Gareth
Gareth lumbered along, snapping the reins occasionally as he and Beaford made their way to Havencross. John’s remains lay in the bed of the wagon wrapped in a shroud of sailcloth, Beaford beside him on the bench in silence.
What a job it had been to get his friend’s bones out of the cave and down to the boat. Now Gareth was a filthy wreck, and Beaford hadn’t fared much better. The morning at Tintagel ruins seemed ages ago. Much had happened since they’d wandered off on the ill-conceived outing. Poor Miss Tippet had been dropped off at her house by the coachman. She took it well though, wishing Elaine a quick recovery from her shock and all the best for her family.
Gareth’s mother was pushing him to make her an offer. Now that he owned the mine, he had the financial means to marry. By the time his children grew up, he would be wealthy enough to be on equal footing with families such as the Kemps and Squire Stroud. Quite above the Tippets. But that mattered little to him. His idea of a wife . . . well, his idea of a wife had already refused him.
Gareth had taken the shortcut back to Havencross. When he rounded the final bend in the road, he had to rein the horse to a stop. Chiverton’s broken high flyer still blocked the road.
The man had worked up a big enough bother about it that Gareth had expected a team of men would have come out by now and carted the whole thing away.
Beaford jumped down to help push the main bulk out of the path. Then they were on their way again.
Gareth wanted to swing his fist at Chiverton for deserting Elaine. He should have been the one to go after her when she’d gone missing at the castle ruins. He should have been the one to wade into the water and carry her out. And he should have been the one at her side when she had confronted her father.
Worst of all, she could not see that the man cared more for his perfectly matched trotters than the woman he intended to marry. This whole marriage business was off. To Gareth, it mattered not at all what the London gossips said about the Cardinham family. Ruined. Not ruined. What was that to him? But Edmund Crawley, Earl of Chiverton, would care. A man of his station could not marry, would not marry a girl so below him—especially not one that came with disgrace. Unless, of course, he truly loved her.
Chiverton did not paint a picture of love. Why Elaine was so taken with him, Gareth could not say. He must assume that the man’s wealth and position as earl appealed to her. Or his good looks.
That was fine. He’d had nothing to offer a gentleman’s daughter back then save his heart, which was entirely hers. Or it had been, back then. He’d been a fool to even ask, but he could not help himself.
The wagon rolled up the lane and into the Havencross courtyard. The front door opened, and Mr. Cardinham came out, his face glowing white in the twilight. Elaine followed with her mother clinging to her arm.
Cardinham turned and held a hand out, stopping his wife. “Harriet, stay. I do not think you will want to see this.”
“It’s my son. Or it is supposed to be. I cannot rest until it is confirmed by my own eyes.” She let go of Elaine, coming forward to stand beside her husband.
The wind died down, leaving a calm and eerie silence in the night. The hush that fell over the courtyard was thick as iron yet delicate as lace.
They leaned against the side of the wagon, all three of them—Elaine and both her parents. Gareth would have thought Elaine had seen enough, but perhaps not.
At a nod from Cardinham, Beaford pulled aside the sailcloth.
Mrs. Cardinham let out a gasp and pressed a handkerchief over her mouth.
They’d done their best, he and Beaford, to arrange the skeleton in a dignified way. It had been rough seas, and getting it out of the cave and into the boat while pieces of bone and leathered sinew were falling off was not an easy task. They’d laid him on a plank to try to keep him intact as they’d lowered him into the skiff; it had helped some.
Mrs. Cardinham let out a wail. “It’s nothing but bones. Our beautiful John. Now look at him.”
Mr. Cardinham had gone even whiter. He reached out in an attempt to comfort his wife, but she turned away, burying her face in her handkerchief.
“At least now he can have a proper burial. A place in the churchyard with all the rest of the Cardinhams,” Mr. Cardinham said.
Mrs. Cardinham sobbed on while her husband’s efforts to console her were met with an icy glare.
Quite the opposite of Elaine’s reaction when Gareth had done the same earlier that day. The sadness in her eyes clearly showed as she looked on. It could have been for John or for her parents’ broken marriage.
She’d put her hair up in a simple knot at the back of her head. He liked it that way. She used to wear it like that when they roamed the moors, then she’d snag it on a gorse branch. With one quick tug, she’d pull out the hair pin and a cascade of copper and gold would tumble down her back.
Elaine looked over at him. He quickly reached into the cart and lifted the sailcloth back over the bones.
“Bring them around to the kitchen,” Cardinham said. “We’ll put him on the table in the store room.”
Beaford nodded, and he and Gareth lifted the plank out of the bed of the wagon and carried it around to the back of the house. It weighed almost nothing, with so much life gone out of it.
They left him wrapped in the canvas and placed the plank on the table.
“Who could have done this?” Mrs. Cardinham moaned.
“Perhaps it was the same man responsible for Mr. Kemp,” Cardinham said.
All eyes turned to Gareth as if he might be able to pull out of thin air his father’s murderer.
“I do not doubt for a moment that this was the act of smugglers,” he said. “It is likely that John stumbled upon a stash of hidden goods and was silenced. But this was five years ago; I highly doubt the culprit will ever be found.”
After all, he’d been looking for his father’s killer for months now, and he had nothing to show for it.
“If I discover anything, I’ll let you know.” Gareth gave them all a little bow and slipped away. His part was over now that the body was recovered. He and John had been the best of friends, but that didn’t mean they were equals.
He climbed onto the bench of the cart and urged the horse onward, toward Lowentop.
In the last few years, there had been four deaths in the Camelford area that could not be accounted for. Old David Lidgey, the fisherman. Widow Reede, who’d left her three small children home alone and had gone to dig clams. She lived a ways out near Treknow, and by the time her body had been discovered, her children had nearly starved.
Then there was the Gribbin lad. A great bully of a youth whom Gareth already believed to be mixed up in the smuggling game and very possibly deserved what had come to him.
And his father. Add to that John Cardinham, a gentleman’s son, and that made five.
Five people who’d lost their lives so the public might have a cup of tea at a better price.
Something had to be done. But what? He could go again to the squire and complain, but that would do little good. They needed more wardens, more customs officials and revenuers to patrol the waters and keep them clear of the free traders.
More and more Gareth believed Tippet to be among the gang leaders, if not the operator himself. He would be only one more in a long string of men the crown sent to stop the smugglers who then embraced the crime instead.
The wagon rattled along the rough track until he came to Chiverton’s wreckage again.
Gareth wanted nothing more than to get home, get out of his filthy clothes, and take a bath. Salt from the sea coated his hair. He had been wetted and dried and wetted and dried more times than he could count. But Chiverton’s phaeton was not safe.
“Whoa.” He tugged on the reins, and the cart rattled to a stop.
He may as well gather what parts he could rather than leave them here overnight—or until Chiverton got around to cleaning up his mess, whenever that might be.
Lord Chiverton may have been from gentler parts, but he was a fool to think he could leave his damaged phaeton in the lane all night and not have it looted. Whether lost at sea or on the land, a wrecked vessel was fair pickings in the eyes of many.
Gareth picked up the wheel that had come off and loaded it into the back of the cart. He rounded up the bench, which had snapped in two—one piece thrown off to the side and the other still partially attached to the seat box.
He reached up and gave it a tug to see if it would come off, for the upholstery, with a little mending, could be reused. His hand hit something under the seat.
In the darkness, he could not see it clearly, but by its cold and rigid feel, he thought it a metal box. He retrieved the lantern from his wagon and came back, shining it under the driver’s seat.
It wasn’t so odd to have a place to store something under the bench. There was little room in a carriage such as this—one meant only for show, with no thought of practicality—to keep anything safely tucked away. But this particular box had a lock on it. Perhaps that should not be so odd either, but it was ever so tempting.
Gareth glanced over his shoulder. There was no one in sight.
What did a man like Chiverton keep hidden away? He passed the lantern across the ruins until he found a splinter of steel, long and slender. This would do. He slipped it into the lock, feeling for the pins, working them until it clicked open.
Lifting the lamp, he opened the lid. Inside, he found two items: a pig-sticking knife and a folded paper.
Gareth stepped away. A pig sticker was common enough. Every farmer had one for the butchering of pigs. Gareth doubted Chiverton had ever butchered a pig in his life. A few pheasants, perhaps. Some quail. Though more likely he shot them and brought them home to his butler, never giving them another thought.
It was a good idea for any man traveling the roads to carry a weapon in case he was set upon by thieves. It was only that a pig sticker was the weapon of choice of smugglers.
If a smuggler was caught carrying a firearm or a sword, the penalties were steep—death or transportation. These farm tools could be just as deadly without incurring any penalty of law. Gareth wouldn’t have thought twice had he opened the box and found a pistol. He would have congratulated Chiverton on his foresight, though he’d still have been a fool for leaving it here unattended.
Gareth took the letter out and held it to the light. It was sealed with a wafer bearing no mark and was addressed with no more direction than T. S. Two letters that had no part in Lord Chiverton’s name. It must be an outgoing correspondence.
The clatter of horse hooves drew Gareth’s attention. Someone was coming. He tucked the letter into his pocket, then tossed the pig knife on the floor of the carriage to make it look like the strongbox had flung open on its own and its contents had spilled out. He stuffed the broken spoke deep into the hedge, then fixed the lantern back on his cart.
By the time the horse and rider rounded the corner, Gareth was innocently gathering parts of the rear iron and spring.
“Ho, there, Mr. Kemp,” Lord Chiverton called.