The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [283]
He hadn’t really expected anything to come of it; but two days later Puckle had made contact. And now they were talking.
‘What sort of things could you tell me? Things about Isaac Seagull?’
He couldn’t be sure that the landlord of the Angel was actively involved in the smuggling. Normally speaking, you could assume that the landlord of any inn received contraband, but he had long suspected that Seagull might be doing far more.
‘He’s a devil,’ Puckle said bitterly.
‘I had the impression you quarrelled.’
‘We have.’ Puckle paused. ‘’Tain’t only that, though.’ He looked down. ‘You heard about when they raided Ambrose Hole a few years back?’
‘Of course.’ Although the raid on the gang of highway-men had taken place just before his arrival in Lymington, Grockleton could not fail to be aware of it.
The other man now spat with disgust. ‘Two of them taken was my family. An’ you know who gave them away? Isaac damned Seagull. He knows I know, too.’ This was cause for hatred indeed. Grockleton listened carefully. ‘He treats me like a dog all the same,’ Puckle continued with heartfelt bitterness, ‘because he reckons I’m afraid of him.’
‘Are you afraid of him?’
Puckle said nothing, as though unwilling to admit it. His gnarled face reminded Grockleton of a stunted oak, just as Seagull’s made him think of a jaunty lugger, with a sail run up before the breeze.
‘Yes,’ the forest man said quietly at last, ‘I fear him.’ And then, looking straight at Grockleton: ‘So should any man.’
Grockleton understood. Violence between the smugglers and the Customs men was rare, but it could happen. Once or twice, if he had given them too much trouble, a riding officer might get a knock on the door and a bullet in the head. His claw-like hand clenched, but he gave no other sign. He was quite a brave man.
‘So what do you want?’ Puckle asked.
‘To intercept a big run. On shore. What else?’
‘You haven’t the men to do it.’
‘That’s my business.’
Puckle looked thoughtful. ‘You’d have to pay me a lot of money,’ he said.
‘A share of what we take.’ They both knew this could be a small fortune.
‘You’d take Isaac Seagull?’
‘So long as he’s there, yes.’
‘Kill him,’ Puckle said quietly.
‘They’d have to shoot at us.’
‘They will. I’ll need money before. Plenty. And a fast horse.’ Seeing Grockleton look doubtful he continued: ‘What d’you think they’ll do to me if they find out?’
‘They might not.’
‘They would. I’ll have to leave the Forest. Go away. A long way.’
Grockleton tried to imagine Puckle outside the Forest. It wasn’t easy. People did leave, of course. Not often, but it happened. And with plenty of money … He tried to imagine Puckle with money and couldn’t do that either, but then he sighed to himself. People changed when they acquired wealth, even a man like this. Who knew what he would become with money in some other place? Puckle was mysterious. ‘Fifty pounds,’ he said. ‘The rest later. We can arrange for you to collect your share in Winchester, London, wherever you like.’
He saw Puckle react, then try to hide it. The sum had impressed him. Good.
‘Won’t be for a while, yet,’ Puckle said. ‘You know that.’
Grockleton nodded. The big smuggling runs were usually done in winter when the nights were long.
‘One thing,’ the Forest man went on, looking thoughtful. ‘I’d need a way of getting word to you. Can’t be seen near you myself.’
‘I know. I’ve thought about that already. I may have a solution.’
‘Oh. What’s that, then?’
‘A boy,’ said Grockleton.
It was some weeks before Mr Martell came to Lymington, but when he did, he chose his time carefully.
On a fine summer morning he rode down the turnpike into the town. He was feeling optimistic. He had preferred to ride ahead, leaving his manservant to follow in the chaise with his dressing case and portmanteau. As he rode past the turnpike’s tollgate at the entrance to the borough, he realized that he had never been here before.
He had no doubt that he would