The Deception At Lyme

Anne Wentworth took it into her own.

“I asked about her younger son, and whether he had grown to bear the image of his father. She replied that he little resembled Mr. Clay. ‘That is not what I asked,’ I said. She at last had the decency to look ashamed. She took a step back, and said she did not understand my meaning. She was close to the wall’s edge, but not right upon it. ‘That surprises me,’ I said, ‘for I understand you perfectly.’ I moved another step toward her. ‘But if you truly do not comprehend, I will state my query more plainly. Is he my husband’s child?’

“She stared at me for what must have been half a minute at least, the wind whipping her hair and cloak, the gloom deepening. I could see in her calculating visage an internal deliberation over whether any purpose would be served by attempting to maintain the lie any longer. At last she answered. ‘Yes, he is.’

“At that moment, a thunderbolt pierced the sky. Arriving as it did, so swiftly upon her confession, it seemed a divine condemnation of her sin. She started, and took another step backward, coming precariously close to the edge of the seawall. I realized her peril and moved toward her to pull her back to safety. But Mrs. Clay interpreted my advance as threatening, and put up her hands to ward me away.”

Mrs. Smith’s voice had become thick. She swallowed, blinking watery eyes. “I called out to warn her that she was close to the edge, but people were shouting about a ship on fire and my voice was drowned by their cries and the wind. Then the ship exploded. The blast so startled her that she lost her balance. I reached for her, but she was already too far into her fall for my fingers to more than brush her sleeve.”

Mrs. Smith looked beseechingly at Anne.

“It was an accident. An unfortunate, regrettable accident.”

*   *   *

“Yet you did not summon anybody to help her,” Darcy said.

“My own thinking was not clear immediately following,” Mrs. Smith replied. “I was shocked by the explosion and from the horror of witnessing such a dreadful fall. I assumed Mrs. Clay was dead, having tumbled so far, especially in her condition. Also, I was frightened that someone might have seen the accident and misconstrued what occurred—as Mr. Elliot did. I started walking along the upper wall toward shore, faster than I had realized myself capable of, spurred by fear and the pandemonium around me. I had covered half the distance before my mind settled enough for me to consider that perhaps she had not died. I looked back, and by then you were attending her. So I continued to the main steps, where I met the sedan chair when it and my nurse arrived a few minutes later. She was surprised to find me waiting there, but I told her that after the explosion someone had helped me that far.”

She turned back to Anne Wentworth. “My dear friend, you believe me, do you not? You, who have known me even longer than did Mrs. Clay. As much as I resented her, I did not push her. I could never do such a thing.”

Anne pressed Mrs. Smith’s hand. “Of course you could not.”

Darcy was less certain.

However, it was Mr. Elliot who, though not meaning to, now commanded Darcy’s attention. The gaze that had periodically shifted toward the Black Cormorant throughout Mrs. Smith’s confession now looked past Darcy, toward shore. The casual stance in which he had so confidently goaded Mrs. Smith now adopted a more defensive air.

Darcy turned. A detachment of Royal Marines had arrived on the Cobb. They marched in formation along the lower wall, their red coats a striking display of color in the gloom. Admiral Croft and Captain St. Clair accompanied them.

“Well, this has been a fascinating explanation,” Mr. Elliot said. “However, further reminiscing will have to wait, for you have delayed my errand too long as it is.” He moved past the ladies on the bench and headed toward the quay. Captain Wentworth, however, interposed himself.

“I am afraid, Mr. Elliot, that I must detain you a little longer,” he said. “I believe Admiral Croft has business with you.”

“What business could the admiral possibly have with me?”

Admiral Croft reached their party and came to a stop. “A warrant for your arrest.” Captain St. Clair and two marines remained with him while the rest continued to the quay. “And another authorizing the search of your property in Sidmouth.”

“Whatever for?”

“Smuggled artifacts.”

“This is outrageous.” He glared at Captain St. Clair. “You will find no evidence there.”

“Regardless of what is discovered,” Captain Wentworth said, “we already have enough to free Mr. Smith’s plantation from your control and try you for stealing from his widow.”

“Truly, Captain Wentworth?” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. “I will at last have income from my husband’s estate to support myself?”

“Truly.”

“Oh, Anne! Is this not the most wonderful news?” Mrs. Smith smiled triumphantly at Mr. Elliot as the pair of marines led him away.

Captain St. Clair noted the baby in Anne Wentworth’s arms. “It was Mr. Elliot, then, who stole the child? Is Alfred well?”

“Actually, my friend Mrs. Smith had him,” Mrs. Wentworth replied. “He is fine.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”

“Have you already arrested Sir Laurence?” Darcy asked.

“He was not at home,” St. Clair replied. “We believe he is on his ship. If so, he will not be aboard much longer.”

A revenue cutter had entered the port, effectively blocking the merchantman’s ability to exit it. Meanwhile, the marines had been joined by a group of customs officials who had emerged from the harbormaster’s office. Together, they swarmed the Black Cormorant.

Just as the admiral, St. Clair, Wentworth, and Darcy walked up the gang-board from the quay to the deck, the marine sergeant emerged from the master’s cabin with Sir Laurence. Another man was with the baronet. Darcy did not recognize him, but Captain St. Clair did.

“Lieutenant Wilton,” St. Clair muttered. “Apparently, Sir Laurence wasted no time in finding another ship’s master. We shall relieve him of command, as well.”

Admiral Croft turned to St. Clair. “You may do the honors, Captain. You have earned the pleasure.”

St. Clair stepped forward. “This ship is hereby seized by the crown,” he announced. “And you, Sir Laurence— along with all her crew—are under arrest for the illegal import and sale of foreign goods, and for conspiring to defraud His Majesty King George of revenues rightfully his.”

“These charges are made on whose word, Lieutenant?” Sir Laurence regarded St. Clair disdainfully. “That of a killer?”

“That of Captain St. Clair,” said the admiral, “senior officer in His Majesty’s navy, who has been investigating you and your fellow conspirators under the orders and authority of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.”

The admiral’s reply gave Sir Laurence pause, but only for a moment. “You must be very confident to arrest me,” he said. “I have influential friends.”

“We shall see if they remain your friends when they learn you are a thief,” St. Clair replied. “Not to mention a murderer.” He looked to the sergeant. “Take him.”

As the arrests were made, Darcy and Captain Wentworth rejoined their wives back on the Cobb. They watched Sir Laurence being led away.

“What a relief to finally see Sir Laurence exposed as a murderer,” Mrs. Smith muttered.

Captain Wentworth regarded her in puzzlement. “How did you come to know about Captain Tourner?”

“Captain Tourner? I have no idea who you refer to. I was thinking of another man entirely—one whom my husband told me about before he died. On his voyage home from the West Indies, Mr. Smith and his companions were involved in a very frightening battle in which they had to defend themselves. My husband took down a French sailor with his pistol, but he said Sir Laurence’s shot struck a young British lieutenant.”

“Intentionally?” Darcy asked.

“My husband said it appeared so, but he could not comprehend why Sir Laurence would do such a thing. The incident troubled him greatly. He raved about it repeatedly in the delirium of his final days.”