Slowly, he'd learned that the men he ran with were small fry. For the most part, they were simple fishermen supplementing their income as free traders. They kept well clear of the larger,more organised gangs to the east. More organised and infinitely more vicious, comprising men who thought nothing of throwing innocent people off a cliff to protect their anonymity.
The most notoriousof these was the Hope Cove gang led by the man who called himself Jack. No one seemed to know what his real name was or even what he looked like. He was just a ghost, a bogeyman to frighten children with. The gang operated all the way from Seaton in East Devon to Falmouth in Cornwall. With only a handful of Customs officers operating out of Dartmouth and Plymouth, they were able to ply their illegal trade almost unchallenged.
Then three months ago, Jago heard a rumour that the elusive Jack operated from Dartmouth. According to the inebriated fisherman who’d shared the tale, Jack apparently enjoyed the challenge of bamboozling the authorities.
The other fishermen had declared the tale a bag o’ bloody moonshine, but Jason could hear the fear behind their jeering denunciation.
Over the next couple of months, Jago had discreetly let it be known he’d be interested in joining the Hope Cove gang, but though his cohorts had professed him bloody addled, he hadn’t been approached.
In the end, he’d packed his bags and walked the twenty-three-mile coast path from Salcombe to Dartmouth, taking a labouring job unloading legitimate cargo in the bustling harbour. It was backbreaking work, but Jago had really believed he was finally getting closer to infiltrating the notorious smuggling ring.
Unfortunately, last night, it became evident that Jack had little interest in any supposed information he might possess, and even less in recruiting him. More than that, he’d been warned off.
Jago swore as he approached the wharf. Time was running out. He couldn’t stay away from Wheal Tredennick indefinitely. Leaving the mine in the hands of his shattered, embittered father would eventually lead them to ruin. He needed to finish this business and swiftly.
∞∞∞
‘Thunder an’ turf, Freddy lad,’ Reverend Shackleford muttered as he watched the hound cock his leg up over something unpleasant in the alley behind the inn. ‘You’d think after six virtually unmanageable daughters, the Almighty would have graced me with at least one obedient offspring.’ Freddy looked up and wagged his tail, and while the foxhound’s response didn’t provide quite the same comfort as Percy’s would no doubt have done, the Reverend chose to take it as agreement.
Sighing, Augustus Shackleford headed back into the inn’s small front parlour where Charity was already waiting for him, feet tapping impatiently, a tray of bread and butter on the table in front of her.
‘So, what have you got to say for yourself, Father?’ Charity demanded as soon as he’d sat down.
‘Have you ordered tea,’ the Reverend responded, clearly stalling for time. Charity pursed her lips and nodded her head. In truth, the fright she’d had in the early hours had made her much angrier with her father than she would have been ordinarily. Itwasn’t often Charity felt out of her depth, but cowering in the inn’s small office, she’d felt a totally unfamiliar sense of dread.
To Reverend Shackleford’s relief, the maid chose that moment to come over with two dishes of tea and some preserves, giving him a brief reprieve. Unfortunately, it only lasted until he’d taken the first bite. At Charity’s frosty glare, he finally sighed and put his piece of bread back onto its plate.
‘I was worried about Percy,’ he said with a self-conscious scowl. ‘The thought of him wandering about in … well, anywhere other than Blackmore…’ he paused and grimaced. ‘The chucklehead could end up being deported.’
‘From Dartmouth?’ Charity questioned incredulously. ‘I think you do him a disservice, Father. Percy has more sense than you give him credit for.’
‘You don’t know him like I do,’ grumbled the Reverend. ‘He isn’t accustomed to doing things without my guidance.’
Charity gave a rude snort, but all she said was, ‘Why the devil were you looking for him in the middle of the night?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. And it wasn’t the middle of the night. I am after all in the service of the Church and am accustomed to getting up for matins,’ her father declared piously.
‘Three times a year,’ scoffed Charity. ‘And what would have happened if you’d been attacked? You could still be lying in a gutter somewhere.’
‘Not many will risk the slippery slope downstairs by attacking a man of the cloth,’ the Reverend responded tapping his nose and giving a knowing nod towards the floor.
Charity gave another snort. Nevertheless, she was mollified somewhat. Her father’s concern for his curate was commendable. ‘You should have taken Freddy,’ she remarked instead, helping herself to a piece of bread. ‘You’d have found Percy by now if you’d used his nose.’
‘I was more concerned about the noise he’d make,’ the Reverend confessed. ‘Trusting Freddy’s nose in Blackmore is one thing. ‘Relying on it in a strange town…’ He paused and shuddered, before adding, ‘We could have ended up in the deuced river. And anyway what was he doing in your bedchamber?’
Charity liberally spread her piece of bread with butter and blackcurrant preserve before answering. In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure what to say. To accuse the innkeeper of being involved in smuggling activities – well, it certainly wouldn’t help Mary Noon’s cause.
That said, her instincts told her the man he called Jack was both dangerous and cruel. The casual way he’d spoken about cutting the dog’s throat. Charity felt again the inexplicable surge of pure dread she’d felt when spying on him. The man was evil, of that she was certain. It would be much better if he did not come to her father’s attention or, more importantly, her father did not come to his.
‘I thought to use Freddy to see where you had gone,’ she said cagily, biting into her bread and chewing it hurriedly. ‘Indeed, he followed the scent from your handkerchief with no uncertainty, taking me straight to the front door.’
‘Tare an’ hounds, girl, don’t tell me you were wandering the streets of Dartmouth in the early hours.’ The horror in his voice warmed her until he added, ‘It’s going to nigh on clean me outto get Percy’s mother freed. Having you added to the mix would have deuced well put me in Dun territory.’
‘Your concern for my welfare is heartening, Father,’ she retorted, ‘I have much more common sense than to negotiate the streets of Dartmouth in the dark.’ She paused and narrowed her eyes before adding, ‘And I’m entirely certain you have no intention of buying Mrs Noon’s freedom.’
Her father hmphed and helped himself to more tea. ‘Still, using Freddy to find Percy during daylight will not be quite so likely to land us in a hobble,’ he mused, seconds later.
‘Why can’t we just wait for him at the gaol?’ Charity queried. ‘Percy will undoubtedly turn up if he wishes to see his mother released.’
