Chapter 9 #2
Edmund kept a distance a gentleman might plausibly keep in a public lane—near enough to see, far enough not to appear attached. He passed two women carrying baskets, nodded to a boy dragging a broken shutter, and let himself become merely another figure in the storm’s aftermath.
In town, Mrs. Larkin paused at the butcher’s first, then the post. Edmund kept to the opposite side of the street, loitering nearby as Mrs. Larkin paused near the post office as if considering whether to enter.
The postmistress—Mrs. Markes, a pointed-nosed woman with ink-stained fingers—came out with a parcel in her hand and spoke to Mrs. Larkin at once.
“Mrs. Larkin!” she called. “A delivery came through last night, as late as you please.”
Mrs. Larkin crossed toward her, receiving the parcel with a composed nod. Her fingers tightened around it in a way Edmund had seen before, in soldiers receiving dispatches.
She turned away—yet not toward the path back to Belair House. She moved instead toward Plymouth and the harbour. Edmund’s instincts homed in. Blake?
He waited three heartbeats and then began to follow.
The harbour was back to business—boats swaying against their moorings, ropes creaking, the smell of brine thick in the air. Men moved with purpose.
Mrs. Larkin walked through it without hesitation, her basket on her arm and her eyes looking forward. She moved as if she belonged in the harbour.
Edmund kept his distance, slipping behind a stack of crates when she paused near a fishman, stepping aside when a pair of sailors crossed his path.
He watched her purchase small supplies—assumingly for Blake again. Then she turned down a narrower lane, one that led away from the busiest part of the wharf.
She was walking in Blake’s direction. Edmund moved after her, to where the lane ended at a low boat-house, half-sheltered by a wall. Mrs. Larkin slipped behind it. Edmund paused where he could see without being seen—behind a pile of netting and a broken barrel.
He heard voices: Mrs. Larkin’s, low and controlled; Ana a man’s, rougher, threaded with strain—Blake’s. “—earlier than usual,” Blake said. “You should nay ’ave come so soon.”
“I have come because you frightened me the other day,” Mrs. Larkin replied, “and because the storm has changed matters. Tell me what you meant.”
“There are men here what don’t belong,” Blake said. “Their signals are similar to Singleton’s gang.”
Unconsciously, Edmund’s hand had tightened.
“Revenue men, surely?” Mrs. Larkin asked, and there was something in her tone—anger, perhaps, or fear.
Blake gave a low laugh without humour. “Revenue men don’t signal that way. These—these are the sort what wear official coats when it suits ’em and plain ones when it don’t.”
Mrs. Larkin’s breath caught. “Have you seen them?”
“No, just the signals.”
Mrs. Larkin’s voice lowered further. “And the cipher?”
Blake was silent long enough that Edmund felt every second in his bones.
“It ’as been used. I saw it. I saw marks on a paper—same shifts, same pattern as the Captain used. Same as you taught me.”
Mrs. Larkin’s voice was very quiet. “Where?”
Blake swallowed audibly. “At the tavern. A man dropped a scrap when he was drunk. I picked it up after he left, and—ma’am, it was the code.”
Edmund’s blood cooled. A drunk man carrying a ciphered scrap was either absurdly careless… or bait.
“Let me see it,” Mrs. Larkin said at once.
“No,” Blake said quickly. “I burned it. I ain’t a fool.”
“Did you read it first?”
Blake hesitated. “A few bits.”
“What bits?”
“Enough to know it weren’t old,” Blake said. “It weren’t some boy copying pretty marks. It meant something. It said—” He broke off abruptly.
Mrs. Larkin’s voice hitched. “What did it say?”
Blake exhaled. “Shipments.” The word landed with weight in the cold, damp air. “They be running again. Same as before. I heard him saying the storm was a blessing ’cause it keeps the Revenue away and covers sound at night.”
Edmund’s mind raced. Shipments. Arms. Hidden channels. Singleton’s work?
But Singleton was dead. Fagge was dead. Devil and his gang, as Renforth had put it, dealt with—unless there was someone else. Had there been more men than they had known of?
Mrs. Larkin spoke again, her voice thick with controlled fury. “Who said this?”
Edmund heard Blake swallow. “I did nay see his face proper. But there were one… one with a scar on his cheek. Called himself—called himself ‘Holt’, but that ain’t his real name. He asked about old times. Mentioned the London Docks.”
The London Docks. Edmund’s spine straightened. That was precisely what had happened before—arms going missing from the docks.
Mrs. Larkin’s voice shook slightly, though she obviously tried to smother it. “Then—?”
“’Tis likely to be the same ring,” Blake said. “Likely he was looking for men.”
A long silence followed.
Then Mrs. Larkin whispered, “We must be very careful.”
Blake’s voice softened. “Aye.”
“Have you heard any more? Anything at all?” Mrs. Larkin asked grimly.
“No,” Blake said.
Mrs. Larkin’s voice steadied. “They must be stopped.”
Blake gave a hoarse laugh. “Aye.”
“Next time, should there be one, keep the cipher. I must see it.”
Edmund felt the cold realization settle more firmly: she was not simply a widow with a school. She spoke like a person accustomed to danger, accustomed to thinking in patterns and contingencies.
A plank creaked beneath Edmund’s boot as he shifted his weight. He froze and held his breath, forcing himself to remain still until the tension eased.
After a moment, Mrs. Larkin said softly, “I must go. I have been here too long.”
Blake muttered something—agreement, warning, perhaps prayer.
Mrs. Larkin re-emerged, her basket empty again, her posture composed. She did not look around as if searching for a watcher; she walked as if she had never been frightened in her life.
Edmund waited until she had passed. Then he hastened back toward the cottage along a different path in order to reach it before she did, his mind working in swift, ruthless circles.
Holt. Scar. London Docks. A connection to Singleton?
How could it be? Singleton’s men had been dealt with. Who else could have taken up the work—the work of profit and treason?
He had barely returned to where the men were working and greeted them when she came upon them. “Mrs. Larkin!” he greeted her amiably. “How was the town?”
“Busy with repairs, the same as here. This was left for you,” she said, her tone perfectly civil. “Mrs. Markes says it is urgent. The post-boy could not deliver it here with the tree in the way. He tried last night, it seems.”
Edmund took it, keeping his face bland, but his pulse quickened.
The paper was plain, the wax unbroken.
He did not look at the seal too closely—did not appear to recognize anything—yet he felt Mrs. Larkin’s attention like a hand resting upon his sleeve.
Her eyes were calm, but there was a question there—not suspicion, precisely, at least not yet.
He forced a mild smile. “How kind of you to bring it to me. I had not expected to receive post so soon after the storm.”
“Nor had I,” she replied. “Perhaps the storm was merely local.”
A pause followed. Had she opened it? The wax was unbroken. But wax could be softened and resealed by a careful hand. Mrs. Larkin ran a school. She was capable. She was clever… and he suspected she knew what it was to be haunted by secrets.
He kept his voice light. “I hope the town has not suffered too badly.”
“It seems the Admiral’s cottage has fared the worst. We shall go on as we always do,” she said, “with grumbling, work, and tea.”
He almost smiled. “An admirable remedy.”
She bade him farewell and left to return to the school.
Edmund could not open the letter here, in the open, but he could not wait long either.
He found a place inside the garden shed to hide and broke the seal.
Folded in plain paper were Renforth’s neat lines, written in a different cipher Edmund knew as well as his own pulse. He translated quickly.
Reports confirm arms missing from London Docks. Pattern matches prior Singleton operations.
Revenue men dispatched to Plymouth.
Possible link to former officer Holt.
Trust no one.
Holt. He must discover who he was as quickly as possible. Edmund’s mind leaped to the scar Blake had mentioned. A distinguishing mark. A man who might be trying to play both sides, now elevated in the scheme.
He thought of his brother, charming and persuasive; Edmund had been certain Alastair was acting for England even as he had sold her secrets. Devil and his gang had been dealt with, but perhaps only the visible devils had been apprehended.
Larkin had been running blockades after the war.
Singleton’s gang had eliminated him after Alastair had died.
It wasn’t uncommon for a new leader to emerge when one was gone, but who would have the connexions to match those of his brother?
It had to be someone even higher if they had access to the cipher.
He would have to tread carefully, leaving the house at night, but he must discover the identity of this man Holt.