"You would hardly think anyone had been living in this room at all,” Moira said in disgust when they compared notes. “There is not a single personal item to give us a clue. Such care in covering his tracks seems highly suspicious. Take a quick peek in Mott's room, Jon. I shall search under the mattress and pillow. People often hide things there."
Jonathon went to Mott's room, which was in a state similar to Hartly's. It held nothing of interest. When he returned, Moira was just poking into the dustbin.
"Here is something!” she exclaimed, pulling out a piece of crumpled paper.
She straightened it out and read what had been written. “It is true!” she gasped. “He is a spy for Revenue and Customs! Listen to this, Jon. ‘I wish to report that I have been executing my orders and have some small success to report. I believe a Lord Marchbank, of Cove House, is responsible for the large quantity of brandy that is entering England illegally at Blaxstead. He is also the local magistrate. No smugglers have been convicted here for a decade. I shall continue surveillance to discover the entire operation, and keep in touch.’ He has crossed out the next bit. It is difficult to read-something about sending more men down."
Jonathon dashed to read this startling news for himself. “We must warn Cousin John!” he exclaimed.
"Yes, certainly. And it was Hartly who hit me last night. I knew it was him."
"Let us go,” he said. “Take the letter to show Marchbank."
Moira looked at it doubtfully. “He might notice it is gone."
"Sally has done the room. He will think she emptied the basket."
Moira stood, undecided. It might be a trap. Hartly was so devious, she could hardly believe he had left this incriminating piece of evidence behind by accident.
"We can tell Cousin John what it says. I shall leave it here."
"What a good idea,” Mr. Hartly said, in a voice of quiet menace.
She turned at the sound of his voice. He had entered by Mott's room and stood in the doorway, staring at her with a smile that was more deadly than a charged pistol.
"Mr. Hartly!” she gasped. Her blood turned to ice water, chilling her to the core. She felt frozen to the spot, unable to move. “What are you doing here?"
He advanced slowly, with measured strides. “I live here, for the time being. More to the point, what are you and Sir David doing here, Lady Crieff?” he asked, studying her with a fixed stare. “I believe you have some explaining to do."
Chapter Thirteen
Hartly had seen that dumb, animal response to danger in Spain. The frozen faces of the enemy at bay still haunted his dreams. That was Lady Crieff's reaction when he caught her in his room. But it was the look in her eyes that bothered him more. It was the same fear and loathing he had seen when she looked at Stanby. He felt like a murderer.
"Well?” he said gruffly. “Nothing to say, madam? You mistook my room for yours, perhaps? You were passing and heard a noise? Fearing a robber, you came to investigate. Come now, use that vivid imagination."
She swallowed; her tongue flicked out and touched her dry lips. “It was the door-it was open,” she said. She still held the note in her fingers, hidden behind her back. She wanted to position herself over the dustbin and drop it in.
"Ah, you have elected for excuse number two."
Jonathon came to her defense. “The door was open!” he said angrily. “We knew you were out walking and feared someone might steal your-your diamond tiepin."
"And did someone?” he asked.
"No! You can look for yourself. It is still on your dresser."
Hartly's eyes flickered to the dresser, where his diamond cravat pin twinkled in the sunlight. Well, at least they had not robbed him. Lady Crieff's position at the desk told him what they had been looking for. So they had read the note he left for them. Excellent! Success mellowed his mood. He would let them off lightly, but not too lightly, or they would suspect his motives.
Jonathon's spunky behavior gave Moira courage. She shifted position and dropped the note into the dustbin. Once free of the incriminating evidence, she lifted her head high and said haughtily, “I hope you are not accusing us of trying to rob you, Mr. Hartly, when we were only being neighborly. The door was open, I assure you. Anyone might have come in. You can ask Sally."
"You must forgive me,” he said, in a more civil tone. “I was surprised when I returned and heard voices in my room, especially after Ponsonby's questionable behavior last night. I decided to enter via Mott's room to catch the intruder. It was careless of Sally to leave the door open. I shall speak to her."
"I wish you will be easy with her,” Jonathon said. “It was my fault in a way. I asked her for a posset for Lady Crieff just as she was coming out of your room. I daresay that was what made her forget."
"No harm done."
"We thought you were going for a long walk, you see,” Jonathon mentioned.
"So I was, but I remembered I had accepted an invitation to dinner in London on the weekend, and returned to write my apologies to the hostess."
"We shall let you get on with it,” Moira said, for she was eager to escape. “I am sorry if we startled you."
"Please do not apologize. I ought to thank you for looking out for my welfare."
He accompanied them to the door and watched as they scuttled off to their rooms as if the hounds of hell were after them. As soon as they disappeared, he went to his dustbin and glanced down at the note. It had been opened and obviously read. He strolled to the window and waited to see which of them darted the note's contents off to Marchbank. Within two minutes David ran to the stable and came out, leading Firefly. His simple plan had succeeded. Marchbank would believe his men were being watched and would desist operations for a few nights.
In her room, Moira was trembling from the aftermath of her ordeal. She saw that future relations with Mr. Hartly would be strained and unpleasant, which was a great pity, because in the worst case, she had thought she could apply to him for leniency on Cousin John's behalf. Quite apart from that, she did care for his good opinion. What must he think of her?
She was so upset that she remained in her room the rest of the morning. Jonathon was soon back from Cove House.
"I gave Cousin Vera the message. Marchbank was out on business, but she will tell him. She says he can divert any incoming cargo to Cousin Peter's men at Romney. They have a system of warning lights flashed from shore to the approaching ships. I am to keep watch on Hartly,” he said, his chest swelling at such an important duty.
"You did well, Jon. Do you think Hartly believed us?"
"No, he thinks we are common thieves. You could see it in his eyes, but as his precious diamond pin was still there, he could not say much. I doubt he will offer me a ride in his curricle again,” he added disconsolately.
"Never mind, you can set up your own curricle when we recover our money. That is the main thing. We must not lose track of that with Cousin John's problem."
"Can I really? With a pair of matched grays like Hartly's? And a yellow rig with silver appointments?"
"Why not? You have earned it."
Moira found her own good advice hard to take. It was difficult to concentrate on Lionel March. She kept remembering the cold way Mr. Hartly had looked at her. She could not face the Great Room for lunch. She kept brooding over Mr. Hartly. She had a cold collation brought to the sitting room, where she and Jonathon shared a quiet luncheon. After lunch, Jonathon planned to watch Hartly and follow him at a discreet distance if he left the inn. He also spoke of taking another run down to Cove House, to see if he could be of any help to Cousin John.
Moira had to take herself by the scruff of the neck and force herself to go belowstairs, where she knew Major Stanby would look for her. She felt the time was ripe to try to sell him the jewels. The settee was empty when she entered the Great Room. The servants had cleared away the traces of lunch. The only person in the room was an elderly gentleman, a traveler, reading a magazine at one of the tables while he sipped coffee.