Chapter Eight
Hartly knew at a glance that the obese, gouty old gentleman hobbling into the room was not the Black Ghost, but he was the same gentleman who had overseen the unloading of the brandy at the cove earlier. Lord Marchbank had imbibed too much of the cargo that landed at his doorstep to take such an active part in the smuggling. His bulbous, veined nose and bloodshot eyes spoke of a long career of drinking. Brandy had not destroyed the man's mind, however. He gave Hartly one short, sharp look, then turned to welcome his cousins.
He did not remain in the saloon long, but his welcome was warm. He assured Sir David and Lady Crieff that they had only to send a note to Cove House if they required anything.
Lady Marchbank showed him the tablecloth, which he praised in the vague, hearty manner of one who did not appreciate what he saw but wished to compliment the giver.
"David mentioned he misses his rides, dear,” Lady Marchbank said. “I have told Bonnie she may ride my mount while she is here. Have you anything in the stable that would do for David?"
"Come along and take your pick, lad,” Marchbank offered at once. Almost immediately, he changed the offer. “On t'other hand, I shall have my groom send a mount around with the carriage when you leave. The nags are restless this afternoon. Gray Lady is foaling. It always upsets the animals."
"And as I mentioned to the children earlier,” his wife added, “that bay colt has been gelded, and he is upset, too."
"Aye, the stables are a regular hospital,” Marchbank said. His plummy cheeks had turned a shade deeper, confirming Hartly's suspicion that the stables were no horse hospital but a holding den for that cargo brought in that afternoon in broad daylight. When Marchbank reached for the brandy bottle on a side table, his wife caught his eye and shook her head in warning. Marchbank poured himself a glass of wine instead.
After a little discussion of a mount for David, the guests rose to leave.
"I shall arrive at the inn at eight, to chaperon you for the assembly,” Lady Marchbank told Moira.
"Will you also come, sir?” Moira asked Marchbank.
"John will not come,” Lady Marchbank answered for him. “He detests parties of all things. If I waited for him to take me out, I should never see the light of day."
The guests were accompanied to the door. Marchbank went out to the carriage with them. While Jonathon and Moira examined their mounts, Marchbank had a private word with Hartly.
"Finding Blaxstead a trifle dull, I daresay?” he mentioned.
"On the contrary, sir, I find it full of interesting activity. Mind you, I am thinking of changing inns. I had a small sum stolen from my room last night. I have made no formal complaint, but I have reason to believe it was one of the young fellows who work for Bullion. Who is the magistrate hereabouts?"
"You are looking at him. Gather up your evidence and we'll toss him into jail. That sort of petty pilfering gives the village a bad name."
"It was a small sum. As I am remaining only a few days, perhaps it is not worth my while. I shan't leave money in my room another time."
"That might be best. Tip Bullion the clue as well. He will not want a thief working for him."
Jonathon called Hartly to go and see his mount, and that terminated the short conversation. Soon the guests took their departure.
Moira was quiet on the way home. She had a good deal to think about. If Hartly was here to spy on the smugglers, then he was not working with Stanby. There had been a card game last night, which tended to confirm Jonathon's notion that it was only the hope of such a game that had made Hartly ask for Stanby. Hartly still posed a threat, but a threat of a different sort. He was out to put a stop to Marchbank's smuggling. She would keep an eye on him, as Cousin Vera had asked.
She came to rigid attention when he said to Jonathon, “How were the caves? Were they interesting?"
"They were dark and wet and full of barrels,” Jonathon replied.
Moira gave an involuntary jerk. This was as good as telling Hartly that Marchbank was a smuggler. “Cousin Vera told me she keeps her pickle barrels down there,” she said.
"She must make an awful lot of pickles,” Jonathon said. He received such a gimlet stare from his sister that he realized he was being indiscreet. “Now that you mention it, there was a smell of vinegar in the cave. There were not that many barrels, actually."
"You know how Lord Marchbank loves his pickles,” she said.
Hartly's laughing eye told her she had not fooled him for a minute. He knew she had not seen her cousins since she was a child. How should she know he loved pickles? There had been no pickles served at tea.
"Are you sure it was not brandied fruit that was kept there? Or just brandy, without the fruit,” he said playfully.
"My cousin would never tolerate such a thing!” she said.
"Perhaps the smugglers are using his caves-without his knowledge, of course,” Hartly suggested.
She leapt on it like a cat on catnip. “Very likely that is it. I shall warn Lord Marchbank. He will want to put a guard in the caves to catch the Gentlemen."
"The locals will not thank him for it,” Hartly said. “I should think half the population make their living from smuggling."
She was not conned by this pretended approval, designed to lure her into revealing family secrets. “Surely not. My cousin would never countenance such a thing."
"He countenances a bottle of brandy in his saloon. I was hoping he would offer me a tipple."
"Very likely it is kept for medicinal purposes. Marchbank suffers from gout."
"I rather think what he is using for a cure is the cause of his affliction."
Jonathon came to the rescue by changing the subject. “I think we ought to change mounts, Lady Crieff,” he said. “The mare Cousin Vera lent you is bigger than my gelding."
"Marchbank said Firefly was a lively goer. I am using Cousin Vera's mare. The saddle is a lady's saddle."
"I daresay we could change saddles."
"No, you said yourself Firefly is smaller."
Hartly did not try to reintroduce the subject of smuggling, but he had noticed how eager Lady Crieff was to drop it.
Jonathon wanted to give Firefly a try as soon aa they arrived back at Owl House. With an assembly to prepare for, Moira decided to wait until the next morning. She had to prepare her own toilette.
Hartly went to his room for a word with Mott. He found his “valet” stretched out on his bed, reading the racing news.
"What has Stanby been up to?” he asked.
"A damned funny thing,” Mott replied. “He was at Lady Crieff's room, stuffing a note under her door. I tried to get it out with a knife, but it was in too far. Do you think they are partners?"
"No, I rather think he has decided to make a try for her jewelry."
"Did you learn anything at the Marchbanks'?"
"Yes. Marchbank is working hand in glove with the Black Ghost. He allows the smugglers to use his place. A cargo was being unloaded while I was there. He has the caves under his house full of brandy. From there, it goes to his stable, for eventual shipment about the countryside. As he is the magistrate, he would see that none of the men are convicted. Bullion mentioned people in higher places, you recall."
"Is it possible Marchbank is the Black Ghost?"
"Black elephant would be more like it. He is fat as a flawn, full of gout, and slow-moving. I doubt an elderly lord would put himself to so much bother and danger."
"What do you plan to do about it?” Mott asked.
"As our card game this evening has been canceled for the assembly, I think I shall go ahead with the smuggling business. We could not hope to get fifteen thousand in one sitting at cards in any case, and we both want to finish the business as quickly as possible. I fancy Stanby will make a try for Lady Crieff's jewelry. If he gets hold of it, he will be gone in short order. I wonder what that note to Lady Crieff said."
"I tried to get into her room, but I had no luck."