Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

“Hold on tight,” said he to me.

With that, he cracked his whip into the air, and the four horses leapt forward as one. Off we went, round the corner and onto High Street only a bit before the King’s Carabineers themselves had arrived. There were fewer of them than I had at first realized-probably no more than the squad who had galloped down the Thames at Sir John’s order in pursuit of the Dingendam; and at their head I saw the same Lieutenant Tabor, who had led them on that chase.

“Where are we headed?” asked Mr. Crawly.

“To Middle Street-the magistrate’s house,” I shouted my reply.

“That’s to pick somebody up? Just to Middle Street an’t much of a fare.”

”No, Sir John asked to see you. He says he has something to discuss with you.”

“Discuss, is it? Sounds a bit hazardous. The last time a magistrate had a discussion with me, it cost me two days work and a five-shilling fine. That was the old magistrate, Mr. Kemp.”

“Well, Sir John has no such intentions with you, I’m sure.”

I noted that it was no longer necessary for me to shout. Turning round, I saw that the contingent of cavalry lagged considerably behind-had now, in fact, come to a halt somewhere near the Broad Street corner, so tightly surrounded were they by the enthusiastic citizens of Deal. As I watched, the bugler put his horn to his lips and played another tune.

Middle Street was as I had left it, empty of all but two or three pedestrians who could be seen in the distance. I tried to imagine just how this quiet scene might look with the addition of horses and red-coated cavalrymen; yet try as I might I could not suppose them there.

“Number Eighteen, is it?”

“That’s right, Mr. Crawly.”

And just then he pulled back on the reins, and as the horses slowed, he applied the brake. The judicious use of both brought us to an easy halt just at Number 18.

I bounded down from the top of the coach and, with a promise to return just as soon as I might, left him and was admitted through the front door by Clarissa, who had been watching through a window, awaiting my return.

“Is Sir John in that little room there?” I asked.

“He is,” said she, ”but he’s with someone now.”

“Oh? Who?”

“I’ve no idea,” said she in a rather airy manner. ”Never have I seen the man before. He’s certainly an unpleasant sort, however.”

I could not think who that unpleasant man might be. Certainly we had met some in Deal who might fit that description, yet it seemed to me that Clarissa could put names to most of them.

“Did Sir John ask that he not be disturbed?”

“No, not so far as I remember.”

“Well then,” said I, ”I’ll chance it.”

And so saying, I beat stoutly upon the door to the little room. Hearing something not quite understandable called from inside, I chose to take it as an invitation to enter and threw open the door. There behind the desk was Sir John, exactly where I had left him; the expression upon his face was such that I had no need to fear I had displeased him by my sudden entry. Yet there was displeasure aplenty written upon the face of his guest, who was no less than the Chief Customs Officer for eastern Kent-that is to say, Mr. George Eccles. Mr. Eccles had done little since last they met at Lord Mansfield’s to endear himself to Sir John; the scowl upon his face made that plain.

“Ah, Jeremy, is it you?” asked Sir John. ”You may recall our previous encounter with Mr. Eccles?” I bowed politely as Sir John continued: ”He has been telling me of the sad outcome of his dealings with the Chancellor of the Exchequer. And I had just explained to him why it is that I sit here, rather than the duly appointed magistrate to the town of Deal. And he, I must say, seemed to dismiss the death of Mr. Sarton as a matter of little importance.”

“Well, now,” said Mr. Eccles in that same sharp tone which recalled itself immediately to me, ”I did not say that exactly-no, I did not.”

“And what did you say, sir?”

“I believe I said that sad as it may be to hear of a life cut short as Mr. Sarton’s was, the town is no worse off for it. He was of little worth as a magistrate.”

“I think it remarkable you should have said that, Mr. Eccles, for Sir Simon Grenville said much the same thing only yesterday. Tell me, sir, have you discussed this matter with Sir Simon?”

“I may have,” said Mr. Eccles in a manner that could only be called hesitant. Then, in a more emphatic fashion: ”Well, yes I have-and what of it? Only yesterevening I dined with him and we discussed these matters thoroughly. He told me of your intemperate remarks at graveside. Naturally, I hope you succeed in your declared intention to find the murderer of Mr. Sarton, and as for your wish to wipe out the smuggling trade here in Deal, of course I’m for you there, too, though I doubt you’ll succeed. But let us be practical. Whether you do or don’t succeed, eventually you will leave here, Sir John, and return to London. Then it will fall to the leading citizens of Deal to choose a successor to the late Mr. Sarton. And when that time comes, there can be one and only one choice to be made for the office of magistrate.”

“And what choice is that?” asked Sir John.

“Why, Sir Simon himself, of course. He is the greatest landholder in this part of Kent. He can claim near a thousand acres. There are few in the county who have more.”

“You feel that this qualifies him as a magistrate?”

“Indeed I do. How much law, after all, must a magistrate know? With all due respect, Sir John, I believe you would admit that the answer to that would have to be …” Mr. Eccles paused for effect. ”Not a great deal.”

“I daresay you’re right there,” said Sir John with an amused chuckle. ”But do you feel that justice is best served when the rich sit in judgment upon the poor?”

“Why not? God has shown that he favors the rich by giving wealth to them. Why should he not also favor them with wisdom?”

“There are, I know, some who feel as you do in such matters.”

“Let me tell you, Sir Simon would have been magistrate here in Deal had not Lord Mansfield butted into the town’s affairs. It had all been arranged.”

“How interesting.”

“Then came a letter from Sir Simon’s friend, Lord Mansfield, asking his aid in securing that same appointment for a young fellow barely out of university. Of course he had no choice but-”

At just that moment, reader, came the not-too-distant sound of a bugle. The King’s Carabineers were now quite near. Had Sir John heard the call? Of course he had. The shadow of a smile flickered across his face. As for Mr. Eccles, however, there could be not the slightest doubt that he had heard it clear. He leapt up from his chair and looked first at Sir John and then at me, as if one of us two had been the source of that unexpected tooting.

“What was that?” he demanded. ”What was that sound?”

“Why, I be damned if it did not sound like a trumpet, sir. Now, who would be playing a trumpet here in Deal in the middle of the day? Have you any idea, Jeremy?”

“None at all, Sir John.” That seemed an appropriate answer under the circumstances.

“But forgive me, lad,” said he to me. ”What was your purpose in knocking upon the door? As I recall, I sent you off on an errand, did I not?” (He knew very well on what errand he had sent me.)

“Ah yes, you did sir. You said you had business with a Mr. Crawly and sent me off to fetch him.”

“And have you done as I asked?”

“I have, sir. Mr. Crawly awaits outside.”

“Well done,” said Sir John, rising from his chair. ”Let us go and meet with Mr. Crawly, shall we? I’m sure Mr. Eccles and I have concluded our talk, have we not, sir?”