Chapter 3
He had not meant to linger on the cliff path after the two women had disappeared from view.
It was not his custom to stand like a fool with the wind in his hair and the taste of salt on his lips, staring at a point in a lane where a lady’s gown had last fluttered.
He was not a schoolboy, nor a poet, nor a man who believed in the nonsense that passed for sentiment in circulating libraries.
Nonetheless, there he stood.
A writer.
A harmless fellow with a notebook and a fondness for pathetic fallacy.
He let out a humourless breath. “Imbecile,” he muttered to himself. “Get along with you.”
He turned down the path toward the harbour, moving with deliberate, purposeful strides meant to banish the unwelcome unease that clung to him like brine. Yet the conversation replayed itself in his mind, each moment pricking with more discomfort than the last.
She had been polite—so very polite. Civil, one might say, to the point of austerity… and that, more than anything, unsettled him. A guilty woman might have fluttered, protested, simpered, acted the injured innocent. The Widow Larkin had done none of that.
When he had said the name Singleton, however—
He stopped dead on the harbour road.
Her face.
There had been a flicker—quick and small but unmistakably there. Not fear. Not guilt. Recognition.
He crossed his arms against the wind and stared blindly toward the moored boats. “Why would she recognise Alastair’s name,” he murmured, “unless she—?”
He broke off. He would not follow that thread. Not yet. Only if circumstances necessitated. His brother’s treason was a wound that still bled when touched.
She had known something, that much was clear… and that knowledge might be the root of everything Renforth feared.
He resumed walking, his pace brisk, his boots crunching over the pebbled lane.
Stonehouse, viewed from below, resembled a painting hung askew: cottages leaning into one another for balance, the church steeple poking the clouds like a finger raised in admonition, the cliff path cutting its way like a scar across the hillside.
The harbour bustled with the modest life of the fishing trade—nets drying, gulls screaming, men arguing over nothing and everything.
Yet none of it registered upon his notice. His thoughts returned to her.
Her composure; her scrutiny; her guardedness; the last of which mirrored his own too closely for comfort.
“Devil take it,” he muttered, and the nearest gull echoed him like a disreputable chorus.
He reached the inn and bypassed the coffee-room entirely, heading straight for his modest chamber. The space was small enough to fit into Renforth’s dressing room, but it served: a low ceiling, a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, and a window that looked out over the restless sea.
He closed the door behind him, shrugged out of his coat, and pulled his journal from his satchel. It was a habit drilled into him in the Peninsula—record everything in code.
He sat at the small desk, dipped his pen, and began.
Met Mrs. Larkin upon the cliff path. She is neither simpering nor meek, nor given to girlish nerves. Composed. Intelligent. The sort of woman who measures everything she sees and reveals nothing not already weighed.
At mention of Singleton, there was recognition, not surprise. She knew the name.
What is her involvement?
What did Larkin tell her?
What is the nature of her recognition of Alastair?
If she possesses the cipher, why has she not destroyed it?
Why is she making twice-weekly walks to the harbour?
Mrs. Larkin is central to what is occurring.
He set the pen down and stared at the ink until it blurred. The thought of her being involved in treason with Alastair made a coldness sweep through him.
He had found more evidence of Alastair’s treason after his death. There was a vast interconnection of arms smuggling and blackmail far beyond what his superiors knew. If necessary, he would divulge it. He prayed it would not come to that.
By the next morning, the innkeeper had developed a cough that shook the rafters and a disposition that suggested Edmund’s presence, while profitable, was no longer convenient.
The gossip in the tap-room had also begun to grow too keen.
Fishermen were not subtle creatures, and he could feel their eyes assessing him as a man too well-dressed, too well-spoken, too keenly interested in quiet corners.
He needed something quieter—and someone who would not question his business.
Fortunately, a naval town possessed such a man.
“Admiral Hammond?” Edmund repeated when the landlord mentioned him over breakfast in answer to Edmund’s enquiry. “Where does he live?”
“Old house off the eastern lane,” the man wheezed. “Just at the edge of the Seminary grounds. Sees few visitors these days, poor soul. He ’as a mind like a chart half-faded with salt water but he lets rooms now and again. ’E likes the company.”
“And he will take a lodger without question?”
“He will nay remember to ask ’em,” the innkeeper said with a shrug.
It was, Edmund reflected, the first blessing he had received since arriving in the port.
He packed his things, settled the bill, and walked up the lane with his valise in hand.
The house stood apart from the town, a slate-roofed structure with a garden overrun by shrubs that had long since declared independence from pruning. He knocked twice before the door opened and an elderly man, garbed in a naval coat of faded blue, peered out.
His hair was white, his eyes as bright as stolen gunpowder, and his back straighter than any man his age should have been able to hold it.
“Well?” he demanded. “Speak up! State your business!”
“Sir,” Edmund said, undisturbed by being addressed like a midshipman, “I am seeking a lodging.”
“Ah!” The Admiral’s entire countenance transformed, as if the word ‘room’ had unlocked a long-closed cabin door. “A lodger! Capital! Been years since I have had one. Come in, come in.”
He stepped aside with a sweep of his hand, surprisingly elegant for someone whose fingers were misshapen with age.
Edmund entered the dim hall, noting the naval prints on the walls—Trafalgar, Copenhagen, the Glorious First of June. Dust lay thick on the frames, but the brass beneath still gleamed faintly.
“Your name?” Hammond demanded.
“Leigh,” he said quickly, falling into his alias with more ease than yesterday. “Edmund Leigh.”
“Leigh.” The old man tested it on his tongue, as though tasting a vintage port. “Good name. Sensible name. You are not a thief, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Not French?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you will do. Come into the sitting room. Mind the rug—my niece knitted the thing and it has ambitions to trip the unwary.”
Edmund bit back a smile and stepped over a remarkably ugly rug that looked perfectly capable of murder.
The sitting room was… unexpected. Neat, but cluttered with naval artefacts: brass sextants, a spyglass, charts in cylindrical cases, and—most curiously—a locked mahogany chest on the mantel that bore the insignia of the Admiralty.
“You served in the Navy, sir?” Edmund asked, though the uniform made the answer obvious.
“Forty-four years. Retired now—more by obligation than choice.” The Admiral tapped his temple. “Memory comes and goes like the tide. Some days I remember every wave I ever saw. Some days I cannot recall whether or not I have eaten breakfast.”
Edmund inclined his head. “I shall endeavour not to be a nuisance.”
“You will be company,” Hammond corrected, “and that is a rare thing. Now—your bedroom is up the stairs, second door on the left. Fresh water brought twice a day. Supper at six. If I drift or ramble, ignore me until I return.”
He said it cheerfully, as if forgetting whole conversations were no more troublesome than mislaying a glove.
“Thank you, sir,” Edmund said.
“Good. Now—” The Admiral peered at him suddenly with sharp, startling clarity. “Why have you come here, Mr. Leigh?”
Edmund’s heart jerked—but only for a moment. The Admiral’s gaze, keen as it was, seemed born of curiosity rather than suspicion.
“I am a writer,” Edmund said. “Gathering local tales.”
“Ah!” Hammond beamed. “Then you must have met Mrs. Larkin.”
Edmund froze.
“Indeed.”
“A fine woman,” the Admiral said, nodding. “Larkin was a clever fellow. Too clever by half. And handsome. Yes, yes, very handsome.”
Edmund swallowed. “You knew him?”
“Knew him?” Hammond laughed. “I served with his father. The boy came to me as a midshipman. He always had a book in his hand—always thinking, always writing.”
Writing. A chill slid down Edmund’s spine.
“You were speaking of Mrs. Larkin?” he asked, trying for a casual manner and failing.
“Kindest woman in Devonshire,” Hammond said firmly. “Takes in lost girls, wounded men, stray souls. And—” He tapped his temple again. “Very keen. Sees more than she says.”
Edmund exhaled slowly. That was consistent with everything he had observed.
“And Larkin’s death?” Edmund asked softly. “It was a great blow?”
“To her most of all,” Hammond said. “She wears her grief like armour; but loyal she is—loyal to the bone.”
He paused, eyes clouding. “Though she had enemies once, I think. Yes… yes, there was something. Some trouble. Something concerning London, I believe.”
Edmund’s pulse kicked. “London?”
But Hammond blinked, confusion settling like fog. “No matter. I have forgotten now. It will come back if it wishes.”
Edmund realized the conversation was slipping away like a ship in fog. He would have to tread carefully with this one—there were truths in the Admiral, but finding them would be a labour of patience.
He bowed slightly. “Thank you, sir. You have been very helpful.”
“Have I?” Hammond asked brightly. “Splendid! Then we shall be fast friends. Now go on—settle in. Supper at four bells!”
Edmund took his valise upstairs, found the small but comfortable room, and dropped onto the bed with an exhale that felt far too weary for the hour.