Free Death at Rottingdean by Robin Paige

she feared he would say it, and that it would be a revelation from which they could never retreat, which would slice them apart like a red-hot blade. Almost as often, though, she wished he would speak, for what lay unsaid and unacknowledged was as hurtful as any accusation.
    But tonight she did not want to risk hearing what was hidden in his heart, for it might mar the few weeks they had to spend in this idyllic place. So she murmured something that sounded like “Thank you,” and looked up at the waning moon, half hidden in a wreath of silver clouds.
    â€œIt is a glorious night, isn’t it?” she said. “It is so wonderful to be alone with you, my dear, with no one to watch or criticize what we are doing, and no one to please but ourselves.”
    Charles bent to kiss her, then put his arm around her shoulder and they walked together down the quiet street. But Kate was wrong. They were not alone—and they were watched.

8
    One of the outrages [perpetrated by smugglers] was the death
of a patrolling customs man at Cuckmere Haven. Fearing
that his attentions would interfere with their landing, the
gang moved the lumps of white chalk that the officer used as
way-markers for his moonlight sorties along the cliff-edge. Instead
of leading him safely along the coast path, the stones
lured the poor man over the parapet. Hearing his cries as he
tumbled over the precipice, the gang emerged from hiding,
only to find the man desperately hanging by his fingertips.
Deaf to pleas for mercy, one of the gang cynically trod on
their adversary’s fingertips, sending him tumbling to the rocks
below.
    â€”RICHARD PLATT Smugglers’ Britain
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    A t long last, Patrick was beginning to appreciate Mondays. For the three years he had boarded with Mrs. Higgs, he had attended the village school, handing over his obligatory threepenny bit to Mr. Forsythe each Monday morning and suffering through endless, sleepy recitals of sums and spelling words with the other village children, some as young as three, who shared the single classroom with him. Patrick had an innate curiosity and was quick to learn, and he soon wrote and read skillfully. Under other circumstances, he might have been an able young scholar. But Mr. Forsythe’s tedious instruction was hardly inspiring, and the warmth of the classroom and the monotonous murmurs of the children set him dozing. He much preferred the freedom of the village and the downs to confinement behind the gates of learning.
    That confinement was at an end, at least for now. Patrick had expected that he would be sent from the village school to prep at St. Aubyn‘s, which had been established some sixty years before by the many-talented Dr. Thomas Red-man Hooker, Master of the Hunt, vicar of St. Margaret’s, and reputed lookout for the Rottingdean smugglers. Now, the school was taught by a less colorful team of masters, Mr. Stanford and Mr. Lang, and was made up of seven sallow-faced boys, sons of wealthy and distinguished men. But Patrick’s father, neither distinguished nor wealthy, had unfortunately failed to send his son’s tuition. He had, as well, failed to pay his son’s boarding bill, which was now some ten months in arrears. As a consequence, Patrick had escaped confinement at St. Aubyn’s and was more gainfully employed.
    â€œYe’re t’ fetch a basket from Mrs. Ridsdale, at Th’ Dene, and another at North End ‘Ouse,” Mrs. Higgs said as they sat at the small table in the kitchen, over steaming bowls of breakfast porridge. “Then ye’re t’ go t’ The Elms, where they ’ave th’ new babe, an’ fetch wotever’s been got ready. But first, ye’re t’ carry six buckets o’ water from th’ tap, an’ fire up th’ copper i’ th’ wash’ouse.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Patrick said, wolfing down his toast and tea and wishing fervently that Mrs.