The next morning I was awakened by a persistent patting on my shoulder.
“Elizabeth, Lizzie,” Christa stage-whispered. She slipped under the covers with me. “I’ve got something of the greatest importance to tell you!”
She’d slopped tea on my new shawl, I thought sleepily. “It’s all right, Christa, go ahead and tell. I won’t be angry.”
“It’s not an angry thing. It’s a make-fun-of thing. That’s why I didn’t tell you last night when you came home from the ball. I didn’t want anyone else to hear about it. You must promise not to tell anyone about it, or they’ll all laugh at me. No one ever believes anything I say. So swear an oath not to tell.”
“All right, urn… Certain true, black and blue, lay me down and cut me in two. Now tell.”
“I saw a ghost last night. See, you’re smiling—I can see that you’re trying to hide it but it’s definitely a smile.”
“I beg your pardon, pet. Where did you see your ghost and what did he look like?”
“It was just before you returned from the ball last night. I took Cleo out for her walk and saw it slipping away through the orchard. Do you remember the old topcoat that Admiral Barfreston used to wear, the one with three shoulder capes? He wore it again last night.”
I shivered in spite of myself. “Christa, Admiral Barfreston is dead. We went to his funeral and saw them lower his coffin in the ground with our own eyes. Sometimes at night, in the poor light, you can think that you see all kinds of things. It’s your imagination at work. Once when I was out at night I thought I saw a man standing against the house, but when I came closer to it, I saw that it was only an old ladder.”
“That was the night of Henri’s death, wasn’t it? I remember you telling about it at the inquest. Well, listen to this: suppose that Henri didn’t fall from the roof after all. Suppose that Admiral Barfreston’s ghost returned to the house and murdered Henri because he thought he was a French spy!”
“Of all the lurid… Christa, have you been reading those dreadful Minerva novels? First of all, why a spy?”
“Mr. Blakslee says the countryside is just crawling with French spies. You know we are only ten miles from the Channel here. The spies come in at hidden coves with the smugglers.”
“Well, Henri didn’t come to Barfrestly with any smugglers. He came in a perfectly respectable coach from London with the marquis’s other servants.”
“I know that, Lizzie, but how is the admiral supposed to know that when he’s been dead all this time?”
I wished that Christa would stop referring to the admiral as if he were not really dead. It was enough to give one an attack of gooseflesh. I could see that I would be unable to convince her that her imagination had produced the specter, so I switched tactics, distracting her with a reference to our planned trip to Dyle.
“Run along now and get ready for our trip today. At this rate it will be midday before we get away.”
My pessimistic remark proved to be unfounded because when we pulled away in the carriage, the dew had barely dried on the tall grasses around our cottage. The twins, Mrs. Goodbody, and I make an annual excursion to Dyle. Mrs. Goodbody’s brother-in-law sails as a fisherman from the port there. Christopher had expressed a desire to accompany us this year, and he was kind enough to procure the use of Lord Dearborne’s carriage for the ten-mile ride. It proved to be a definite improvement over former years, when we relied on the bumpy public stagecoach.
As we neared Dyle and the seacoast, the tame farmland gave way to low-shingled marshes—a gala dappled swirl of sheer blue greens, russets, and pewter. The air grew sly with the scents of salts and fish. My sisters and I listened for the high calls of the shy bittern and marsh hen, two birds which rarely come so far inland as Barfrestly. The weather, for once, was perfect.
Mrs. Goodbody’s brother-in-law lived with his large, busy family in a snug whitewashed cottage that poked sturdily up from its nest of trimmed evergreen bushes. Their family had lived there for generations—as long as Lord Dearborne’s arrogant ancestors have dominated their thousands of acres, I reflected. I tried to imagine Lord Dearborne in hobnail boots and woolen trousers. I was forced to the unsatisfactory conclusion that he would still look exactly like a marquis.
Christopher, on the other hand, had no airs, no cultivated arrogance to keep him separated from the human race. Kit had something far better than good manners—he was naturally friendly. I watched with appreciation at the way he smiled himself into the good graces of Mrs. Goodbody’s sister and ended up with the largest slice of the potato pie that was served for luncheon. We ate outside to the low rumble of crashing waves; the salt smell was fresh and invigorating as it came in on the breeze. Time passed quickly as Mrs. Goodbody’s brother-in-law kept us enthralled with tales of the sea, with its invisible tides and hidden coves where mermaids and monsters lurked.
After we had lunched, we walked down to the harbor to view the ceremony which served as an excuse for our yearly pilgrimage, the blessing of the fishing boats and nets. This was an important day for fisher-folk. We joined the large crowd at seaside, so large that it stretched up the brow of the hill by the harbor. The gathering was a colorful sight as I turned to look behind me. It is the custom at the ceremony to arrive loaded down with garlands of flowers which are tossed into the water at a certain point as a way of blessing the catch. Dr. Smithfield, the old vicar, had told me that the ceremony dated from the pre-Christian era when the offerings were made to a Roman fertility goddess, and had only been embellished with Christian trappings with the arrival of Christian missionaries. I wondered what the assembled multitude would think if they knew they were participating in a pagan ritual.
The members of the town council, along with the mayor, were standing on a makeshift platform by the quay. The mayor looked important and solemn in his official robes with his chain of office around his wrinkled neck. The gathering hushed as the parson mounted the platform and made his blessing upon the boat and nets. His voice carried over the crowd, rolling and sonorous like the waves that were washing to the beach, as he recited the ancient prayer.
“Good Lord lead us
Good Lord speed us
From all perils protect us
From the darkness us protect.
Finest nights to land our fish
Sound and big to fill our wish
God keep our nets from snag and break
For every man a goodly take
Lord grant us.”
At the finish of the traditional prayer it seemed to be raining gardens as the flowers were tossed in the brine. All about me the people were saying, “Lord bless me” as they rid themselves of their fragrant blossoms.
After the beautiful open-air ceremony, through the crowd were passed baskets full of tiny squares of stale gingerbread, along with flasks of gin from which everyone took a swig. When the flask reached our gathering, Christopher looked at it doubtfully.
“Don’t worry,” said Caro. “The gin is strong enough to kill any bad humors which might be hanging about the flask.” Christopher drank and passed it to me. I permitted myself one cautious sip. Christopher laughed when I pulled a face. The ceremony was over.
It was Mrs. Goodbody’s intention to return to the cottage with her brother-in-law and his family to enjoy a leisurely coze, sharing confidences in the intimate way one does with members of one’s family. This left Christopher, my sisters, and me with some time to savor the attractions of Dyle. As the sea was too chilly for wading that early in the year, we decided to take Christopher on a tour of the town itself.
Dyle is built up a hillside on a series of terraces that rise from the smooth stretch of beach. The narrow high street cuts through the town and ends on top of the hill in front of the parish church. We took the exhausting trek up High Street to a vantage point below the church, and turned to enjoy the view. The ocean was dark blue under the sun, contrasting nicely with the ochre thatch of the rooftops. It was as if we were standing on the edge of a great bowl. I was certain I could make out the outline of the French coast if only I peered hard enough.
“Lizzie, why are you making that awful squint?” asked Christa.
“She is trying to see France,” returned Caro, whose intent, furrowed brow indicated she was undertaking the same project.
“The wind is very strong up here, isn’t it, Christopher,” I shouted. He was standing on a large rock, pointing at something and shouting back.
“Over there to the south,” he was saying. “What are all those grayish rectangular buildings there?”
I scrambled up the rock after him and looked where he was pointing, shielding my eyes from the sun.
“Those are army barracks,” I said. “There’s a lot of invasion scares on the coast here. Look behind us; you can see the Martello towers, and down below, that dark line of water coming out from behind that bluff. That is the Napoleonic Defensive Waterway. The army built it.”
“Think that canal’s going to keep Napoleon out?” said Christopher, grinning.
“Do you really think we are going to be invaded?” I asked him. It seemed so strange to contemplate.
“No, he’s too busy dealing with the blockades and Continental armies to invade this man’s island,” said Christopher with assurance. “No need to hurry with your French, ’Lizbeth.”
“Well, that’s comforting. You know everyone who lives near the coast worries about being ravished in their beds by foreign soldiers. Julius Caesar landed his galleys here; so did William the Conqueror. There is always a lot of drama connected with these coastal towns. Just twenty-five years ago, William Pitt sent soldiers here to burn all the fishing boats because some of them were built with false bottoms to hide contraband goods. Mrs. Goodbody’s brother-in-law is bitter about it to this day.”
“But as we both know, that didn’t stop the smugglers,” Christopher declared.
“Hell’s bells, no,” flashed Christa. The twins had clambered up to join us. “The excisemen still fight it out with the smugglers. Isn’t that right, Lizzie? And I’ll bet plenty of spies sneak over here, too.”
“I’m going to tell Mrs. Goodbody you cursed,” Caro shot at her twin. “She is going to wash out your mouth with soap.” They chased each other across the hillside. I looked at Christopher, suddenly remembering his father may have been shot by spies. If he was disturbed it didn’t show.
“C’mon, Christopher, I want to show you the church,” I said. We climbed the narrow path up to an even higher level and threaded our way along a row of pollard limes. Far out to the left, in dour isolation, stood the Time Bell Tower, an important landmark. Its huge clock is used to determine the sailing times for ships in the harbor. On a clear day, they say it can be seen for miles out to sea. I dutifully pointed it out to Christopher, who expressed a desire to see it closer.
“Maybe there is a way to climb up inside and look out to sea?” said Christopher hopefully.
“Oh no, it’s much too dangerous. Two years ago there was a terrible accident there. A couple of village boys climbed out on the ledge underneath the clock to see a heron that was nesting. They lost their footing in a gust of wind and fell to the bottom and were killed. Now it’s kept locked all the time.”
We reached the medieval church, pulled open the heavy oaken door, and stepped inside. The interior of the ancient church is colored a deep, ashen gray, the smoky light that filters in through the high clerestory windows falling lifelessly upon the stone walls. The place is almost crushingly claustrophobic. The roof is supported by pillars of pewter-colored marble which adds to the air of dead elegance. I showed Christopher a crack in the side wall which was caused by an earthquake in the last century.
“There’s an old catacomb underneath the church,” I volunteered in a whisper. “Below the chancel. It contains old skulls and shinbones that were saved when the graveyard was dug up at some point in medieval times.”
“Can we go look at it?” said Christopher. I wasn’t expecting him to say that, but I supposed I should accommodate a guest. We began the trek down the center aisle to the chancel. It seemed a very long way. The twins were tiptoeing. When we reached the door that led below, we pulled it open and were at once hit with a wave of chill, dampish air. We each took one of the smelly fish-oil lamps that stood on a nearby table, ready for those who made the pilgrimage into the basement crypt. I felt the need to put on a brave front so I led the way down the mossy steps to the earth-lined passageway below. As we came out of the stair-hall our lamplight filled a cavernous chamber that was lined from floor to ceiling with skulls and long bones.
“There must be thousands of skulls here,” came Christopher’s voice in my ear.
“Two thousand. At least that’s what they said last time they were counted. They’ve started keeping count of them since Gypsy women started coming here to steal the bones for boiling down to make an infusion against rheumatism.”
Christa stood with her arms wrapped around her, rubbing her shoulders to keep out the cold. “They say the smugglers use this place as a hideout. There are millions of tunnels leading through the ground here,” she told Christopher.
I suddenly got the most pronounced sensation of being watched. The light slanted crazily off the eyeless sockets of the skulls, giving them an unearthly wavering glitter. “Christa, in the name of Zeus, would you stop carping about spies?” I said with unaccustomed snappishness. I turned around and led the way back up the slippery stairs to the dry stale air of the church. It wasn’t until we were halfway down the aisle that I realized dismally that my sash was undone and my reticule gone.
“It must have come untied when I brushed against the wall near the foot of the stairs. And I had my reticule tied to it. It’s missing now. I suppose it fell off somewhere near the bottom of the steps.”
Christopher volunteered to go down to get it while the girls and I went outside to warm up. I would have liked to accept his offer but I stated firmly that I would run back and fetch it myself. Pride stiffened my backbone and made me call out airily, “Wait outside, I’ll be right back up.”
My brave words were still echoing from the farthest reaches of the vaulted chancel as I made my way back. I relit an oil lantern and proceeded determinedly down the narrow stairway. It seemed to have grown even colder since I had left. Rivulets of brackish water oozed from the rough sides of the walls and fell into soupy puddles with a tinny, clinking sound. I tried to turn off my thoughts, to concentrate on my search for the missing reticule. As I reached the end of the steps, the object of my search appeared in the circle of light from the lamp. I stepped forward and my body came up against a warm, solid mass. I stepped back quickly and there, in the light of my lamp, glowed a fantastically shadowed face.
“Sacre bleu!” The French curse rang profanely. I didn’t waste time screaming. I just fled.
I didn’t stop until I was encircled by Christopher’s comforting arms. I told him what happened with chattering teeth. He looked grim as he let go of me and said, “You three stay up here. I’m going down to investigate.”
“No, Christopher, you can’t. That man was hiding down there. Don’t you see? He’s probably a smuggler. If you go back there he’s likely to kill you.” I was desperate with fear.
Christopher pulled back his jacket, revealing a serviceable-looking pistol held in place by a leather strap.
“Don’t worry on my account, Elizabeth. I may not be able to hit the side of a smokehouse with an old fowling piece, but with a pistol I’m a dead shot.”
He disappeared down the stairway. After what seemed like hours, he returned.
“There was no sign of him by the time I got down there. He must have gone into one of those connecting tunnels. It would be foolish to try to follow him. I don’t know my way around down there so it would give him too much of an advantage,” Christopher concluded with reluctance.
“Of course you shouldn’t go after him. It’s not your business to go chasing after smugglers. That’s up to the customs men. What made you go after him anyway?” I asked.
Christopher shrugged. His face took on a guarded look.
“Just an impulse, I guess. That man may have been down there earlier when we went down. I don’t like being spied on. It’s a dashed havey-cavey business. Let’s get back to the Goodbodys before they get worried about us.”
I wasn’t about to argue with that! He couldn’t have been more eager to get away than I was. On the way down the hill he handed me my reticule, which he had remembered to pick up from the cavern floor. As I took it from him I asked:
“Christopher, why are you carrying a pistol? Do you always bring it places with you?”
“Well, no. Uncle Nicky thought it would be a good idea for me to have it with me since the whole thing surrounding my father’s death isn’t resolved.” He was still looking uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have shown it to you. I don’t want you to be frightened. There is just a remote possibility that whoever killed my father could take another crack at me. Of course, that’s totally unlikely; the gun is the merest precaution,” he pointed out a little too emphatically.
I was happy for the sane normal atmosphere of the Goodbody home. They were alarmed at the story we told them but didn’t hesitate to endorse our actions. The possibility that the man in the crypt had been another tourist who was just as startled as I was speedily dismissed. No tourist would have been down in that stygian darkness without a lamp to guide him. Also, a legitimate visitor would have followed me, calling out reassurances. No, the man was probably a smuggler, perhaps checking on a cache of contraband brought into port one moonless night when respectable folk were home safe in their beds. There was general agreement that the story of my encounter should go no further than this snug parlor. The “gentlemen,” as the smugglers were called, had a longer arm than the law even in these civilized times, and it could be fatally dangerous to provoke them. Besides, the excisemen were far from popular in the neighborhood as their jobs often involved harassing legitimate fishermen as they searched for illegal cargos.
It wasn’t until I lay in bed that night that I remembered the oath that the “smuggler” had uttered as I ran into him. “Sacre bleu.” How many smugglers in Dyle would curse in French?