Free Revenge of the Barbary Ghost by Donna Lea Simpson

troubled about the gang that had, in the past year, begun business along the shore near St. Wyllow. There had been many smugglers, but this gang was well organized and steadfast. Quintrell shook his head over it all; he was concerned that their success would bring imitators, and there would be a kind of war among the smuggling gangs. It had happened before, in other places. That settled one question Darkefell had. Quintrell would surely not be so effusive if he were a party to the lawbreakers.
    Quintrell finally fell silent, but then looked up into the marquess’s face, and asked, “Milord, I need counsel from someone not connected to St. Wyllow. Might I tell you somethin’ on the hush?”
    “Of course.”
    “No, sir,” he said, his pouchy face lined with worry, “I mean this not lightly. You’ll not tell the authorities, even though it may be something illegal I must confess?”
    Darkefell hesitated. He was no friend to crime, and if there had been some violence, or some connection Quintrell was now regretting, what should he do? He took a deep breath; he trusted the steadiness of his father’s old equerry. Quintrell was a sober, honest man. If he’d made a mistake, it was just that, a mistake he now regretted and would not repeat. “You can tell me anything,” he said, finally.
    With relief, the fellow began to talk. At first, he just spoke about his happiness when they first bought the Barbary Ghost Inn, and how his wife and he had some good years. Her passing was a very dark time, for he had loved her dearly, and ever since, he said, it felt like he had been missing from some parts of his life, one of those being his son, Johnny. “I just haven’t bin here. Not in the ways that matter, anyhow. Still, ’e’s a good boy, is Johnny … most of the time.” He fell silent, a brooding expression on his lined and scarred face.
    “But?” Darkefell urged, feeling that they were finally coming to the crux of the matter.
    The man stared down at the scarred tabletop. “I’ve coom to the part o’ the story, sir, where I must confess what ill suits my wish that you think well o’ me.” He didn’t pause, though, launching right into the rest of the story. “There’s a fellow by the name of Sam Micklethwaite. ’E’s a local man, owns a lugger an’ a cutter. Does some honest shipping, good business. But a year or so ago, ’e come to me with some ankers o’ gin to get rid of. Says he found ’em offshore. Now, that happens, right enough. Many a fisherman has found smuggled barrels—ankers, half ankers—sunk offshore to hide ’em. Nothing wrong with rescuing such goods, I say; it’s not like ’e smuggled ’em, ’e just found them. I bought ’em, and sold the gin in the taproom.”
    He stopped. Darkefell was about to speak after a long silence, to say he didn’t think there was any cause for alarm, but Quintrell spoke again, staring steadily out the cloudy window toward the livery stable behind the inn.
    “I thought nothin’ about it, ’til Micklethwaite came with more, another time. I bought them from him, but the next time I questioned him. He was cheeky about it, saying yes, they was smuggled goods. Didn’t I want to profit? I turned ’im down, milord, that day. But then he dropped it on me; said my Johnny ’ad been working for him, and if I didn’t want him turned in, I’d keep me mouth shut and buy some gin.”
    “Turned in? To the excise men?” Darkefell asked.
    “Aye. If it’s true, if Johnny’s bound to those smugglers, and Micklethwaite dropped a secret word to th’ excise men …” He trailed off and shook his head, mournfully. “Milord, that revenue man—Puddicombe is his name—e’s saying the government’s talkin’ about transportation for smugglers, to the ends of the earth, Van Dieman’s Land! Lord, I’d never see my boy again.”
    “Have you told Johnny to stop working for Micklethwaite?”
    “We haven’t spoke about it. ’E don’t confide in me no more, so