“I know it does. Too blasted many of them in Brighton.” His voice rang. “Cromwell has much to answer for. Did you know that more than a third of those who live in this town are Nonconformists? Methodists, Unitarians, Quakers, and other sorts of foul blights.”
“Cromwell has been dead these hundred and fifty years,” Grenville pointed out.
“That’s as may be, but he’s to blame. The Dissenters fled to Brighton when the crown was restored, the C of E back where it belonged. Do you know that if a Quaker does one small thing the others dislike, they boot him out? Shun him?”
“Do they?” Grenville asked, raising his brows. “I hadn’t heard that. So unlike our dear C of E, which welcomes drunkards and sinners.”
“Exactly.” The bishop’s voice rose. “God savessinners, not sanctimonious, we-know-best, clergy-shunning, body-rocking, mouth frothers. Have you ever been to a Quaker Meeting? They say nothing, only sit there, eyes closed and swaying back and forth, until suddenly up jumps one and starts shouting. I ask you.”
“I have not had that opportunity, no,” Grenville said. “Sounds quite interesting.”
“Then you have a different idea of interest than I, Mr. Grenville.” The bishop bowed to us both, but not in anger. He’d said his piece, and didn’t much care whether we agreed with him or not. “Good afternoon. I’m off to have a tramp down the coast to Eastbourne. Good weather for it.”
He looked Grenville up and down, as though certainhe’dnever be up to such a long walk, glanced with disapproval at my walking stick, turned abruptly and left us.
Grenville waited until the man strode out of earshot before he spoke. “Such a pleasant gentleman. I hopehedid not do away with the missing Quakers in his zeal.”
“As do I,” I agreed. “I have not made much of a start looking for them, I admit. I’ve been fixed on my own dilemma.”
“I am at your service,” Grenville answered at once. “It should not be too difficult to find what became of them, should it?”
“Huh,” Brewster said. He’d faded back as the bishop railed but now joined us again. “You’re a fool to think so, Mr. Grenville, if you don’t mind me saying. Anything involving the captain is a right mess. If it didn’t start that way, he will make it so.”
* * *
When I reached home,I faced another ordeal. Donata had Peter and Anne downstairs, ready for us to make our way to the sea.
She regarded my tardiness with some impatience, but we set off in due course. Anne’s nanny accompanied us, as did Gabriella in a pretty muslin frock and jacket.
For a certain sum, one could hire coaches that drove out through the shingle to a calm cove, stopping right in the water. There, using the coach as a shield from prying eyes, we uncovered to light clothing and plunged into the sea.
Donata was quite fetching in her thin muslin frock that clung to every curve. She swam sedately, but well, Gabriella happily paddling alongside her. Gabriella had often traveled to the coast with her family in France, and she enjoyed sea bathing.
Anne remained in the carriage, as both Donata and I had great fear of her drowning if she so much as touched the water, but at least she could enjoy the air and a day out.
Peter was the most exultant of all. He swam and dove, played splashing games with Gabriella and me, and shouted and laughed at us both. Gabriella held her own against him in these games, with no intention of letting him best her.
Peter liked swimming out with me as far as we dared go, the cold water bracing. We stroked side by side, I slowing myself so I would not outpace him. In a few years, I suspected, he’d outpace me.
The sun headed westward but had a long way to go before nightfall. The sea glittered with light, a mist rising on its edge. It was beautiful, but the mist warned the evening would be cool.
“Papa!” Peter yelled. “Look!”
In spite of my thrill that he’d addressed me asPapa, I peered at what he excitedly pointed to. I shaded my eyes, and felt a pang of disquiet.
It was a boat, but upended, floating on the waves like a pile of boards, its hull black with water. I stopped Peter as he began to swim out to it.
“Stay here. Look after your mother.” I left him behind me and started toward the boat.
When I reached the small vessel, I realized Peter had disobeyed and come after me. He was like a fish in the water, and easily caught up.
I put my hands under the gunwale of the boat. I realized I’d never shift it all the way over by myself but I could at least lift it enough to see if anyone had been trapped beneath.
Someone had, and he was dead. As I moved the edge of the boat upward, Peter’s small hands helping to push, the bubble of air beneath the boat revealed the body of a young man.
He was dead with no doubt, his face blue and bloated. His body had been trapped under the plank seats across the bottom, which explained why he hadn’t sunk into the sea, though he was quite wet.
His eyes were open, staring in terror, and the clear marks of strangling fingers were black across his throat.
