Chapter 8
Two days later the magistrate sent for Becky Holden. Sybilla saw little of Seth those two days, but she floated through them on his unspoken promises. Promises she trusted.
She sat in Sir Whittleby’s second-best drawing room and listened to his catalog of complaints and discomfort while they waited for Seth and the Holdens, who had all been summoned.
Sybilla longed for all to be over. She needed to have that conversation—using words or not—with Seth without injuries, murder, and mystery hanging over their heads.
Besides, she had a pageant to prepare in three more days.
It had taken all of Sybilla’s diplomatic skills to convince Sir Whittleby not to have their first prisoner dragged up to Woodbridge and cancel the search. “Bird in hand and all that,” the old fusspot had proclaimed waving his handkerchief and taking a bit of snuff.
Now they had another prisoner, much likelier and much sooner than Sybilla expected.
This one wasn’t just tall; he was built like an oak tree with broad shoulders and a blacksmith’s beefy arms. This one had required two constables and one of the grooms to force him to the dower house for her perusal.
At her command they moved him on to Sir Whittleby’s manor.
She was sure they had the right one; calling in constables had been the right thing to do.
Noise at the front door caught her attention. She just prevented herself from darting out to see to it. It was, after all, the magistrate’s home.
“Shall I take care of it? You needn’t bestir yourself, sir,” she said through a tight jaw, waiting for his nod.
It was Seth and the little man they’d held for two days, much cowed and dirty from the basement. She nodded to a nearby footman who had already received instructions.
“Best to keep them apart at first,” she told him.
“You really think we have him this time?” Seth asked.
“Yes, but we need to be sure. Sir Whittleby won’t worry about the niceties. He just wants someone, anyone to be sent off to trial and far from his jurisdiction.”
“We need it over, too,” he said, his warm gaze examining her face as if it held the secrets of the ages.
She gave him a quick kiss and stepped back when he tried to pull her closer. “Do you think Becky will manage a confrontation?”
Seth sighed and ran his hand across the back of his neck. “She’s a plucky little chick. I saw her this morning. Holden made her a crutch, her knee is better, and she’s hobbling around with her new ‘boot.’ Yes, I think she can handle it,” he replied.
“Come to the kitchen,” Sybilla said, tugging him in that direction.
The new prisoner, a great bear of a man, sat tied to a chair guarded by two armed constables. He was dressed in unredeemed black. He also had new bruises.
She gave the constable a sharp look. The man shrugged. “He didn’t want to give us a name. Took convincing. Calling himself Alfred March.”
“He’s had little to say,” Sybilla told Seth.
“Where did you find him?” Seth asked the constables.
“The fishing shack, like last time,” one of them said. “Rooting about the same too, only this time no purse.”
“Money’s mine!” Alfred March shouted. “Told you. Owed me.”
The butler interrupted them. “Miss Somer, the Holdens are here.”
“Excellent. Almost ready. You wait until we call you.”
The Holdens sat nervously on a settee in the second-best drawing room, Becky on her father’s knees.
“Becky, tell Sir Whittleby what you saw that day.” Sybilla spoke softly.
Becky knew how to spin a story now that she felt better. She started with sneaking out in her angel costume to practice flying which drew a sharp frown from her mother. “I was pretending to fly and chasing bunnies when the black man came out of the woods,” she said.
“Black man?” Whittleby huffed.
“Was he an African or wearing black clothing?” Seth asked.
Becky shrugged. “Clothes maybe. But he had no face.”
Whittleby grunted. “Stuff and nonsense. No such thing.”
“Think hard, Becky. What did he look like?” Sybilla asked.
“No face. That I know for sure.”
“No face at all?” Sybilla asked.
“Just eyes. Mean eyes.”
“What happened then? What did you see.” Seth asked.
“He had Cramer the shepherd over his shoulder. Want to know how I know?” Becky peered around, enjoying her audience. “The back of Mr. Cramer’s coat has a pink patch. I always thought it were funny. And the black man slung him over his shoulder. I could see the pink patch.”
“Then…” Sybilla prodded.
“Then the man with no face yelled at me, and I ran and ran and ran. I fell.”
Sybilla went to the door and gestured to a footman. Moments later constables brought the big man in. He glared around the room, his fierce visage designed to intimidate. It came to rest on Becky, and his eyes narrowed. She burrowed her face into her father’s shoulder.
Sybilla went and knelt next to the Holdens. “Becky, was this the man you saw? Be brave now; take a good look.” She held the girl’s hand.
Becky peeked once, then twice. Then she sat up and studied the man glaring at her. “This one has a face. He can’t be.”
Sybilla gestured to the constable who pulled a piece of black cloth from his coat.
They had taken it from the prisoner. He tried to put it over the man’s head, but the prisoner tried to resist. It took three of them to wrestle it on, even though his arms were bound.
Finally, the constable pulled the mask down.
Of a soft knit cloth, it covered his entire head and face except for his eyes.
“That’s him,” Becky shouted. “The man with no face. The one that had the shepherd! It is him, Miss Sybilla! The one I saw.”
Sir Whittleby laughed. “No face. Girl was right. Good one. We done now, Miss Somer? Almost time for my tea.”
“Not quite, sir. Let me escort Mr. Holden and his family out, and we’ll finish up,” she said.
Laying a hand on Seth’s shoulder, she whispered. “Get him into a chair, and we’ll see what his accomplice has to say.” He put down the note pad where he had recorded Becky’s testimony and complied.
Sybilla hugged Becky at the door. “You were very brave and spoke well. You’re going to be an excellent angel.”
“We got him this time,” Frank Holden said.
“That we do, Frank. He won’t wiggle out. We’ll see to it he’s bound over for trial. You just get those angel wings repaired.”
The other prisoner waited at the door when she returned. When they entered Alfred March tried to stand and run, but they had lashed him to a chair.
“Now,” Sybilla said sweetly, “Perhaps one of you would like to tell us what you’ve been doing and why you killed Mr. Cramer. What did he witness?”
* * *
Seth watched his Sibby, erect and powerful as a duchess, stare down their prisoners. The answer would be smuggling, of course, this close to the coast. The trade had flourished after the wars ended, times were hard, and taxes rose.
The little man ignored Sibby and stared at March, quivering in fear. “He can’t hurt you,” Seth said. “We already have him for murder. If you don’t want to be held as an accomplice to that, you better speak, now.”
“I n-never hurt no one,” the little man stuttered, pulling his gaze from March. “I just took the goods and passed them on.”
“What goods?” Sibby asked. Seth had no doubt about the answer.
“Brandy, gin, tobacco, tea. ’Specially tea. Sells well in Ipswich and Ely.”
Sibby glanced at Seth. “All goods with high excise taxes.”
One of the constables spoke up then. “We found eight crates of tea at the scene. We’ll be notifying the excise men.”
“Explain the money flow,” Seth ordered.
The little man shrugged, careful to keep his gaze from Alfred March’s hateful glare. “Dunno what March pays for goods. I suspect nothing. Brings ’em here. I pay what he asks. I sell for a bit more. Still less dear than taxed goods. Folks appreciate my service, they do.”
Seth chuckled; a sound more cynical than amused.
He recorded the conversation in his notes before peering up at the magistrate who was busy plucking at his lace cuffs.
“Well, Sir Whittleby. Your shire has provided a convenient location for the transfer of smuggled goods. That could make you complicit.” Seth wasn’t sure that was true but it got the old windbag’s attention.
“We’ll burn that foul shack to the ground,” the old man shouted.
“Lay boulders along the shore so they can’t pull in boats,” Sibby suggested.
Whittleby ignored her. “Ship these, these, malefactors up to Woodbridge with the constables. And you go with them Caulfield. You have the notes. Get them locked up tight.” With that, he rose and left them.
Seth sighed, dreading the loss of time with Sibby. He knew he couldn’t wiggle out of it. An idea occurred to him just then, however, and the trip began to feel like a good idea. He had an errand of his own to run.