Free Smuggler's Moon by Bruce Alexander Page B

to tip him on one gang of smugglers, yet he felt the magistrate had, ever afterward, turned a deaf ear to him and his tips. I must say, there seemed to be a good deal of personal pique involved in that. I should like to hear what Mr. Sarton has to say about it.”
    Sir John continued to grumble even as I proceeded to shave him.
    “You heard him, Jeremy. Did I miss some several proofs of his? I ask you, was he specific?”
    “No sir, he was not.”
    It is a risky matter to shave one who insists upon talking on, even as the sharp blade of the razor plays about his bobbing Adam’s apple. I warned him twice against it.
    “He did mention that Eccles fellow often, though, did he not?”
    “Yes sir, he did.”
    ”His contention seemed to be that if Eccles was against Mr. Sarton, then that was all the proof that was needed. He and Eccles may have formed a sort of alliance. I wonder who turned who against Sarton.”
    “Sir?”
    “I mean to say, was it Sir Simon or Eccles who first became prejudiced against the magistrate? And who then won the other over?”
    He went silent as he considered the questions he had raised. Carefully, watchfully, I resumed shaving him.
    “And
why
sh—
ow
!”
    I had cut him—or perhaps more accurately put, he had cut himself upon my innocent blade. Not, thank God, upon or near his throat. No, it was the tip of his chin that bled. Yet I was prepared. I reached into the kit and pulled forth the plaster preparation given me by our medico, Mr. Gabriel Donnelly. I dolloped a wad upon the cut and saw the bleeding stop.
    “How is it?” he asked.
    “All right now.”
    “Stopped bleeding, has it?”
    “It has, yes.”
    “You should be more careful.”
    “
I
should be more careful? Why, I told you
twice
you were taking a chance continuing to talk whilst I was shaving you.”
    He said nothing for a long moment. ”So you did,” said he at last. ”So you did.”
    When we two were deposited at Number 18 Middle Street, and I waved goodbye to Lord Mansfield’s driver and coachman, I felt an odd, sinking feeling. It was as if Sir John and I had been cast away upon an isle from which there might be no return. They would go back with the coach to London. How much, of a sudden, did I envy them!
    Yet why? Why this sense of desertion when, coming to Deal, I had been buoyed by a grand sense of adventure?
    In any case, they were gone, and there would be no calling them back; even less was there a chance of stealing away with them. Ah well, with Sir John about to inspirit me, I had not yet failed to rise to the occasion, nor did I intend to ever in the future.
    “Well, we are here, are we not?” said he. ”Shall we go meet the magistrate?” He placed his hand upon my forearm, and thus together we made direct for Number 18.
    Middle Street lay just above Beach Street, which fronted upon the sea, and just below High Street, where I was to meet Mr. Perkins in an hour’s time. The better part of Deal was scattered along these three streets. Will Fowler had told us that at its farther end, near Alfred Square, Middle Street was not near respectable and downright dangerous. ”You’d ought not venture there at night,” said he. Yet Number 18 was, in his view, well within the safe zone, day or night. Middle Street was as tight and narrow as any of those in London. The houses which lined it on either side—all of them brick or stone, so far as I could tell—were crammed together, wall to wall, street after street. Number 18, in which Mr. Albert Sarton resided and presided over his magistrate’s court, was a little larger (though not much) than the houses on either side of it. It was by no means imposing.
    I grasped the hand-shaped brass knocker firmly and slammed it thrice against the plate. We waited. I could hear the voices of a man and a woman from some distant part of the house, though it was quite impossible to tell what was said between them. Just as I grabbed at the knocker again and made ready to try my