Tom Kimlin looked at Bill, mouth hanging open, and Bert stormed toward the wheel. “What did I tell you? Now you’ve gone and fixed us sure!”
With a whimper, Tom heaved himself over the side of the boat into the Solent, thrashing through the shallow water and onto a narrow strip of beach, making for the dense trees beyond.
“Tom!” his brother called, and then with a desperate look at Bill, he vaulted over the rail. “Wait up, Tom!”
“Come back, you yellow dogs!” Bill howled.
“You may as well do as he says,” Drew said, slowing the skiff next to the fishing boat. “You can’t get far.”
He nodded toward the road, and the three fugitives looked in that direction. Two police cars, bells jingling, screeched to a halt, and a number of sturdy-looking constables piled out with Chief Inspector Birdsong right after them. Tom and Bert trudged to a stop and stood, slump-shouldered, awaiting their fate. On the deck of The Gull, Bill Rinnie kicked the still-smoking engine compartment and then grimaced and swore as he leaned down to rub his foot.
“All right, Rinnie,” Birdsong called. “Make it easy on all of us.” He motioned toward one of his men. “Go on and get him, Parkins.”
“Never mind,” Rinnie groused. “I’m coming.” He climbed over the side and dropped into the water where he stood for a moment, glaring at the boat. “Stupid tub. Drift out to sea and sink for all I care.”
“Oh, no,” the chief inspector said, looking rather pleased with himself. “That’s evidence, that is. We’ll see she’s well taken care of.”
Police Constable Parkins took hold of Rinnie’s arm once he was on the beach and fastened handcuffs around his wrists. Two other officers were doing the same for the Kimlins.
“What’s this about?” Rinnie demanded. “Can’t a man go about his own business anymore?”
“Seems your business has become our business,” Birdsong said. “Mr. Dennison here tells me you and your two mates have been conducting yourselves in a manner that lies contrary to established law.”
“Him and his nibs there, eh?” Rinnie sneered at Drew and Nick. “What’s a load of toffee-nosed prigs got to do with it?”
Nick climbed off the skiff and waded ashore, catching the line Drew tossed to him and securing it to a heavy bit of driftwood. Drew followed him onto the beach.
“You might ask them about this, Chief Inspector.” He gave Birdsong the scrap from the whitewash label. “Laurent too.”
“Ah, yes.” Birdsong took it from him. “Actually, the monsoor should be with us any minute now. I’ve sent two of my men to invite him to meet up here so that we can all go up to Winchester for a soirée.”
“What do you want with that paper?” Rinnie demanded. “That don’t mean nothing.”
“Have a look at the deck of the Onde Blanc,” Drew told Birdsong as if Rinnie hadn’t spoken. “I’d wondered what made those marks on the deck and why there was a residue left at the waterline at the lower end of Claridge Rindle. That’s the connection right there.”
Birdsong’s forehead wrinkled. “And just what is it?”
“Blanc de chaux. You ask Monsieur Laurent if he doesn’t recognize it.”
The chief inspector tucked the scrap into his coat pocket. “I’ll do that. But first we’ll see what these fine fellows have to tell us about how they’ve been bringing their goods up into Winteroak House and what they have to do with the murders up there.”
Tom Kimlin made a little squawk and looked pleadingly at his brother, but Bert was only staring at Birdsong, openmouthed.
“Here now! We none of us had anything to do with those killings, and you can’t say as we did. Tell ’em, Bill. We couldn’t’a done. We weren’t never close to the place.”
Birdsong looked unimpressed. “That’s more than I know. But I do know anyone who was to tell us how you lot got the goods from the Solent into the warehouse in London might find the judge a bit more lenient than usual.”
Drew nodded. “A bit less likely to need his black cap, eh?”
Tom Kimlin’s eyes went wide. “You can’t hang us! Not for smuggling! Not for just bringing the stuff in! It’s the Frenchman gets the money off it. We got hardly anything.”
“Shut up, Tom,” Rinnie growled. “You say another word and I’ll kick your teeth in, I swear.”
“What’ll it hurt now?” Drew asked. “You may as well tell us everything. It’s not as if you’ll be able to keep at your little trade after today.”
Rinnie grinned humorlessly. “It’s more than our lives are worth, mate. You find what you find. Heaven help you, but we won’t.” He glared at his two confederates. “None of us.”
Birdsong shook his head. “We’ve been over this whole place, Mr. Farthering, caves and all, and more than once. Not a thing. But at least these three won’t be bringing anything in that way or any other way. Not for a very long time.” He looked back toward the road, seeing another police car had pulled up. “That’ll be Laurent. I’ll send these three along to Winchester, but we’ll have a chat with our Frenchman before he goes. Take them up to the station, Parkins. I’ll see to our foreign guest.” He waved to the constable driving the recently arrived car. “Down here, Maxwell.”
Maxwell escorted his prisoner down to where Birdsong, Drew, and Nick awaited him. Laurent looked only mildly curious as he passed the three fishermen. Rinnie walked by him, head held high, jaw defiantly set, making no acknowledgment whatsoever. Bert turned his face away, careful not to make eye contact. Tom, looking as if he might burst into tears, fixed pleading eyes upon him, but Laurent looked down his nose at the pitiful sight and then turned a bland smile on the chief inspector.
“I did not expect we would meet again, sir. I was told I was free to go, yet I am once again treated like the basest of miscreants?”
“Where’s his man, Adkins?” Birdsong asked.
Constable Maxwell shook his head. “He wasn’t there, sir. The prisoner said he’d gone to see to some things before they returned to France.”
“Where?” Birdsong demanded.
Laurent huffed. “He went to purchase the white tea I prefer. The foolish man had allowed our store on board to run out.”
“Where?” Birdsong repeated.
“Southampton. The shop is in the High Street. Bayard’s. What is it now that you want?”
Birdsong nodded toward the car Rinnie and the Kimlins were getting into. “I thought you might want to hear what those three had to say about certain . . . activities here in the area.”
Laurent shrugged. “What would I know of such men? They could not begin to appreciate my wares, much less pay for them.”
“And what, monsoor, would you know of this?” He took the waterlogged scrap out of his pocket and showed it to Laurent.
Laurent frowned contemplatively. “And this is what?”
“Blank de show,” Birdsong told him. “Right, Farthering?”
“More or less,” Drew said. “Blanc de chaux, Monsieur Laurent. Nice and tidy little cans of whitewash dropped off into the Solent for our local fishermen to pick up. They dump the paint into Claridge Rindle and remove the contraband from the bottom of the can, and then you come into port with nothing but your fine wares, all duty paid of course, and nothing to touch you.”
Laurent gave a guileless smile. “But the police have nothing to tie me to such a practice. And what good would it do me to give these men this contraband, whatever it may be? The cocaine, yes?”
Birdsong narrowed his eyes. “And how would you know that if you weren’t involved?”
Laurent put up both hands and shrugged. “The girl, I am told it is what killed her. And the police in their very annoying way asked me about it at the time. It is a natural conclusion.”
“What good it would do you,” the chief inspector said, “is once the locals have collected the contraband, they bring it up to the house, and from there it goes up to London to be sold. And you are paid handsomely for your part in it.”
“That seems very unlikely, does it not, monsieur? The fellow from Scotland Yard, Endicott, he says he has people watching Winteroak House for some months now. When the lovely Mademoiselle Henley, she dies, they searched the whole house, attic to cellar, and again found nothing. How then does this supposed contraband come in and come out?”
Drew glanced at Nick, then looked back at Laurent. “Why don’t you tell us?”
Laurent laughed. “Monsieur Farthering, you are a most amusing fellow. It may be that these fishing men have done just as you say and by some miracle brought their goods to Monsieur Cummins to sell in London. But again you have nothing to show I have been involved in the matter.”
“Nothing but Bill Rinnie and Bert and Tom Kimlin,” Birdsong said. “And you can be sure one of them will talk before long.”
“But evidence,” Laurent said. “I am given to understand even in so barbaric a place, there must be evidence for an arrest to be made. What do you have against me? A scrap of a label which could have come from anywhere, and the testimony of three ne’er-do-wells? It is less than nothing. You cannot possibly hold me with nothing more.”
“We can question you,” Birdsong said stubbornly, and then he fixed Drew and Nick with a sour eye. “Was there anything more you had to tell me on this?”
“The cans,” Nick said, but Drew stopped him.
“Perhaps you ought to send Monsieur Laurent back to the car, Chief Inspector. No need tipping our hands quite yet, eh?”
Birdsong nodded at Maxwell. “See he has a nice comfortable seat. I’ll be there straightaway.”
“Right you are, sir.” Maxwell took Laurent’s arm. “All right, Frenchie, come along with me.”
Laurent sighed. “As you say, Officer, but you will find your time is wasted, and mine as well.”
He followed Maxwell placidly enough, and Birdsong said nothing until he had been put back into the car that had brought him.
“All right then, Detective Farthering, I want to know what other evidence you have that links Laurent to the smuggling operation.”
“The cans,” Nick said. “We were aboard his yacht last week. Drew saw some marks on the aft deck, just little curves, and we couldn’t figure out what made them. A bit of white in the crevices. Well, whitish stuff, I suppose. It was rather faint. But then we found out about the cans of French whitewash, and the rest seems fairly obvious. Isn’t it, Drew?”
Drew smiled. It did seem a rather frail chain of events put that way. “You can see a white mark all along the waterline in Claridge Rindle, farther up, out behind Winteroak House. Rinnie and his lot had to have been pouring out the whitewash there. Tom Kimlin was seen dumping some. Put that with the marks on the deck of Laurent’s yacht and the waterlogged labels on the cans, and it all makes sense.”
Birdsong looked at him, eyebrows arched. “That’s it?”
“But it’s the connection between them. It has to be. Tom Kimlin practically blurted it all out not five minutes ago.”
“The Frenchman’s protected himself fairly well on this. If they don’t talk—and at this point I can’t tell if Tom Kimlin is too scared to say anything or too scared not to—we won’t likely be able to hold Laurent. He’s a cool one, isn’t he?”
“You will see to Adkins while you’re at it, won’t you?” Drew asked. “He bears watching if anyone does. I don’t much care for him running loose at this point.”
Birdsong huffed. “I expect Scotland Yard know more about that one than they let on. But we’ll see to him, no fear. I have to wonder, though, why he and that whole lot didn’t clear off the minute they were allowed to. Laurent’s been nattering about leaving for a whole miserable week.”
“And now I’ve tossed a spanner into the works.”
Birdsong managed to look only mildly annoyed. “No, the bit about the whitewash is interesting. A sound theory as far as it goes, but then there’s the matter of getting the stuff up to the house or at least up to London. Until we find how that’s done, the rest of it isn’t likely to matter. They’ll just figure another way to bring it over from the Continent.”
“True,” Drew muttered.
“Besides,” Nick put in, “it does seem unlikely that any of our fishermen had anything to do with the murders. No opportunity.”
“Yes, dash it all.” Drew lifted his eyes to the roofline of Winteroak House, just visible above the bluff. “But they’re all tied to this smuggling ring, there’s no doubt of that.”
“I’ll agree with you there,” Birdsong said. “Get that all sorted, and we’ll have a good idea who our murderer is.”
“It has to be going through from here somehow.” He looked around the narrow beach and then peered into the trees. “What do you say, Nick? Shall we have a look round?”
“I’m game,” Nick said.
“We’ve had men all over this area,” Birdsong said, “and never found a thing. But if it makes you two happy, by all means. If you find anything of interest, just ring me up at my office. I’ll be trying to get whatever information I can out of Rinnie and his mates. If nothing else, with them in custody and all, you two ought to be able to stay out of mischief out here.” He gave them both a stern glance. “Try at least, eh?”
“Will do, Chief Inspector.” Drew nodded toward The Gull. “You might want to have someone come take that away. I don’t expect she’ll move just now, at least not under her own power.”
“Right. We’ll see to it.” Birdsong studied the beach and the trees above it, shook his head in disgust, and then made his way back up to the road. He got into the car he’d come in, and after a moment it pulled away, leaving only Drew and Nick standing on the narrow beach.
“So where do we start?” Nick asked, breaking the silence.
He looked up at the house, and Drew followed his gaze. There was little more of it visible than the roof and the chimneys and a curl of smoke from the kitchen fire that quickly dissipated in the cloudless sky.
“It’s got to be somewhere down here,” Drew said. “However they’ve concealed it, it’s got to be here. Why else would those men have been involved? I’ve watched them. They go down to the Channel and then up as far as here, where Claridge Rindle comes out. No farther. What good would they do Laurent if they weren’t a link in his chain?”
“Decoys?” Nick thought for a moment. “Suppose Laurent is bringing it in himself somehow, and these fellows are there only to draw attention away from him.”
“No, if that were the case, they were doing it very badly. The police have been watching him since long before they picked up on Cummins.” Drew looked up and down the beach. “I think we’ve got everything but that last elusive half bean that makes it all add up to five.”
“It’s only a couple of miles over to Lymington. If we get there and haven’t found anything, I say we’d best go back up to the house, collect the girls, and head home to Farthering Place. Leave the rest to the proper authorities.”
“Fair enough.” Drew exhaled heavily. “You know, these caves ought to be perfect for smuggling, in a protected little cove like this and all, but the police have searched them a hundred times already. I just don’t know what good we’ll do looking into them again.”
Nick grinned. “But we’ll do it anyhow, eh? Now that we know about the whitewash, maybe we’ll see another sign of it somewhere that will tip us off.” He jogged over to the skiff they had borrowed from Winteroak House and grabbed the torch stored there. “Might need this in the dark there.”
Drew clapped him on the back. “Good old Nick. Never say die. Well, come on then.”