Chapter 18
I’d like a meeting with your constable,” Henry said, eyeing the singular man in the small room, feet up on a desk.
“You’re speaking with him,” the man responded, matching Henry’s stare.
Rough around the edges, with a beard shamelessly in need of trimming and a hard glint in his dark eyes, the man didn’t look the picture of an upholder of law, but he came slowly to his feet and set his crown-topped tipstaff on the desk. Constable he must be then.
“Your name?” he asked.
“Larken. Yours?”
“Ainsley.”
Henry had avoided this meeting at the first. Lawmen could be immensely helpful, but they were also men, and they could be bribed or blackmailed into aiding the wrong side of the law.
So he needed to tread lightly here. “I saw some suspicious activity down at a beach the other night,” he began, settling himself in a chair opposite the constable.
The man watched him with narrowed eyes before seating himself again. He was of a height with Henry, but a bit slimmer. Wiry. “What sorts of activity?”
“Men there, late at night. Guns and lanterns.”
Larken gave away nothing with his expression, staring away at Henry as he was. “And what were you doing there?”
Henry assumed a crooked grin. “Little tête-à-tête with my lady love.”
The man snorted, shaking his head. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“I don’t rightly know. I admit, I know little about this sort of thing. Do you arrest the men?”
“Do you know who they are?”
Henry shook his head slowly. “But I could give you some details.”
The man sniffed. “Wouldn’t help. Listen, you look like a nice enough fellow, Ainsley.
I’d guess you’re one of the fancy guests up at the old keep, and you as like haven’t a clue about the islands so I’ll come right out and tell you.
” He leaned forward, showing off more wrinkles around his eyes, placing his age past forty in Henry’s estimation.
“Smuggling’s a real problem here. I’m just one man and I can’t rightly go against them all.
So long as no one gets hurt, I leave them alone and you should too. ”
Henry stared at the man, considering. It was, honestly, a valid position to take. “And what about the guns? What if they aren’t just smuggling, but plundering ships?”
The constable shook his head, leaning back. “It is one and the same here, sir. But no one’s ever gotten hurt, so again, more than my job’s worth to do anything about it.”
“Well, I cannot condone it,” Henry said, playing the part of concerned citizen. “Does everyone take this same stance?”
“Near about. If they aren’t a part of it themselves, they benefit from it just by being on the island.”
Henry shook his head, appearing for all the world as if he were shocked. “Even the men of quality?”
The constable snorted. “You lords aren’t apt to get your hands dirty, but they’ll buy the goods, sure enough. Sorry to disillusion you, sir, but you’ve probably partaken in smuggled goods already since being here.”
Henry claimed astonishment and begrudging acceptance to that fact, then donned his hat and left.
As expected, the man would be no help, but his comments might be. He’d indicated that the titled men on the island likely weren’t directly involved and he’d said that the smuggling and piracy were one and the same. So . . . one band who did both types of work?
If it all added up, the man Henry sought—the Gentleman Pirate—might be a navy man but not one particularly high ranking, and he was heading a band of smugglers these days. The piracy was simply the thing that alerted Carlton to the scheme.
The sun beat down from the cloudless sky as Henry approached the carriage.
The constable’s office was set near the docks, just across from the White Hart.
Henry paused, staring at the whitewashed pub.
Swasey had said that they consorted with the smugglers—they could have more to do with it than just buying smuggled spirits.
A stable like theirs would be a good location to store stolen goods.
At the moment, Henry had no concrete leads, and this small island suddenly appeared massive in scope.
Any of the men on the docks, the people in the pub, even the constable behind him, could be involved in the piracy.
Any of them could be the man who’d killed Henry’s father.
Or none at all. At the end of the day, Carlton might have been wrong.
The signature of blindfolding the crew and leaving the ship intact was there, yes, but that was not something to hang an entire case on.
But the White Hart truly might be his next best lead. It was known to consort with smugglers, and a search of the premises might uncover hidden storage or something to tie them more surely to the piracy.
The carriage driver was asleep sitting against a wheel, so Henry left him, crossing the street and, instead of entering the establishment, going around the back toward the stables.
A door opened at the side of the inn, water sloshing out onto the ground.
Henry leaned against the wall, hat pulled down, until the door closed again.
Smells from the inn drifted out—some sort of meal and the hearty scent of brandy.
Henry swallowed. He felt a strong pull to turn around and enter the inn proper.
But he couldn’t risk the distraction, especially not now that he knew how his brain functioned when off the stuff.
And he couldn’t help thinking what Mrs. Seymour’s expression would be if she knew he’d gotten a drink. That, more than anything, kept him moving forward.
He met no other interference until the door to the stable was in front of him, and he slipped into the dim, cool interior.
Horses lining the walls snuffled and shifted, and the sunlight filtering between cracks in the walls was speckled with floating hay.
Henry surveyed the room: a loft above him, a dozen stalls down each side, a door at the back.
He strode there first, glancing in the stalls as he went.
Not quite half were full. He tried the door at the back, which opened with a creak and showed only a tack room and some tools.
He crossed to a ladder, climbing it to the hayloft.
As one would expect, it mostly held hay bales.
But behind them, hard to see in the dim interior, something that had a similar color but was the wrong size lined the stable walls.
Henry ducked as the roof sloped downward.
Pieces of hay stabbed his legs as he came closer, squinting against the shadows.
Crates. Half a dozen, maybe. He knelt, trying the top.
It was nailed shut. He pushed at the entire thing and heard the muffled clinking of bottles. Purchased or smuggled, though?
A door creaking stilled Henry. He began formulating a reason for being in the hayloft in case he was discovered. But the footsteps didn’t make it far enough into the stable to reach the ladder.
A deep voice drifted up to the loft. “You fool, you know only a few’ve been told a’ the plan. Ya can’t just talk about it to anyone.”
“I wasn’t. This is Dubois. He’s always been a part a these things. You telling me he’s been booted? What did he do?” This voice was higher. With a slight Irish lilt.
The deep voice spoke again, and Henry silently shifted to his feet. “It’s none a’ your business. Have Dubois talk to me. The lieutenant says there’s been a change in plans.” Henry filed away the name. Could he look over the edge and see the men? Would they see him first?
“For tonight?”
“No, you idiot, for the big one.”
Henry’s ears pricked. This could be nothing at all, but the hushed way the men conversed bespoke secrecy.
And a lieutenant? Henry happened to know a pair. But the possibility of one of them being the man discussed was near nonexistent.
“So Dubois is still involved. You get off your high horse, Gresham. Your position, dinnae make you any better than me.”
“Jus’ tell Dubois to talk to me. And keep your ear to the ground. There’s someone up at the keep poking around.”
Henry froze, inches from the edge of the loft.
He’d been discreet in his questioning, hadn’t he?
How had word of his investigation reached the pirates?
Had the constable given him away? But he’d only talked to him a quarter of an hour ago.
One of the people he spoke to at the dock that first day? A guest at the house?
The rumble of voices continued, but it grew quieter as the men moved back to the front of the stable. Henry could only pick out words and phrases before they left. Quarter to . . . Needs replaced . . . Lieutenant . . .
Henry looked back at the crates. Without a crowbar he wouldn’t be getting into any of them today, and he didn’t want to risk anyone else coming into the stables while he snooped around.
He climbed down the ladder and jumped the last several rungs, brushing hay from his breeches as he strode to the front.
He bent to look through a crack in the slatted door before determining it was safe to leave.
His driver was still sitting at the back, dozing while the horses grazed. Henry’s approach woke him and he stood, setting to hitching the horses back up. There was a creak of hinges, and Henry turned in time to see the inn’s front door open.
It was Carruthers who exited.
The man’s eyes lit on Henry before Henry could move, and he raised a hand. “Sir Henry, what brings you to town?”
“Just a quick drink. You?”
Carruthers nodded knowingly, ignoring Henry’s question as his long legs crossed the stable yard in a trice. “No drink at Windvale.”
Henry shifted, scratching his upper arm. “Indeed.”
“Blasted ridiculous, if you ask me. Seymour always kept the best brandy.”
Henry sincerely hoped that it wasn’t the infamous commander himself that had instilled Alice’s deep hatred of alcohol. “It must be quite different without him.”
“The parties are fine enough, even if Alice invites a tamer crowd. But Seymour . . . no host could ever beat that man. He knew everyone, and these parties were a lark, I tell you.”
“Did you serve with him in the navy?” Henry glanced at the coachman. He seemed nearly finished hitching the horses.
Carruthers nodded. “Saved his life a time or two.”
“It is kind of you to support Mrs. Seymour in his absence.”
Carruthers swiped his hat from his head, running a hand through light hair, a grin spreading across his face. “It’s a pleasure.”
Henry’s stomach twisted at that look. Could the man have interest in his best friend’s wife? He didn’t know the lieutenant well, but something told him they wouldn’t fit. Not at all.
The coachman was finished. He opened the carriage door, and Henry turned to the lieutenant. “Can I offer you a ride?”
Carruthers shook his head. “No, I’m well enough. I have a meeting to keep.”
Henry bid the man farewell, stepping to the carriage when Carruthers stopped him.
“A group are playing billiards tonight. We’ve had enough of those card games the women enjoy. Care to join us?”
Henry’s brows rose, but he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Certainly.”
“Excellent. Billiards room, seven o’clock.” He tipped his hat and turned about.
Henry likewise turned, entering the carriage. But as the equipage circled to head up the road, he pushed back the hangings in front of the window, eyes sweeping the area for Carruthers’s regimentals. He saw them just before the inn moved from his view.
Ducking into the stable.