Marbeck and the Privateers (11 page)

Soon he was outside, standing by the inlet which he now knew as Hope Cove. Seabirds screeched, and across the river a church bell tolled. All looked peaceful … but what Marbeck saw now was a veneer of tranquillity, masking a darker subsurface. And suddenly his own quest looked somewhat lame, if not futile: how could what went on here have any bearing on the supposed scheme afoot in London, to damage the peace negotiations with the Spanish?

Restlessly he walked the quayside. He needed an informant, he thought. But he knew no one here, and must tread with caution. As for confronting Richard Gurran and demanding to know whether he had fashioned a needle-bomb in London: the notion now seemed preposterous. He decided to make for Sandsfoot Castle. There, if nothing else, he could see the walls for himself.

He walked over the hill to Newton's Cove, a sandy beach with boats drawn up. Then for almost a mile he followed the rough coastal path, and soon found the castle: little more than a two-storey blockhouse facing the bay. It had been a gun emplacement in a time when invasion was feared – not from the Spanish, but from the French. And it was crumbling: Marbeck climbed a stairway and stood on the top, which was windy and deserted. Below him were walls faced with the hewn stone called ashlar, which, as Fahz had told him and Peter Mayne had confirmed, presented a sorry sight. Whole sections were falling away, and some stones had indeed slipped into the sea.

He stayed a while, gazing southward to the Isle of Portland, and made out the distant shape of the larger castle. This coastline had a watchful air about it: French raiding parties, Spanish invasion fleets and pirates had sailed by, and no doubt come ashore too. Out in the Channel, Dunkirkers still prowled, seeking ships to plunder. No cancelling of letters of marque and reprisal hindered them, Marbeck thought, while farther away in the Mediterranean, nations like Spain, Malta and Florence still permitted their galleys to attack and plunder enemy ships. Disgruntled English corsairs, it was said, now talked of leaving their home waters and seeking prizes in warmer climes …

He turned away from the sea, and walked briskly back to the town. This time he went on as far as the bridge, crossed over to Melcombe and walked the quayside as far as the Custom House. It was open, despite today being the Sabbath, and there was movement within. He hesitated, then on impulse walked inside. Two or three men stood about, and one important-looking fellow was sat beside a small table. Having greeted him politely, Marbeck introduced himself as a gentleman seeking a vessel for hire. He had a cargo over in France – in Le Havre, he said – and would be interested to hear of owners he might approach.

The customs master, if such he was, looked him over. He was white-haired, his skin deeply tanned. His gaze wandered past Marbeck, to the other men who were taking their leave. A murmur of farewells followed, and the two were left alone.

‘There are several owners hereabouts, and ships' masters who are part-owners too,' the old man said. ‘I could mention names like Coker or Randall … What size cargo do you speak of, sir?'

‘Fifty tons or so,' Marbeck replied, realizing he had better move away from the subject. Seizing the opportunity, he added: ‘In London I heard mention of a ship called the
Amity
… A hundred tonner, commanded by a man named Beck?'

‘Not in port,' the customs master said, somewhat blandly. ‘And in any case, I understand that vessel is not for hire.'

‘Ah … a pity.' Marbeck eyed him, saw that here was a man who would let nothing slip. The face was blank, the eyes watchful. He nodded politely and made as if to go, then with a casual air said: ‘I heard a curious thing when I was last in London – perhaps mere hearsay. Do the words
Sea Locusts
mean anything to you?'

There was a moment, then to his surprise the older man threw back his head and laughed loudly. ‘There's no such thing,' he said. ‘I fear you've been spun a fable.'

‘Is it so?' Marbeck smiled ruefully, while watching him closely. He saw the deep-lined cheeks, the brown blotches on the skin that spoke of a life at sea. And he saw a small vein that throbbed on the man's temple …

‘It is!' Tugging a kerchief from his coat, the other made a show of wiping his eyes. ‘Old tales, sir … Were you a Dorset man, you'd have heard them already. The Sea Locusts were said to blow in off the Channel, pick the land clean and then vanish again. Nobody ever saw them, but it was a handy way to explain things gone missing. A sword, a cloak or a bit of jewellery – blame the Sea Locusts, for they must have taken them.'

‘Well, I confess I've always had a weakness for old tales,' Marbeck said, keeping his smile. ‘Though perhaps I should be more circumspect in future.'

‘That's wise,' the other said. His laughter had ceased, and raising his eyebrows he put on a familiar look: that of a man who feels he has spared enough time already.

‘One last question then, if you'll permit,' Marbeck said. ‘Who owns the
Amity
?'

‘I forget,' came the reply; far too neatly, Marbeck thought. With a brief nod he went out; but the moment he was on the quayside he regretted his impulsiveness. He had shown his hand, way too soon.

Gathering pace, he walked beside the water into the town, which was now bustling with people coming out of the churches. The man in the Customs House had lied: he was certain of it. But whatever the reasons, he knew he had been rash to speak of the Sea Locusts. Further enquiries would bring only more ridicule, he suspected. But why would the fellow deny knowing who owned the
Amity
? He should have asked that question back in London, he decided. Surely such information was common knowledge?

Still pondering the matter, he crossed the bridge back to Weymouth, but this time did not turn left to the harbour. Instead he took the path to the right, which led to a steep climb up a stone stair. At the top he paused to get his breath, and found himself on a pathway leading south-west. He was above the little town, and there were people coming back from the church at Wyke. It took but a brief enquiry to find out that he was on his way to Portland, a walk of some three miles. It would suit him well, he decided; he had a deal of energy to work off, and not a little anger.

Soon he was striding purposefully through fields, with a fine view of the sea beyond. It was but a mile to the hamlet of Wyke, where he stopped and changed his plan. He would not follow the narrow way towards Portland; instead he took a path directly ahead, which soon dipped. Finally it petered out, and facing him was a vast bank of shingle, with an expanse of water before it stretching to left and right. But there was a rough bridge of planks on wooden piles, which he crossed. Then he was climbing the ridge of pebbles with some difficulty – until he reached the summit and stopped.

Ahead of him a broad beach opened out, stretching westwards as far as he could see. This was Chesil, he realized; and it wasn't empty. Thirty yards away a longboat was drawn up on the shingle, with several figures around it. And instinctively Marbeck stiffened: for the moment they saw him there was a shout, and two of them started towards him.

W
ith a hand on his sword-hilt, Marbeck stood his ground and waited. The figures became young men in seamen's clothing, their heavy shoes crunching on the shingle. The first one drew close, then stopped suddenly. ‘Your pardon …' He half-turned as the other came up. He too halted, and Marbeck heard him curse under his breath.

‘We mistook you for another.' The first youth threw him a glance, noting his clothes and his sword. The pair exchanged looks, as if suddenly eager to be gone.

‘Who were you expecting?' Marbeck asked.

‘No one,' the second youth said shortly. Both turned away, but on impulse he stayed them. ‘I'm a stranger here,' he said. ‘I had mind to purchase a boat … might yours be for sale?'

The first youth, little more than sixteen or seventeen years old, kept his eyes down. But the older one, a hard-faced fellow, shook his head. ‘She isn't ours,' he said. ‘She belongs to Buck – and he wouldn't sell.'

Marbeck raised his brow. ‘You mean John Buck, of Hope Cove?'

But the younger one remained silent, while the other merely shrugged. They started back down the beach towards their companions, who were looking their way. After a moment Marbeck followed, which as he'd expected caused some alarm. Some yards from the shore the young men stopped and turned. Waves crashed and rolled, rattling the shingle.

‘Why do you follow us?' The older one demanded.

‘I needed a walk,' Marbeck said.

They were distracted by a shout from those by the boat. The older of the two threw a sour look at Marbeck and started off again, but the younger hesitated. ‘You know John Buck?'

‘I know his wife,' Marbeck said. Then as an afterthought he added: ‘And I know Mary Kellett.'

He'd hoped for a reaction – but not the one he received. For the boy scowled, and his fists clenched. ‘The devil with you, then!' he cried, and hurried off.

Marbeck watched them join their fellows. A brief conversation took place, before the group took positions about the boat and pushed it into the waves. Oars appeared, and soon all had climbed aboard. Then they were moving, rowing hard away from the beach. Still Marbeck watched until the boat was some distance from the shore, whereupon it veered to westward. Only then did he turn and start to retrace his steps.

Something nagged at him. As far as he could tell, the boat had been empty. The men were not fishermen, nor was there any sign of nets or tackle. How long had they been there, he wondered, and who had they taken him for? He paused, turned about and walked down to the surging waves, to the spot where the boat had been beached. He looked in all directions, but saw only brownish pebbles, some tinged with other colours. Slowly he began to pace the beach, back towards the shingle bank. He thought about the younger seaman's reaction on hearing Mary Kellett's name … and then he understood. Perhaps it was no secret that John Buck pandered the girl; and Marbeck, a well-dressed stranger, had just been identified as the sort of man who might have paid to use her. He stopped walking, cursing his own carelessness … then with a frown, found himself peering down at the shingle.

What he saw was a faint line of pebbles, whiter than those around them, stretching away at an angle to the shore. They had been placed deliberately, two or three abreast. The row was barely visible, and could easily be missed; it was pure chance that had made him stop where he had. His curiosity rising, he began to follow the line, having looked round to see there was no one observing him. He walked for twenty yards or so until, for no apparent reason, the row ended.

He reached down and picked up one of the stones, about the size of a peach, and turned it over. The underside was amber: like the others, it had been selected for its partial whiteness. Was the row a signal, or a marker of some kind – and if so, for what?

He dropped the pebble and looked along the line, all the way to the sea. The tide was coming in, he judged, so perhaps it extended further out beneath the waves. Then he looked back in the direction he had walked, but there was nothing: no mark on the horizon, not even a tree on the distant hills. He knelt and searched the spot where the row ended, but there was nothing there either. Finally he straightened up – and then he saw it: the end of an iron bar, protruding from the shingle beside the last pebble in the row.

He'd almost missed it; indeed, had it not been for the pebble markers he would have done so. From a few feet away it was unnoticeable: a blunt, brownish rod sticking up no more than four or five inches. He looked for others, but saw none. He bent down and tugged at it, but it would not yield. So having unbuckled his sword and laid it aside, he knelt again and began removing pebbles, throwing them aside as he dug. He found that the iron bar was fixed to something larger … and soon after that, a barrelhead appeared. It was then but a few minutes' work to expose the cask, buried some two feet below the surface of the shingle. When he tried to move it, he found it was heavy.

He sat back on his heels, saw crude letters burned into the side of the barrel:
MADEIRA,
along with some numbers that meant nothing. But all was now clear: the beach was a pick-up point for contraband goods.

In some disappointment, he glanced out to sea. The boat – John Buck's boat, he'd learned – was out of sight. Marbeck had heard of how cargoes of wines, tobacco and other bonded goods were put ashore by night, cached in places known only to local folk. No doubt if he walked the length of the vast beach, he would find other places of concealment too. By torchlight, or by daylight, it was possible to follow the trail of pebbles … and now the young men's nervousness made sense. If they knew the barrel was there, had they feared Marbeck would stumble on it? And more, if John Buck owned the boat, it seemed likely that he was involved in the business. Then, that was of small surprise: Marbeck had already formed a far worse opinion of the man.

After a moment he began scooping pebbles back in place to cover the barrel. Finally only the end of the iron rod protruded as before, whereupon he stood up and dusted off his hands. With a last look at the deserted beach, he began the walk back to Weymouth.

It was past noon by the time he returned. Having no wish to go to the Bucks' house, he went to the King's Arms stable to see that Cobb was well cared for. Then he walked into the inn, which was as busy as before. Having found the drawer he gave his order, then lingered as the man worked the spigot. He exchanged a few words with him, and described the two young seamen he had just met at Chesil, to be rewarded by a nod.

‘It sounds like the Swann brothers. They're the sons of Gideon Swann, sea captain.' The drawer topped up the mug and handed it to him. ‘I hear you're looking for a vessel to hire, master, is that so?'