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THAT SAME SUNDAY, 1 July 1821
On my way home, I had decided to ask Aunt Helen to tell me why both the constable and the Custom House agent would speak so disparagingly of ‘gentlemen’? And why would they suspect me, or, as in the case of the agent, accuse me of working for one, as if to be so employed constituted a criminal act?
Entering the house, I spotted Aunt Helen, a worried look upon her face, seated on the edge of the sofa in the parlour while absently stroking Pansy, who sat perched like a loaf of bread on her lap. Pleased to find Aunt Helen alone, it occurred to me that she might be wondering where I had got off to so very early this morning.
Slipping onto the opposite end of the sofa, I began by saying, “You were not yet awake when I left the house earlier, Aunt Helen. I went to watch the sun rise up over the ocean. I have arisen early several mornings the past sen’night in order to meet with Olivia Tremont. We climb the hill that leads to the top of the cliff, the one called Fort Point that juts out over the water. The spectacle is far grander from that aspect than it is from the pier, or the beach,” I further explained without being asked.
“That’s nice, dear,” Aunt Helen replied absently, a long gaze directed from the window behind us, her eyes trained on a spot somewhere in the distance. When she reached to part the curtains behind her, Pansy abandoned her lap for mine.
“Has something happened in my absence?” I asked, now rubbing the cat’s silken ears. “Are Cathleen and the babe all right?”
Still not looking my way, Aunt Helen exhaled a troubled breath. “As it happens, I am quite concerned for the both of them. I have sent for the doctor, and also Mrs. Murphy.” Craning her neck she leaned closer to the window in order to look even farther out. “It has been a good long while now. I wonder what could be keeping them.”
Continuing to wonder what could be troubling Cathleen now, I murmured, “Perhaps another young lady is giving birth and both the doctor and the midwife were called to assist. Do tell me what has happened with Cathleen and her babe. I had hoped that following the birth, Cathleen would feel . . .”
Slowing shaking her head, Aunt Helen pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. “My niece has developed a fever and can no longer make milk suitable for the baby. I fear she may be suffering from milk-fever.”
“Oh, my, that sounds quite troubling, indeed. Cannot something be done to remedy the problem?”
“The pain could subside in four or five days, although the condition has been known to linger far longer than that.”
“I see.” But, of course, I did not see. Having never witnessed a birth before, or any of the subsequent things that followed one, I had no clue what any of it meant. I did, however, recall once hearing the mention of a . . . wet-nurse, whom I believe in some way assisted with feeding a newborn. “Have you sent for a . . . wet-nurse to assist?”
Her eyes again fixed on the horizon, Aunt Helen sighed. “I know of no one suitable, which is partly why I wished to consult with Mrs. Murphy. If anyone in the village would know of a proper wet-nurse, it will be she. Ah . . . I see the doctor’s carriage coming up the road now.” She shot to her feet. “Appears he has also brought along Mrs. Murphy.”
Because Pansy had leapt to the floor when Aunt Helen abruptly rose, I also stood, although I was uncertain what I might do to help with this new turn.
Upon opening the door to admit the doctor and the midwife, the pair of them at once launched into explaining their delay in arriving.
Addressing Aunt Helen, Doctor Garris said, “Constable Fuller summoned the both of us to come and examine the body of a young girl found dead below Fort Point cliff this morning.”
“Such a pitiful sight,” added Mrs. Murphy as we all hastened to the rear of the house, me trailing silently along behind them. “Poor girl’s neck was broken and . . .”
The doctor interrupted. “Was patently clear to me Mrs. Murphy that the girl was strangled before she fell, so it was not the fall that snapped her neck, or killed her.”
“Are you saying it was . . . murder?” Aunt Helen gasped.
“That I am,” the doctor declared firmly.
My eyes squeezed shut as my heart plunged to my feet. Had Priscilla been in the company of her maid when the poor girl was murdered? I dared not think what the significance of the doctor’s revelation might mean for the still missing Tremont girl.
Upon reaching Cathleen’s tiny bedchamber, long strides carried the doctor into that room. “Now then, what have we here?” he inquired briskly, his attention now fixed upon his current patient.
Although I was equally as concerned as Aunt Helen for Cathleen’s well-being, I hung back, still reeling over the doctor’s disclosure that the girl found lying dead on the ledge below the cliff had been strangled before she fell. What if the same dreadful fate had already befallen Priscilla, only her body had not yet been discovered? The Tremont family would likely never recover from the shock.
If only I knew where to go in search of the young girl.
* * *
FORTUNATELY, FOR CATHLEEN, Mrs. Murphy did, indeed, know of a wet nurse who could feed Cathleen’s hungry infant. The midwife immediately took charge of sending for the woman, and she arrived a short time later. That afternoon, Doctor Garris again stopped in to check on his patient, who he had earlier confirmed was, indeed, suffering from the onset of milk fever, a condition that if not treated properly could become dire. The doctor prescribed plenty of bed rest and copious amounts of beef and chicken broth, a fresh night rail every day plus clean sheets beneath her in an effort to stave off infection.
That evening, acting on the advice of Mrs. Murphy, Cathleen reluctantly allowed the wet-nurse, a young woman named Mrs. Keller, who was suckling a child of her own and who came highly recommended by both the doctor and Mrs. Murphy, to take her baby home with her, to both feed and care for, while Cathleen lay far too ill to do for her newborn herself. It was yet one more disturbing turn of events and one that none of us had foreseen.
Much later that evening, after the doctor’s antidotes for Cathleen’s malady had been seen to and administered, it was at last determined that, given her illness, she was as comfortable as possible. I was glad to then be afforded a moment alone to speak with Aunt Helen about the disturbing matter that had robbed me of peace all day.
Having walked with her to her bedchamber, we were now seated on a settee beneath a window, sipping a late night cup of tea. We had left Cathleen below stairs in the care of both Meg and Mrs. McCurtain, telling them to come for us if Cathleen cried out, or took a turn for the worse. Wendy was still in the kitchen cleaning up the soiled utensils following our evening meal. As usual, she would pass the night on the cot beside the wall in Cathleen’s makeshift bedchamber.
I wrestled with myself now over whether or not to burden Aunt Helen with additional bad news, but because I had not been able to dislodge the events of this morning’s dreadful discovery from mind, I inhaled several deep breaths of courage before plunging in. I began by refreshing Aunt Helen’s memory about having met the Tremonts on the shipboard journey from London to Margate and that it was Mrs. Tremont who had sent us the lovely gift basket, then about how I had met up with the siblings on that first afternoon I set out for the library. I reminded her of my early morning meetings with Olivia Tremont to watch the sun rise, and then told her that suddenly two days ago, the youngest Tremont sibling, Priscilla, had gone missing.
“And now this morning, I am the one who, looking down from the cliff top, spotted the dead girl lying on the ledge, the very girl Doctor Garris and Mrs. Murphy were asked to examine. I am certain the girl is, or rather, was, Priscilla Tremont’s maid. I was told a maid accompanied Priscilla on those days she went onto the beach in search of seashells, but . . . I cannot fathom who could have snatched both girls, or taken the maid’s life.” My brow furrowed. “I am overcome with worry now that the same fate may have already befallen poor Priscilla. Based on what Doctor Garris said, clearly, her maid was murdered. But, why? And, by whom?”
Throughout my discourse, Aunt Helen listened intently. “Unfortunately, my dear, it is possible that what you have described could very well be laid at the feet of The Gentlemen.”
“Aunt Helen,” I cried, “who are these ‘Gentlemen’ ? Both the constable and the Custom House agent spoke of them; as did you when you remarked that baby Alistair mustn’t take up with them when he grew up. Please, do tell me what it means.”
A weary smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “The Gentlemen, Juliette, are smugglers. Smuggling is something we here on the coast of England have dealt with for centuries, since the days of tunnage.” She paused before adding, “In olden day tunnage is what the tax on wine was called. The king still levies a tax on spirits, as well as, a good many other things,” she added. “He uses the funds to finance his naval fleet, and pay for his many wars. As you know, English kings are always declaring war on France, or Spain. We have only just concluded yet another dreadful set-to with France.”
“But what has that to say to . . . ?”
“The luxuries we enjoy today, my dear, the tea we drink, strong spirits, silks and satins, all manner of goods that arrive here on board ship are still heavily taxed by the king. Wealthy merchants, those responsible for importing the goods, are required to pay a duty upon their cargos as soon as the ships sail into harbour. Collecting the duty falls to the Custom House agent. But, smugglers, up and down the coast, attempt to circumvent paying the duty by resorting to various tricks designed to hoodwink the authorities.”
I exhaled a confused breath. “But I still do not understand how two innocent young girls on the beach could . . . or might get in the way of . . .”
“If the girls happened upon something left behind on the sand by a gang of smugglers, something simple, that in reality is not what it appears to be, such as a length of rope, which is not rope at all, but tobacco twisted into a rope so it can be hidden in plain sight on board a ship; or perhaps an oilskin pouch that contains tea leaves, tossed overboard at a strategic location, before the ship reached the harbour. The girls might have spotted a . . . flotilla of pouches or even barrels . . . floating in the water, and began to call attention to them, calling out to others, for instance, which would most assuredly alarm, and even anger, the smugglers who were lurking nearby, awaiting the opportunity to retrieve the contraband for themselves.
“Perhaps the girls even came upon a line of tubmen transporting the barrels, which are filled with spirits. True, transporting smuggled items is far more often done under cover of night, but many smugglers are quite brazen and when no incoming ships are expected, meaning the Custom House official gets a bit lazy and neglects to send out a patrol rider to watch the coast, the smugglers boldly carry on in broad daylight. If a shipment arrived during the night and dozens of barrels of gin were tossed overboard and left floating in the water, the smugglers are eager to retrieve them the following morning in order to quickly get them out of sight.”
“But, where would smugglers hide dozens of barrels of gin?”
“Why, any number of places.” Aunt Helen chuckled. “There are smuggler’s caves up and down the coast, hidden from view inside the walls of a cliff. Why, even shallow tunnels to hide contraband are often dug right upon the sand. Perhaps the girls found such a tunnel and becoming curious, began to dig away at it. Village women have been known to fill a pig’s bladder with gin and shove it up under their skirts. Any pregnant woman can walk down the High Street with no one the wiser. Of course, if an excise officer suspects the pregnant woman of aiding a smuggler, he may very well produce a knife and stab her mid-section and either bring a quick, and deadly, end to a bona fide pregnancy, or douse her in gin. We once had such an abundant influx of gin right here in Margate that women were using it to clean their windows!”
“I have never heard of such a thing,” I exclaimed.
“I take it you have always lived amongst the Upper Reaches and have never given a great deal of thought to where a length of silk or a caddy of tea leaves comes from,” pointed out Aunt Helen.
Thoughtfully worrying my lower lip, I gazed at her from beneath my lashes. “Was your husband the captain of a smugg. . .?”
Although I noted a sly smile flicker over her face, the older woman shook her head. “The Captain’s ship was not black, Juliette. Fine white sails. And he rarely ever arrived in port during the night. However, Captain O’Mara was certainly . . . aware of such goings-on. The Gentlemen and their doings are no secret to anyone who lives in these parts. Unfortunately, at one time or another, nearly everyone is involved with smuggling in some way or other, whether or not they wish it. Either we know someone who is openly engaged in the practice, or we accept money for the loan of a horse, or a cart, which we know full well will be used to transport contraband. Cargo right off a ship has very often been stored in the bottom of a hemp cart, then hidden beneath a cover of seaweed and wheeled straight into town and right up to the rear door of a pub where the proprietor openly sells the gin or brandy over the counter to a customs agent in front, he none the wiser. Aiding The Gentlemen hereabouts can scarcely be avoided, even if one wishes it.”
“But I still do not understand how two young girls, most especially a genteel young lady such as Priscilla Tremont, might get in the way of this sort of . . . nefarious activity.”
“As I said, perhaps the girls simply found something lying on the beach, or they could have happened upon a caravan of smugglers, who are often armed to the teeth, mind you. Perhaps in fear the girls hid behind a rock, or even a bit of brush, and if one of the gang caught sight of a movement, however slight, he reached for his pistol and asked questions later. Unfortunately, accidents do happen.”
“But why did the custom agent ask me if I was working for The Gentlemen? He said if me telling him a girl lay dead below the cliff-top was a ruse, it would not go well for me.”
Aunt Helen smiled wearily. “All sorts of methods are employed to distract the Custom House men, to draw them away from their post so that a ship can be unloaded, or goods carted away. Smugglers often employ a sister, or a lady friend, to distract the Custom House official. The agents have learnt to be wary. And, you being a stranger here . . .” She shrugged.
Trying to take it all in, I fell silent as I mulled over this new turn.
“Unfortunately,” Aunt Helen added, “it is possible your friends, the Tremonts, might never learn what happened to their girl.”
“Oh, how dreadful for them.”
We said nothing for a spell as we each sat in silence, nursing our tea and our thoughts. Then Aunt Helen said, “I expect the excise men are a trifle skittish now. The infamous North Kent Gang was only just brought down this past Easter Sunday morning at Herne Bay, a bit beyond Canterbury. The cheeky smugglers managed to surprise the pair of duty men who had galloped up to waylay them. They tied up the officials and forced them to watch while they emptied the hold of a French ship. However, before all was said and done, the leader of the gang, a man named Sydenham Snow, was shot and died the following day. Custom officials are now on the look-out for the remainder of the gang since, as it turned out, the bulk of the blackguards got away.”
“Oh, my,” I breathed, already wondering when and how I might go about relaying this horrid bit of news to the Tremonts. For a certainty, it all seemed especially tragic given this was Priscilla Tremont’s first holiday in Margate, and the girl was so very excited to be here.
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Smugglers attempting to hide contraband onshore.