Smuggler's Moon by Bruce Alexander Page A

out to the sea. I concluded immediately it was Deal Castle, where Dick Dickens lorded it over an idle force of twenty customs men. Did those who accepted him in the Customs Service not know his history? Did Mr. Albert Sarton not know it? He had spoken of him (without identifying him by name) quite respectfully. What if I were to return with the news that the local Customs Officer was once indeed actively involved in smuggling? Would he and Sir John suspect, as I did at that moment, that perhaps Dickens had only pretended to leave the owling trade? It could well be, thought I, that Dick—and perhaps his customs men, as well—were not near so idle as they seemed.
    Thus my thoughts as I gazed upon Deal Castle. Had I known more at that moment, I might not have been near so certain. Yet if I had not been so certain, I should not have hastened, as I did, to Number 18 Middle Street in order to inform Sir John of what I had learned about the local customs officer. And had I not hastened, I might have missed him altogether.
    Knowing no better way, I returned to the residence of Mr. Sarton just as I had come from it. No doubt there was a shorter route, but I did not know it, nor did I have time to ask it. I felt a strange urgency to Middle Street. Where before I had ambled, I now jog-trotted. Even there along High Street I moved at a fast pace through the crowd of local gentry, narrowly avoiding collisions, dashing at full speed past the Good King George, the inn where I had learned all from Mr. Perkins. And at last to Middle Street where, to my uneasy surprise, I spied a coach waiting at one of the houses halfway to the next street. I feared the worst when I saw that it waited before Number 18.
    Upon the box, there in the driver’s seat, sat Will Fowler, he of the welcoming speech who had acted as guide to Clarissa’s tour of the manor house and its grounds. Fowler talked soothingly to the two horses, calming them with hisvoice, as only a good driver can do. But he gave me a wave of recognition ere I knocked upon the door. Because I read the look upon his face as one of concern, I asked if there were trouble back at the house.
    “I fear so,” said he, ”trouble of the worst sort.”
    “And what is that?” I asked.
    “Murder,” said he, ”of one of our own. I’ve come to report it and collect Mr. Sarton. That’s as it should be done, with the magistrate, or so I was told.”
    “May Sir John and I return with you?”
    “Already been asked, already been granted.”
    I nodded and went to the door, banging loudly upon it and waiting just as I had before. And just as before, I heard the steady tap-tap-tap of Mrs. Sarton’s heels down the long hall. She called out to me, demanding to know who knocked. To her request I called out my name. Yet there was a lapse of some several moments before the bolt was pulled and the key turned in the lock. She had evidently forgotten who I was. We had never been properly introduced.
    “Ah yes,” said she, ”I thought ‘twas you, but we can’t be too careful. Come in, come in.”
    I did as she bade, and noted that she did return bolt and lock to place the moment I was inside. I gave her my thanks and followed her pointed direction into that small room to the right of the door where we had sat earlier. Then did she depart. Sir John, and he alone, occupied the space at that moment. He stood, fidgeting with his walking stick, obviously eager to be off.
    “Ah, Jeremy, you’re here,” said he. ”I feared we should have to leave without you.”
    “Yes, Sir John, and I bear with me important news from Constable Perkins.”
    “Well, save it. I’ve important news, too. Let us wait till we are alone and may talk more freely.”
    “But,” said I, ”this is information that will be of greatinterest to Mr. Sarton, as well. I’m sure he would want to know.”
    “That may well be,” said Sir John, ”but if it came from Mr. Perkins, it must be saved. Remember, we are here as trespassers