Smuggler's Moon

dinner, indeed we all had been. Yet now he spoke forth and revealed what had been on his mind.

“I believe we must take defensive precautions. There is not much we can do, but we can at least lock our doors. Clarissa, you have the key to your room now, do you not?”

“Safe in my pocket,” said she.

“Then you must use it. Lock it and stay inside till it be morning.

“I shall also want you to go with us tomorrow to the magistrate’s in Deal. We have all been invited for dinner tomorrow evening, so we are to remain there the better part of twelve hours.”

“So long?” asked Clarissa. ”Whatever shall I find to do there?”

“Jeremy will show you Deal, a charming place, or so it was said to be at one time. You will be happy to do so, won’t you, Jeremy?”

I sighed. ”If you ask it, Sir John, it will be done.”

FIVE

In which plans are made and a grand feast is eaten

Because we returned to Deal in Sir Simon’s coach with its curiously limited capacity, I was once again forced to ride up top beside the driver, who was once again Will Fowler. If I had thought it difficult to extract information from him when last we rode together, it proved absolutely impossible on this occasion. In response to my questions regarding the identity of the dead man, the time of the discovery of the body, and Clarissa’s reaction to the event-I studiously avoided all mention of the chalk mine-he would say nothing, nor would he so much as shake his head, yea or nay. He ignored me. Yet the expression upon his face answered me far more eloquently than any verbal response he could have made: he appeared frightened quite out of his wits. I knew that, since I rode with him last, he had received a severe dressing down from his master for allowing Clarissa to go off discovering on her own.

I had witnessed Sir Simon’s return somewhere round midnight. The barking of the dogs had wakened me. I went to the window, which overlooked the front of the house and witnessed, by the light of the torches burning on either side of the front entrance, the arrival of three horsemen. The one on the proudest mount was Sir Simon. He handed the reins to a stable boy and hopped down from the saddle. A man whom I recognized from above as Will Fowler came out to meet him, and immediately Sir Simon fell to upbraiding him most aggressively. Though the window was shut, and I was thus prevented from hearing the words he used, he made his anger plain with his sharp gestures. First he pointed at poor Will as he moved toward him, then shook his finger at him, and finally shook his fist so vigorously under his nose that I felt sure he meant to strike him. Yet he did not go so far as that- not in my sight, in any case-though I cannot say what may have come to pass inside the house. This alone would have frightened the fellow. Who could say what verbal threats were made?

Fowler drove even faster than on our past occasion. I held tight to the seat as before, but twice, as we leaned round curves, I feared I might lose my grip and go hurtling off into the ditch which seemed to run along every road in Kent. Yet I managed to hold on till at last we went charging down Middle Street and came again to a halt at Number 18. We three assembled on the walkway before the magistrate’s house. Before ever we could move to make our presence known to Albert Sarton, he threw open the door, all smiles, and welcomed us as friends. Clarissa was presented to him by Sir John. And agreeably, he even shook the hand which she thrust out at him.

“I shall look forward to interviewing you, Miss Clarissa,” said he. ”But just now I shall talk to Mr. Fowler. Perhaps all of you would do well to wait for me in my courtroom. It is the large chamber to the right and across the hall from my study.”

“We shall be happy to do so, Mr. Sarton,” said Sir John. ”I welcome the opportunity to witness you in this role, as well.”

“I have but one case,” said Mr. Sarton, ”involving four men, a misdemeanor.”

“Just as well, for I think you’ll agree that there is naught so boring as a whole morning spent in court on misdemeanors.”

At that Mr. Sarton burst out laughing. ”You’re quite right, sir. Many times have I thought it, yet until you spoke up just now, I had not the courage to say so.”

It was at that moment I decided I really liked the man quite well. He left us with a wave of his hand, scrambled up to the top of the coach to the place I had as my own until some moments before, and faced Mr. Fowler.

“Well, let’s inside, shall we?” said Sir John. ”Jeremy, give me your arm. You won’t mind bringing up the rear, will you, Clarissa?”

And so, in the order described by Sir John, we made our way into the large room used by Mr. Sarton as his courtroom. There were sufficient chairs to accommodate about a dozen visitors. They faced a plain deal table not unlike the one Sir John himself used at Number 4 Bow Street. A man whom I took to be Mr. Sarton’s court clerk sat at the table next the empty chair which awaited the magistrate. To one side sat the prisoners in the charge of a constable. We were just sitting down when I noticed something quite striking about the prisoner farthest from me: he had but one arm. How many one-armed men could there be in Deal, after all? That is, how many could there be besides Constable Perkins? It was curious how much, in general, the prisoner otherwise resembled Mr. Perkins; his clothes, for instance, were quite like those in which the constable was dressed when last I had seen him on the day before. And there was something about the way he held his head …

Good God! It was Mr. Perkins!

It could have been at just that moment-that, in any case, is how I remember it-that Clarissa fell into a fit of coughing. I glanced over in her direction, but then my glance was held by her, for I saw most immediate that she had loosed the chorus of coughs simply to get my attention. Now that she had it, she was signaling wildly, pointing ahead toward the prisoners, rolling her eyes in consternation, then gesturing toward Sir John as she heaved her shoulders in a great shrug. She was asking, in effect, if we should tell Sir John of the unfortunate situation in which Mr. Perkins found himself. All I knew to do was shrug back to her in response. How had he gotten into such a pickle? I looked back at our constable and found him staring at me. I pointed at Sir John. Mr. Perkins hesitated a moment, and then nodded most soberly. Thus he urged me to tell Sir John of his predicament.

I know not if he then expected the response he got from his chief when I whispered all- I certainly did not. It did not take long to tell Sir John, yet even before I had quite finished, he had begun to giggle. The giggle turned to laughter which he tried to suppress, yet without success, for in a moment more he had thrown back his head and was laughing in great guffaws. I turned to Mr. Perkins, hoping to signal to him my confusion and helplessness, but I found him in the same state as Sir John-unable, that is, to stifle the laughter within him. The other prisoners, seeing no humor in their situation, exchanged puzzled looks at his behavior. The Deal constable liked Mr. Perkins’s behavior not in the least and came over to him and admonished him sternly.

This then was the scene when Mr. Sarton entered his courtroom and his clerk did solemnly order: ”All rise.” And all the rest of us did scramble to our feet.

(Sir John had long ago dispensed with this bit of ceremony at Number 4 Bow Street, and so I was taken somewhat by surprise, though no more than by what followed.)

Once Mr. Sarton was firmly settled in his seat at the table, the clerk urged all to be seated, and the session was begun.

It seemed that the charge against all four of the men was public drunkenness and brawling. All four were obliged to give their names, then the three prisoners who were unknown to us chose one of their number to speak for them. His name was the only one of the three I now remember. It was Samson Strong, a difficult one to forget. He did, in a sense, live up to his name, for though not tall, he was thick through the shoulders and chest- but no more so than his two companions. He did not present a trustworthy appearance.

“Where did all this difficulty take place?” asked Mr. Sarton.

“In Alfred Square, m’lord.”

“I am but a magistrate and do not deserve so august a title. Call me ‘sir.’ That will do.”