had hoped there would be some clue as to whether Jean was working on his own
or for someone else. He accepted the lack of evidence philosophically, however.
On an adventure one cannot have everything handed out on a platter. The fact
that he had been able to recognize Jean was very good luck. He could pass the
information along to his father, and all of Jean’s associates would be most
carefully watched and scrutinized.

It was only a mile as the crow flies to the main road north
of The Mousehole, but finding a path passable to the laden pony took them
almost a full mile out of their way. By the time he got back to the inn, a
little more than an hour later, Megaera had become very nervous, although
Pierre kept telling her it was impossible for Philip to cover the distance in
less time. Between what had happened and the exertions and lack of sleep the
previous night, she looked wan and exhausted.

Philip took her hand and held it tightly while he assured
her that all had gone well. Then he explained about “a man he knew” who had
considerable influence in the government and gave her the letter to his father
and the one that explained how to use it, both wrapped in blank covers. Next he
told her what to do with the letter to Roger and that it was explained more
clearly under the cover. Last he got a dirty but usable sheet of paper and some
gritty ink from the landlord. With these he wrote a brief, sputtery note to
Roger, not describing what had happened—that would have taken too long—but
telling him he had discovered Jean de Tréport was an agent for Bonaparte, that
the man was now dead—he would explain when he saw his father—and his friends
and associates should be watched.

This he gave to Megaera when they were outside the inn,
pressing a gold piece into her hand and telling her to arrange for the letter
to go express. “Find a way to get it on the earliest mail, love,” he begged.
“It is very important.”

“Yes, I will,” she assured him. “Don’t worry about the
letter. And you mustn’t worry about me either, Philip. I will be very careful,
I promise. I wish you could promise the same.”

“But I can, sweet, really I can. It is not dangerous, what I
am about to do, only perhaps, time-consuming. Wait for me, Meg. I will come.”

“Yes, but now you will go,” Pierre said. “Philippe, we will
miss the tide. Come.”

There was no arguing with tides. Philip did not dare pause
even to kiss Meg. That, he was afraid, could not be done briefly. With one last
look over his shoulder, he walked down to the pier where Pierre’s boat was
waiting to take them back to the
Bonne Lucie
. He was glad the parting
had been so abrupt. It was easier that way. He was also much easier in his
mind. Probably Meg was right and there was virtually no chance of the law
catching up with her, but should that odd chance happen, his father would get
her out of trouble. There were a lot of strings in Roger’s capable hands, and
he had a powerful pull.

Neither Philip nor Megaera gave Black Bart a second thought,
and if Pierre did, he was far too wise to mention that just as the lovers
parted. The same could not be said the other way around. There was nothing Bart
could
think of besides Meg and Philip. He could not believe his bad
luck. Who could imagine that the man Treeport wanted should appear. He had been
furious when Treeport precipitated the attack. It had been Bart who shouted,
“No!“ after Jean fired the first shot. The last thing in the world that Bart
wanted was for Pierre to be hurt. He was aware that Pierre did not like or
trust him, but he believed the smuggler would do business with him when there
was no one else.

Once Pierre had returned the fire, however, the men who were
scarcely a disciplined group, simply did what was natural to them. They were
beyond Black Bart’s control, and he knew it. The best he could do was hold his
fire and hope he would be able to kill the one Jean had said was a French
agent. Bart was indifferent to Philip’s reputed treasonable activities, but he
wanted to finish the shooting before Red Meg heard it and was warned off.
However, he could not even accomplish that purpose. The “French” devil never seemed
to have to stop to reload, and killed the man who seemed to have a perfect shot
at him.

Then he had missed his chance to kill Red Meg too. Because he
was so sure she would be warned off by the gunfire, he had not been watching
for her. When she appeared with blazing pistols and had killed one man and, a
moment later, John had killed still another, Bart decided that the ambush had
somehow been betrayed to her and a counter-trap had been set for him. He had all
the money Jean had given him in his pocket, having found very good reasons not
to pay the men in advance.

Crouching low, gasping curses and curses and curses, Bart
ran to where the horses had been hidden. This time he would have to get out of west
Cornwall, at least for a while. Red Meg would not be content with a warning this
time. She would start a hunt for him, put pressure on the law—after all, she
already paid them to turn a blind eye to her deliveries; she could pay them a
little more to catch him on some charge. Sure, they would take him for
smuggling. The men in Meg’s gang would give evidence. The Customs men and the
JP would be able to show the officials higher up that they were
not
corrupt.
Hadn’t they caught and convicted a smuggler?

Weeping with fury and frustration, Bart whipped his horse
viciously. It was a miracle that the beast did not stumble in the dark and
throw him, but it carried him over the headland and back to the road a safe
distance away. Horse and saddle had been rented; remembering that gave Bart his
single spark of satisfaction. Jean had rented the horses. He had told Bart to
do it, but he was too smart for that. It would serve the idiot right to have to
pay for the animal. Long before he reached Penzance, Bart turned off the road and
headed north. Sooner or later he would strike a track that would take him east.
He had heard there was a lively smuggling trade in Polperro and Looe. That
should be far enough that Red Meg’s dogs couldn’t sniff him out.