‘Is that not enough?’ She seemed surprised. ‘After all, one
cannot trust the French. Look at Bonaparte!’
‘I believe,’ Lydia returned, ‘that Napoleon is from
Corsica, not France.’
The lady shrugged. ‘It is all one.’
‘I recall that Monsieur d’Almain was a guest at your own
card party only recently.’
‘My dear Camilla,’ the lady protested, growing slightly
defensive, ‘you know as well as I do that he has the
entree
everywhere. There is a sad dearth of eligible gentlemen in
this parish, and one must make do with what one has.’
‘I do hope,’ Aunt Camilla said, barely squeezing the
words through clenched teeth, ‘that you have not
mentioned your suspicions to anyone.’
Mrs Wardle-Penfield adjusted the lace collar on her elab
orate morning-gown before responding, ‘I did drop a word
in Mr Savidge’s ear. However, I doubt that he paid any heed
to it. Not the smartest hound in the pack, Mr Savidge. I
would never expect him to corner the fox, myself.’
‘I’m sure,’ the other lady raised her chin again, ‘he is far
too sensible to be suspecting Monsieur d’Almain of something so vile.’
‘Young John,’ her friend continued, deaf to her outburst,
‘is another matter.’
‘Is he?’ Lydia enquired, a little surprised to find herself
in agreement with the lady.
‘He may play the schoolboy,’ Mrs Wardle-Penfield
informed them, ‘but Master John is as sharp as they come,
in spite of his impertinent manner.’
This last remark no doubt referred to his lack of defer
ence toward herself, Lydia thought with an inward chuckle
which she barely managed to contain.
Lydia was able to draw Aunt Camilla away from her friend
before an irrevocable schism could develop between them.
It was some time before her aunt could at all regain her
composure. No sooner had she done so, in fact, than she lost
it again. Her mind was only now able to comprehend Mrs
Wardle-Penfield’s remark concerning her partiality for the
Frenchman.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, her cheeks reddening. ‘I hope that
she does not imagine that I am setting my cap at Monsieur
d’Almain.’
‘No,’ Lydia offered by way of cold comfort. ‘She merely
perceives what everyone must: that you have a decided
tendre
for the man.’
‘It is not true!’ Camilla cried, rising precipitately from her
chair and wringing her hands. ‘I do indeed admire him—’
‘Indeed.’
‘But do you suppose that he suspects - that he believes—’
‘Calm yourself, dear aunt.’ Lydia rose also, gently
pressing her aunt back onto her chair. ‘Nobody could ever
accuse you of flirting, you know. It is not in your nature. I
am sure that your behavior toward Monsieur d’Almain
has always been well within the bounds of propriety.’
‘Yes,’ her aunt whispered somewhat mournfully.
‘In fact,’ Lydia went on with her usual forthright but
tactless commonsense, ‘you will never attach him if you do
not make more of a push.’
‘Lydia!’ For a moment it seemed Camilla would swoon at
this vulgar sentiment. ‘You really should not say such
things.’
‘Well, I would not do so to a stranger.’ She looked down
upon her aunt with mild disapprobation. ‘But we are
family, and need not be coy about such things. It is foolish
to pretend that you would not welcome a proposal from the
man.’
‘I am sure he never thought of such a thing,’ Camilla said
primly.
‘And never will, if you do not encourage him.’
‘I - I do not know how to do so.’
‘No.’ Lydia sighed. ‘If you did know, you probably would
have married long before now.’
‘There are worse things than being an old maid.’
‘Not if you desire something more,’ her niece answered
tartly.
A tremulous smile touched her aunt’s pink lips. ‘You are
right, of course.’
‘Well, we must contrive between us.’
She perceived a look of alarm in her aunt’s eyes. Camilla
Denton was a woman of strong feelings but not equally strong will. She would sit and dream her life away in single-blessedness unless something was done about it.
‘What are you planning, Lydia?’ Camilla asked.
‘I must give the matter more consideration.’ Lydia looked
thoughtfully through the parlor window and happened to
see John Savidge walking past the house. ‘Excuse me, dear
aunt!’ she cried, vaulting up. ‘I will be back directly.’
* * * *
If John was put out by being accosted on his way to the inn,
he displayed no sign of it. When Lydia hailed him, he
turned and smiled warmly at her before retracing his steps
to the gate of her aunt’s cottage.
‘Miss Bramwell.’ He doffed his hat. ‘How d’ye do?’
‘Quite well, Mr Savidge,’ she replied politely. ‘Can you
spare a few minutes, sir?’
‘Of course I can.’
She ushered him into her aunt’s parlor, where Camilla sat looking somewhat discomfited. She so rarely enter
tained any gentlemen callers beyond the vicar and the occasional tradesman. Still, John was well known to her and she would soon have composed herself had not her
niece immediately broached a subject which never failed to
overset her nerves.
‘Have you discovered any more about the murder?’ Lydia
demanded.
‘Lydia!’ Camilla begged, her hand clutching her throat as
though to keep the breath from escaping entirely.
‘There seems to be nothing more to discover,’ John
answered.
‘I suppose you have heard the rumors circulating in the
village?’
‘Dragons and demons?’ He shook his head, half amused
and half disgusted. ‘Superstitions die hard in the country.’
Lydia leaned forward, determined to know more. He
clearly thought as little of the prevailing notions as did she.
‘What is your opinion of the matter?’ she asked pointedly.
‘Do not be plaguing John about this,’ her aunt pleaded,
referring to Mr Savidge with the casual air of one who had known him from his cradle.
‘But I cannot get it out of my mind,’ Lydia protested to both of them, refusing to be put off. ‘I am convinced that
there is more to this than meets the eye.’
‘I quite agree, Miss Bramwell.’
John’s response both surprised and delighted her. At last
here was someone who did not settle for easy answers. He
was as concerned as she was that someone - who for now
must be unknown - should profit by a crime so heinous.
‘I can bear no more of this!’ Aunt Camilla cried, and
made haste to quit the room, leaving the two young people alone together in a most improper manner which neither of
them considered for a moment.
‘Should you not go to her?’ John asked, frowning at the
retreating form of his hostess.
‘Oh no!’ Lydia dismissed the suggestion carelessly. ‘Best
to let her enjoy her vapors in private. She will feel much
more the thing afterward, I assure you.’
He accepted this without demur, and they returned to the topic which most interested them both. After all, in
such restricted society there was not much to exercise the
mental faculties and stir the imagination of young people.
Mr Cole’s death was a source of endless entertainment, and
they would have scarcely been human had they not found
something in it to occupy their minds. It was merely that
they both looked more deeply into the matter than the
generality of their neighbors.
‘My father,’ John said at length, ‘is inclined to blame the
matter on gypsies. That solution would certainly be the
simplest one.’
‘Do you think it likely?’
‘Well, no gypsies or mendicants have been seen in the
area for some time, to my knowledge.’
‘And it seems that you have discounted—’ she coughed
delicately, ‘any supernatural agency.’
‘I have.’
‘Then where do your suspicions lie?’
He stroked his chin pensively before continuing.
‘I think it very likely that smugglers, rather than phan
toms, are involved.’
‘Smugglers!’ Lydia’s cry was one of scandalized delight.
It was better and better.
‘You seem surprised,’ John said with a smile.
‘I am.’
John immediately set about the task of educating her
concerning the history of Sussex. It seemed that smug
gling had at one time been a very lucrative source of
income for certain persons along the southeast coast of
England. Even since the defeat of Napoleon, the Alfriston
Gang and others were known to have continued this less
than respectable profession. Some had been caught and
prosecuted by the Crown, providing the gibbet with a few
gruesome trophies.
‘You think,’ Lydia said, ‘that there may be a Diddlington
Gang, and that Mr Cole had some connection with them?’
‘It is possible.’ John was a little more cautious in his assessment.
‘How can we prove it?’ she asked.
‘We?’ His smile now was very pronounced, as was the
arch of one thick eyebrow.
‘You and I,’ she explained with casual assurance.
‘If we could discover where they conceal their stolen
goods,’ he said, not contradicting her, ‘we would certainly go
some way toward solving this riddle.’
‘Do you think it is in Wickham Wood?’
‘I am almost certain.’ He nodded emphatically. ‘Too many
local folk have seen lights among the trees at night and
even a few sober men claim to have encountered ghostly
apparitions in the vicinity.’
‘An excellent means for the smugglers to frighten away
anyone who might venture too near their hiding place.’
‘Precisely.’
Lydia stood up, looking down at him in a glow of excited
anticipation.
‘Then there is only one thing to be done!’ she cried. ‘We
must go into the woods ourselves and find the smugglers’
lair.’
‘I think,’ John said dampingly, ‘that is a job which I
should attempt on my own.’
This was totally unacceptable to Lydia.
‘If you think that you can keep me out of this adventure,
John Savidge,’ she told him roundly, ‘you are much mistaken.’
‘Your aunt would never permit it,’ he shot back reason
ably.
‘Which is why,’ Lydia retorted with a smile, ‘I have no
intention of telling her anything about it.’
‘Minx!’ he quizzed her. ‘And what will become of her
when someone discovers
our
bodies at the edge of the
wood?’
For a moment she paused, considering this not improb
able consequence of confronting a gang of dangerous
malefactors. However, although it was totally irrational,
she felt complete confidence in John’s ability to extricate
them from any difficulty which might result from their
rash behavior.
‘Are you afraid?’ she demanded, quizzing him in her
turn.
‘Oh no!’ He grinned broadly at her. ‘I know that I have
nothing to fear with
you
there to protect me.’
And so the two became co-conspirators in a daring plan
whose effects would prove more momentous than either of them could possibly imagine.
Midnight. The moon was full and round as a silver tray
resting on the ebony table of the sky. Lydia had considered
climbing through the window of her bedroom. She aban
doned this scheme not only because of its impracticality, but because it was simply unnecessary. Her aunt and old
Mrs Plumpton were both fast asleep by the time the two
hands on the clock pointed heavenward, so Lydia slipped
from her room and wandered the house at will, leaving it through the side door of the kitchen.
She flattered herself that she would not be recognized,
even if anyone happened to be about at this hour. As
Providence would have it, Aunt Camilla had taken in some
clothes to darn before distributing them amongst the poor
of the parish. Out of this miscellany, Lydia had purloined a
pair of rough pantaloons, a shirt and a short coat. In this
attire, she looked more like an urchin than a young lady of
seventeen.