I glanced at James's untroubled countenance, then turned to his companion. “It was the Reverend's ship, I understand.”

“Now, 'oo be tellin’ you that?” Matty Hurley said, with a narrowed eye.

“Maggie Tibbit. She said that her husband had been a regular spotter for the smugglers’ crews, and that he lingered too long over his tankard, when he should better have been gone to Puncknowle and the signal tower.”

“It's right convenient she should think so,” the man replied, “but that warn't the truth of it. Bill were paid, and he met ‘is end fer it, as did the feller as paid ‘im.”

I looked from one to the other with a growing apprehension. “You cannot mean — that is to say — Mr. Hurley, would you have it that Captain Fielding paid the man to ground the Bella And that he lost his life as a result?”

“I ain't savin’ here nor there,” the fellow asserted, his eyes shifting. “It's a deep business, as no lady should concern hersel’ wit. But Maggie Tibbit oughter know better.”

This was a thought to give one pause, indeed. The Captain must have believed the ship to be engaged in smuggling, and attempted to thwart the trade in a ruthless manner, considering the consequences. And yet, if the doomed ship was not the Reverend's—

“How can you be so certain that the Belle was not the Reverend's, Mr. Hurley?”

“Let's jist say as I was a-waitin’ on the Chesnil beach for ‘er to land, and had the pulling of the bodies out o’ the surf,” he replied darkly. “I hope I may never see another such a sight, as long as I may live. Terrible it was, and Nancy Harding's boy but fifteen.”

“But what can a ship have been doing, in so clandestine a manner, if not to smuggle contraband?”

Matty Hurley shrugged, and flicked a glance at James, who turned back a bewildered countenance. “You'll be a stranger to Lyme, miss, and all our ‘fairs,” Matty offered. “I'm not sure yer needin’ to know. Just settle as it was a matter o’ some importance, as three young coves and a passel of Frenchies give their lives for, and not a thing to do with brandy barrels or kegs o’ snuff. Bill Tibbit was no good, and a traiter, and we're well quit of ‘im, whatever ‘is Maggie says. You can tell ‘er so for me.” He turned away, of a conviction, no doubt, that our discussion was at an end; but I could not suffer him to leave in so sybil-like a manner. A cloud of conflicting thoughts held converse in my mind, but through them ail I grasped at one. The man had declared that the boat was not the Reverend's; but I knew of one other household, at least, that was much given to signalling ships at sea.

“Matty,” I said, reaching a hand to detain him, “did the Royal BeUe belong to Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth?”

The astonishment that overlaid his hardened features was a spectacle to behold, and should have elicited my delighted laughter, had not I perceived his underlying consternation, as having betrayed perhaps too much. “Never fear,” I assured him. “Your secret is safe with me — though from your words, I must declare it a rather open one, since most of Lyme seems admitted to it.”

“Just the folk o’ the Buddie district,” Matty said grudgingly, “and only them as are trusty.”

“So it was Mr, Sidmouth s ship that ran aground,” I said thoughtfully, “as a result of Bill Tibbit's carelessness, or design. And Bill Tibbit died for it, as did Captain Fielding. That does alter the complexion of Sidmouth's case. For his motives and his natural reticence about the matter, become all too clear.”

“I thought she come here on a matter o’ Maggie Tibbit's,” Matty protested, with a glare for James.

“She did!” the poor man rejoined, in natural dismay. “Miss Austen?”

“No matter,” I replied. “There is another of whom I had better enquire, and leave Mr. Hurley in the clear.” I turned and looked towards the horizon, in an effort to judge of the time — for of a sudden I had a notion to conduct a further piece of business in the hours remaining before dinner. It could not be far from half-past three; and we generally dined at five. It should just do.

“You have been very helpful, Mr. Hurley, and I thank you — for what you would not, as well as what you might, impart.” The wretched fellow shifted from one foot to the other, and looked desperate to be gone, his native confidence fled. I reached into my reticule and retrieved several coins, which I pressed upon the two men, who bobbed their thanks, however doubtfully. For my part, I affected a desire to return to the church, that they might be freed of my presence, and go about their business, as unmolested as I preferred to go about mine — for I had no desire to be observed, in making my way, as I must, towards the grim stone keep that served as Lyme's gaol.

Chapter 21

Final Confession…

24 September 1804, cont.

RATHER THAN HUGGING A LONELY STRETCH OF COASTLINE HIGH above the turbulent seas, bereft of civilisation and the comforts of humanity, as should befit a prison in Lyme, the gaol where Mr. Sidmouth was held sat in the very midst of the town, with a stock in front and a cubby for the watchman; I should move under the keenest observation as I approached the place, but could not find it in me to care, as my errand seemed too urgent to admit of delicacy. I knew not whether the gentleman was permitted visitors — but deemed it likely that what persuasion might not produce, the application of coin should speedily acquire.

The watchman — a smallish fellow clothed in nankeen, with a sharp nose, watery eyes, and a perpetual habit of sneezing — rose from his stool as swift as a street tumbler, and danced a bow before me.

“Gordy Trimble at yer service, ma'am, though what service ye might be seekin' here, ‘tis beyond me to say,” he offered by way of introduction.

“I am Miss Jane Austen,” I said with dignity, “and have come with a basket of victuals from St. Michael's Church — a gesture of charity towards the poor man detained within those walls.” I had retrieved my mother's basket from Miss Crawford after parting from James and Mr. Hurley, in the thought that the ladies’ auxiliary should hardly require it as mightily as I should. In making my way towards the gaol, I had tarried only long enough to purchase bread and cheese, and a few apples, to put in its depths.

“Poor man? Never thought as I'd hear His Worship called poor, ma'am, and that's a fact. And him been stylin’ hissel’ so fine. Ah, well — the world's gone topsyturvy, it has, and Gordy Trimble's not the one to make the right of it.” He reached a hand to the basket handle, and I saw with a start my mistake.

“I should like to deliver the goods myself,” I told him firmly.

“Eh, now, you'll not be thinkin’ I'll have the eatin’ of ‘em before him?”

“Assuredly not — that is to say — I should like to speak with Mr. Sidmouth a moment, since he is so soon to be taken away,” I faltered.

The little man's face creased in a wicked smile. “Sweet on him, are ye? Half o’ Lyme is in the same state, or I'm not Gordy Trimble. The parade o’ ladies as has been through that door would make a priest blush, it would. Not to mention the mademoiselle. Fair spends her days here, she does — though I'll not be lettin’ her sit by him that long. Leans in the doorway, mooning like a sick calf, until the sun's about down; then hies hersel’ off to the Grange, for to attend to the milking.”

“Is the mademoiselle within at present?” I enquired, in some apprehension. I had not thought to encounter Seraphine when I hastily undertook my errand.

“Nay — you'll be havin’ yer five minutes to yersel, I reckon,” the watchman replied. “But no more.” He peered into the basket and poked a finger around the victuals. “Wouldn't want you bringin’ a knife or a pistol to my prisoner, now would I?”