Jo Brown - A Bride for the Baron

Miss Fenwick stared at him, her eyes widening as understanding dawned. She whispered, “What did you see?”

“I don’t want to say until I am sure of my suspicions.”

“Smugglers?” Her voice remained hushed.

He nodded grimly. “Take a deep breath. What do you smell?”

She did and shivered. “Some sort of distilled spirits.”

“Brandy, I would guess. A lot of it if the odor lingers after the fire.” He let his breath sift past his clenched teeth. “Brandy burns fast and hot.”

“You think someone used it to start a fire in the church?”

“Possibly. I need to check the cellar to see if there is a clue there.” He put his foot on the closest beam. It cracked and tumbled into the cellar with a crash.

Mr. Fenwick stormed toward them and pushed between Edmund and his sister. “My lord, it may not be my place to tell you what you should do, but we lost your predecessor barely a year ago. To have you risk your neck now would be foolhardy.”

“Aye,” chimed the men who had gathered by the cellar.

Miss Kightly, who had followed the vicar, grasped Edmund’s arm with both hands. “My dear Lord Meriweather, there are others who can go down into the cellar in accordance with your directions.”

“You cannot believe,” Miss Fenwick said with a serenity that contrasted with the panic in the other voices, “that Lord Meriweather would ask someone else to do what he himself would not. He is not that sort of man.”

“But, Vera,” began her brother.

“Have you forgotten that Lord Meriweather fought heroically for our nation?” she fired back.

“Of course not,” Miss Kightly said, “but—”

“Then trust that he would not do something risky without having a good reason.” Miss Fenwick faced him. “But he also must see the good sense of taking one or two others with him in case the debris shifts.”

Edmund was pleased by Miss Fenwick’s defense of his plan. Suddenly the wind seemed less cold and the sunlight brighter because he had an ally. Her eyes glinted like the sapphire sky above them. A man could lose himself in eyes like hers. Maybe he already had, because he had no idea how long he had gazed into her eyes or how long he would have continued if one of the men had not sneezed.

Clearing his throat, he thanked her for her good idea. He asked for volunteers. Every man, except the vicar, raised his hand. In dismay, he wondered which one he should choose.

“If I may make a couple of suggestions, my lord,” Miss Fenwick said.

Grateful and hoping his face was not blazing with embarrassment, he said, “Most certainly.”

“Mr. Sims is slender and able to squeeze into small places.” She smiled when she added, “Mr. Henderson may be the strongest man in Sanctuary Bay. If one of the timbers slips, he will be able to hold it while all of you escape.”

Edmund did not doubt the man was the strongest in the parish. He was built with thick shoulders and looked as if he could lift one of the fishermen’s cobles—their small deep wooden boats—out of the sand and hold it over his head.

“Thank you, Miss Fenwick.” He nodded toward her as if it were the most ordinary matter in the world that the vicar’s sister should make such a decision. “Men, come with me.”

The vicar began praying for their safety as Edmund put his foot on another beam. Edmund added a few prayers of his own as he shifted his weight onto it, and his boot slid slightly. The beam held. With one foot still on the ground, he gave orders for the men to follow one at a time, testing each step they took and never allowing more than one man on a beam at the same time. Without knowing how the joists had been weakened by the fire, they must take extra care.

Edmund eased down into the cellar, feeling more alive than he had in months. The only decision he had to make was where to put his foot next, and he was relieved to see there was no choice. The crisscrossed joists offered a single path. He reached the bottom and frowned at the broken font to his right. For how many centuries had it been part of baptisms? Now it was rubble.

The odor of brandy was very strong, and he saw several crates of empty bottles in a dark pool. He knelt by the pool, dipped his fingers in and tasted the liquid. Water.

He pushed himself to his feet and leaned toward a joist. The odor of brandy was strong on it. Whoever had started the fire had soaked the floor with enough smuggled alcohol that the reek remained. But had it been the smugglers?

The lantern was passed down to him, and he edged toward the place where the opening was cut into the stone wall. The work had been done fairly recently because the chisel marks where the stones had been torn out of the wall still had rough edges.

He peered into the opening. He slapped his hand against the wall when he saw earth and stone blocked what once had been a tunnel. Someone had pulled down the ceiling only a short time before because the stones still had dirt clinging to them.

Taking a step toward the opening, he stopped when his foot struck something soft. He bent down. It was a water-soaked coil of French lace, another favorite item among the smugglers. He had no further doubts. The smugglers had been using the cellar and had burned the church. It was not the first time they had used fire to intimidate, because there had been a suspicious fire in Meriweather Hall’s kitchen before Christmas. But who had given the order to set the church aflame? The order had to have come from their leader, a man who would have no compunctions about burning the parish’s church.

He heard a warning creak. He looked up to see Henderson and Sims dashing up the beams. Dirt and ash fell on him. He did not hesitate. He was close on their heels by the time he reached ground level. Jumping off the beam, he whirled as several joists caved in to the cellar. A gray cloud rose up. He waved aside the ash and coughed.

Edmund motioned for everyone to get back from the edge, then thanked Sims and Henderson and the other men. They nodded and went back to piling debris closer to the cliff. But he did not miss their troubled expressions.

He picked up his coat and pulled it on, listening to make sure the men were not within earshot. As he drew on his greatcoat, he asked, “Mr. Fenwick, when was the last time you were in the church’s cellar?”

“At least eight or nine years ago.” His nose wrinkled. “Shortly after I accepted the living here, I had everything stored down there brought up so it didn’t molder away. The door into the church has been locked shut, and the key was lost years ago.”

“So the smugglers had the perfect place to hide their cargo.”

“Smugglers! In my church?” The vicar shook his head. “Impossible.”

“The evidence is in the cellar.” Edmund outlined what he had seen.

The vicar’s face grew long with dismay. “This is an outrage. When I heard the story that a previous vicar counted himself among the smugglers’ ranks, I had hoped it was untrue. Now...” He choked, unable to continue.

Patting her brother’s arm, Miss Fenwick said, “We must make sure it does not happen again.”

“That may be easier said than done,” Edmund said. “They need a place to hide their illicit cargo. Who knows how long they have been using the church? At least since we made it impossible for them to use the dower cottage at Meriweather Hall. All worked well for them until a section of the church’s roof fell in. They must have feared someone would check the cellar to make sure the joists could support a new roof.”

“So they set the church on fire,” Miss Fenwick said, looking from him to the cellar, “to hide that they had been using the cellar.”

“That is exactly what I was thinking.” He appreciated her acceptance of the facts.