The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [265]
The packet Grockleton had given him that morning, therefore, had been very frightening indeed. Not the letter from Mrs Grockleton, inviting him and two fellow officers to dinner the following week, but the other message, slipped discreetly inside it by her husband after he had taken it from her. If the message meant what the Frenchman suspected, then it concerned a business that might take very careful handling; and this was why, as a precaution, the count had selected one companion to join him, as a witness, at this evening’s secret rendezvous.
‘I am not yet telling any of the other officers, mon ami,’ he had explained. ‘I am only telling you because I can rely not only upon your advice but upon your absolute discretion.’
It was almost dark as he turned off the High Street near the church.
Of all the many inventions English builders had discovered in the last century or so, none was more charming than a particular kind of boundary construction often used in gardens.
The crinkle-crankle wall, they called it. Instead of running in a straight line like an ordinary brick wall, it was wavy, curving back and forth like a series of love seats. Most often these walls were to be found in the counties of East Anglia; but for some reason – perhaps an East Anglian builder had come to dwell in the town – there were a number in Lymington. They were mostly built quite high: some you could just look over, some not. The curves were big enough, usually, for a couple of men to stand in so that, if you were looking along the wall, you would not see them. And it was for precisely this reason that Samuel Grockleton had asked the French count to come at dusk, down the lane behind his garden, which was bounded by a crinkle-crankle wall.
Grockleton waited quietly until he heard the light tap, made with a coin, on the other side. He had scraped away some of the mortar on the outside of the wall between two of the bricks. When he pulled a brick out from his side, there was a neat little slit through which one could talk. He tapped the place, then spoke. ‘Is that you, Count?’
‘Yes, mon ami. I came as you asked.’
‘Were you followed?’
‘No.’
‘This precaution is necessary. Did you know that my house is watched?’
‘It does not surprise me. It is natural, given your position.’
‘Even when you come to dinner, I cannot risk being seen in private conversation with you. Tongues would wag.’
‘I do not doubt it.’
‘Quite. I am instructed to say, Count, that His Britannic Majesty’s government has need of your help.’ This was not quite true. No one had actually instructed him to say so because, knowing only too well the inefficiency, and quite likely the corruption, of official channels, Grockleton had decided to act on his own initiative without official approval. Of course, if he succeeded they would approve, so it all came to the same thing.
‘My dear friend, I am at your government’s service.’
‘Then let me tell you, Count,’ he began, ‘exactly what I need.’
It was not only, as both men knew, a question of smuggling brandy and other goods. As