The Cornish Heiress Page 8

  Philip was of an exactly opposite opinion. He believed that when anything has been running very smoothly, there are bound to be little unseen bumps to throw it off the track. His wariness was increased rather than decreased by the untroubled ride and quiet nights he had had. He knew that all roads south of Bath led to Exeter. Thus, before he mounted to leave the town, he made sure his Lorenzoni pistols had fresh powder in their priming pans and were at half cock.

  At first he rode slowly, giving Spite a chance to digest what he had eaten. It was a very lonely road. If ever there was an appropriate place for his pursuers to fall on him, this was it, Philip thought. Even the weather threatened; it was a dull, gray day. After a moment’s thought Philip unrolled his greatcoat and put it on. It would fall low enough to hide the pistol butts sticking out of his boots. Preparations made, Philip touched Spite with his spur and cantered on for about a quarter of a mile. There was a sharp curve in the road ahead. Instinctively he tightened his rein and Spite slowed.

  It was fortunate he had done so. Just around the turn a masked rider waited with his horse athwart the road. As Philip appeared he brandished a pistol in each hand and shouted for Philip to “stand and deliver”. If Spite had been going faster, Philip might have had his hands too full with his horse to plan his moves. As it was, he uttered a startled gasp as he pulled Spite to a halt. The highwayman laughed. “Get you down,” he ordered, and fired the pistol in his left hand. “A warning,” he said. “The next one will hit.”

  The highwayman’s horse, accustomed to shots, stood like a rock, but Spite danced and bucked to Philip’s intense delight. Since the stupid clot had already fired one gun, he had only one shot left and probably would not dare fire again. Even if he did, there was little chance of his hitting Philip while Spite was cavorting all over the road. The man shouted threats, but Philip allowed Spite to whirl right around while he shoved his left arm through his reins so that both hands were essentially free. As his right side was hidden by the movement, he dropped his hand and pulled one of the Lorenzonis from his boot. A single pull brought the gun to full cock and, as Spite came around the full turn, Philip raised his arm and fired.

  Simultaneously he dug his spurs into Spite’s ribs and bent low. The horse sprang forward frantically. Surprised out of his wits, by the shot and by Spite charging down at him, the highwayman forgot all about his instructions not to harm Philip and fired his second pistol. However, his horse, which was proof against pistol shots, was not indifferent to collisions. Seeing Spite thundering toward her, the mare began to move aside, and the variety of motions made the highwayman’s shot as wide as Philip’s. As he bent, Philip reloaded his gun.

  Spite had just passed the highwayman’s mare, but Philip now grabbed the reins in his left hand and wheeled the horse around. He had no intention of galloping off down the road. For one thing, that was an open invitation for a bullet in the back; for another, Philip had no idea the man was only hired help. He thought he was facing one of the French agents and was quite determined that the world would be better off without him. He could not understand why the “agent’s” companion had not burst out of hiding or fired at him from concealment. Perhaps there had been only one man.

  Even so, had the highwayman fled, Philip could not have brought himself to shoot him in the back. Instead, shouting curses, the man was fumbling in his pocket, either for a cartridge with which to reload his gun or possibly for a third pistol. Philip did not wait to find out. From nearly point-blank range, he shot him in the head.

  The body went over sideways, limp hands dropping the reins. This, together with being twice charged by Spite, was too much for the mare. With a whinny of fear the animal took off down the road. Philip started to follow, thinking it would be best to examine what the man was carrying. However, when the bumping tipped the corpse over so that one foot tangled in the stirrup and it was dragged, Philip drew Spite in sharply. His gorge rose and tears filled his eyes.

  In the excitement of the fight he had acted as circumstance dictated, but the sight of that limp, helpless thing that had once been a man bumping along on the road brought home to him what he had done. He sat trembling, wishing it undone, blaming himself for aiming for the head rather than the shoulder. It was no good now telling himself that the man had been a spy, perhaps had been planning to kill him. When he was in France, he would be the spy. How was he different from the man he had killed? All he could see was that pathetic body being dragged along by a terrified horse as it rounded the curve in the road.

  Philip fought back the lunch that was rising in his throat, wondering whether he should try to pursue the horse so that the body could be… Could be what? Philip knew he dared not permit himself to be embroiled with the authorities over this shooting. He was not afraid of being accused of murder. The mask on the corpse’s face and the fired pistols, one of which was lying on the road and the other probably in the man’s pocket, would tell their own story; however, Philip would have to identify himself and explain what he was doing in the area.

  That was impossible. Probably he would need to remain in Exeter until proof of his identity could be obtained—and that would be vastly complicated by the false French identity papers he was carrying. That he had killed a French agent would be no compensation for the lost time. What England needed to know was whether or not invasion was imminent. Surely that was the important thing. Philip bitterly regretted what he had done, but it could not be undone by involving himself in endless delays and explanations.

  Just as he reached that conclusion he heard shouts and the jingle of carriage harness that an abrupt change of pace causes. Philip wheeled Spite and spurred him into a headlong gallop. Whatever was left of the man he had killed would be taken care of by whomever was coming down the road. He could do nothing more than they would. He knew nothing about the man, except that he was a French agent, and now that he was dead perhaps that was better left unsaid. He had sounded English when he called to Philip to halt; perhaps he had a wife and children. Even if the wife knew her husband’s profession, it was unlikely she was involved, and the children certainly should not be branded as traitors.

  It was only later, after Philip had stopped for the night in a miserable inn in Okehampton, that it occurred to him that any agent’s confederates should be ferreted out. It was too late to go back now, and the other arguments for staying clear of the business were still good. The best move under the circumstances would be to write to his father and report the whole affair. Roger could inform the Foreign Office, and they could work through the local authorities without giving away his own part in the matter.

  Philip slept uneasily, disturbed by dreams of flying horses dragging bodies with only half a head. The only comfort he had when he wakened, shuddering, was that he no longer needed to listen for an invasion of his room in the night. Although his basic premise was wrong, his conclusion happened to be correct. Temporarily he had rid himself of his pursuers. In swerving to avoid the highwayman’s frantic mare, Jean had lost control of his own horses; the traces had become entangled, one horse had stumbled, pushing against the other, which swerved still farther, so that the carriage had ended in the ditch with a broken wheel.

  Neither Jean nor Henri was much hurt, but both were bruised and shaken, and when they had finally disentangled the frightened horses and ridden them, most uncomfortably bareback, back to Exeter, they encountered a small crowd gaping interestedly while the town constables made ready to carry their accomplice’s body away. Here they learned that the highwayman had been killed by a shot in the head. Henri almost fainted, and for the first time Jean became seriously worried about the spirit and abilities of their opponent. It had never occurred to Jean that Philip would resist the highwayman. One look at Henri underlined the fact that he would be little help. Jean would simply have abandoned his companion in Exeter, except that Philip knew him and did not know Henri. He could still be useful in watching the quarry.

  It was easier for Jean to make that
decision than to convince Henri to go along with it. When Jean threatened to abandon him, Henri received the information with enthusiasm, promising to return immediately to London or find a convenient house party to attend and swearing that he would say nothing, absolutely nothing, about this venture. This innocent remark opened a whole new vista of horrors to Jean, since he was quite certain now that Henri was totally incapable of keeping any secret for long, particularly one that he could use to make himself seem mysterious and heroic.

  Jean’s next idea was to kill his companion, but he realized he would be suspect at once. He would have to wait before silencing Henri for good. He set himself to convince his unwilling companion that graver and more horrible results than anything Philip could do would follow failure to accomplish their mission. Furthermore, he said, he did not wish to be shot either. They would not themselves come in contact with Philip. They would be more careful, hire a group rather than one man. In fact, they would wait until he had made his contact with the shipmaster whose name they were to discover and accomplish both purposes at one time.

  Eventually Henri agreed; but between his resistance and the dilatory ways of those who went to bring the carriage back to Exeter and the wheelwright who repaired it, they were many days behind Philip. Jean was furious. The only point that they were certain Philip would touch was Bodmin. After that he could go either north or south on any of hundreds of cart tracks that led to the numerous if tiny fishing villages and smugglers’ ports of call. In any of those villages Philip would stick out like a sore thumb, but it would take weeks or months, possibly even years, to investigate them all. Long before they found the village, Philip would have made his contact and departed for France.

  It was not a cheerful prospect, and Jean did think briefly of abandoning the quest. However there was still a substantial sum remaining of what d’Ursine had given him, and he was not yet ready to give up the even more liberal payment promised if he brought back the papers and the name of captain and ship. There would be no harm in inquiring along the road running west from Bodmin. If Philip’s goal was near Land’s End, the number of villages he could aim for would be drastically reduced. They might even find him before he left for France.

  Chapter Five

  On the night Philip wrote to his father to describe his encounter with the highwayman, Megaera set out to meet Pierre at The Mousehole to pay for the cargo he had delivered. She put on the coarse clothing of the Red Meg persona, but she did not bother to dirty her face and hair. There was no chance, in her opinion, that Pierre would ever meet Mrs. Edward Devoran and recognize her as Red Meg. It was thus silly to have to wash her hair, which hung nearly to her knees and was no light task.

  She passed down the chimney stairs, John preceding her with the lamp, and through the passage. When she had first threaded her way through the branching tunnels, she had had to lead John. Now he knew the way from the house to the main cave by heart. He still got confused when the kegs needed to be moved to the subsidiary outlets, but he was learning and soon would be able to do all the transferring alone. That would be very convenient, since John could sleep all day if necessary. Megaera could not do that without causing anxiety among her servants.

  That anxiety, unfortunately, would not be confined to her own staff. Many servants in the local “big houses” were related, and even more of them were acquainted with each other. Since gossip about their masters and mistresses was the main staple of conversation among them, and since that gossip moved up the social ladder as well as down, any peculiar behavior on Megaera’s part would all too soon be known all over the neighborhood. Thus Megaera found herself very short on sleep for about two weeks out of every month over the normal delivery period, and just now, when Pierre was showing up more frequently than usual, she was nearly staggering with weariness.

  At least, she thought as she mechanically followed John, there would be no deliveries to make this time. The kegs Pierre had delivered would merely be stored. They would come to no harm in the cool, dark caves waiting until the bad weather made crossing the channel and unloading the Bonne Lucie too dangerous. Then she would still have stock to deliver Meg was proud of her forethought; her customers would be pleased with her service. Often now, when payment was left in the agreed-on place or when the money was handed over in person at the time the kegs or bottles were delivered, there would be a note or word of mouth request that she deliver to a new customer.

  Business was expanding both because her deliveries were regular and dependable and also because there were none of the petty depredations that sometimes accompanied deliveries by other smuggling bands. Since Megaera made all the deliveries herself with John’s help, she could be sure that nothing would be damaged or stolen. She had the advantage of a completely safe hiding place, so that she was in no hurry to rid herself of the cargo. Deliveries could be made a few at a time instead of all in one night.

  The men who brought the cargo from the ship to the main cave had no idea that there were subsidiary caves in the hillside. All they knew was that Megaera paid them as they unloaded the cargo into the cave and sent them away. This, as well as the strict rules about not annoying the villagers, was a cause of dissatisfaction to some of the men. But most did not mind, knowing that their job was the least dangerous part and glad to be free of making the deliveries. By and large these men were decent fishermen and farmers who merely wanted to increase their pathetically small livelihoods.

  There was, however a more lawless group. These men had been accustomed, under Black Bart’s management, to taking a woman here and there, a chicken or piglet or two, sometimes even things of greater value. They had also been accustomed to holding back a few kegs of brandy to be broached and drunk. Red Meg paid a little more than Bart had, it was true, but she had taken most of the fun out of the work and they resented it.

  Megaera had never noticed the resentment. She had the prejudices of her class in full measure and assumed that all the lower orders would have the same attitude toward her as her own servants and the tenant farmers that lived on her land. Because she paid them fairly she assumed they were satisfied and dismissed them from her mind. She was not surprised, of course, when she found evidence several times that some men had returned to search the main cave. It was natural, she had thought, that such creatures should want to steal a few kegs for their own pleasure or to sell privately to increase their profit.

  The evidence had merely proved to Megaera that she had been very wise to remove the temptation from their path. Obviously if they had to pay for their drink, they were much less likely to overindulge to their own, their wives, and their children’s detriment. Besides, the extra keg or two were that many more coins toward the redeeming of the mortgages on Bolliet Manor. Megaera would not spare a penny from that purpose for anything.

  If it had been possible for John and herself to unload the Bonne Lucie alone, she would have dismissed the gang entirely to save what she paid them, but that really was beyond her ability. She was not strong enough to handle kegs, and John could not manage a boat. The men were necessary. The only expenditure Megaera really resented was the extra share she paid Black Bart. He did nothing except complain, and she suspected that the two men who had tried to become familiar with her had done so on his instigation.

  After the first had approached her and been felled by John, Megaera had found her father’s pistols and taught herself how to use them. By the time the next cargo came, she was wearing them ostentatiously. She had drawn on the man who had grabbed and tried to kiss her. John had broken his arm before she nerved herself to fire, but she had pretended that was an act of mercy—and the men had believed it.

  There had been no further trouble, and Megaera’s sense of fairness had prohibited any attempt on her part to get rid of Black Bart, even though he was totally unnecessary to her now. After all, he had introduced her to Pierre and originally assembled the band of men she employed. That she did not like him and would prefer to deal with Thomas Helst
on, a stolid, solid farmer from Treen—who could be trusted to get the men together as well or better than Bart and whose large industrious family would benefit from the extra share—was not reason enough to cut Bart out.

  Nonetheless the idea occurred to her continually. Black Bart made her nervous. He never did or said anything obvious enough to merit John’s attentions, but there was a look in his eyes, a shade in his speech and manner that disturbed Megaera very much. Recently she had even begun to consider paying only the interest on the mortgages and collecting a large enough sum to offer Bart as a final payoff. If she could clear her conscience that way, it would be worthwhile to remain in debt a few months longer.

  The trouble was, she did not really believe she could rid herself of the man that way. Either he would lay an information with the revenuers or far more likely, would try to raid her group and steal their cargo. It would be possible, Megaera supposed, to fight him off, but she knew the tales about the smuggling gang wars in the seventies and eighties of the last century, and she shrank from the bloodshed and violence. To her mind she was doing no one any harm by her current enterprise. She would rather endure Black Bart and the uneasiness he aroused in her than begin the bad old days again.

  For the hundredth or thousandth time Megaera was searching through her mind to find a method she could use without violating her notion of what was just and would still keep Bart from troubling her after she paid him off. She knew one way of course. She could identify him as the man who had murdered her husband. That would be terribly unfair. For one thing, Megaera was not really sure it had been Bart, although she did not think, now that she knew them, that any of the other men customarily carried pistols. Stout cudgels, which could also be used in helping them climb the steep path from the cove to the cave, were the men’s customary weapons. For another thing, Megaera was grateful to the person, who had removed Edward from her life. She did not want anyone punished for that.