The Professor and the Smuggler Read online

  Carne addressed Robin and the group of men who comprised the heart of the Par Gwynear Salvage Concern—although the entire village had a stake in the business. “Not much to say. The stranger is some kind of a professor and no threat to anyone.”

  “He must have been in the past,” Roger Peters, a large, devout Liberal-Labour man, grumbled. “A man can’t get so rich without cutting a few throats.”

  The others in the room nodded or muttered agreement. Everyone knew and respected piracy unless it wore a mine owner’s well-tailored suit.

  “What’s he here for?”

  When Carne explained Singleton’s project, he was met with wide smiles and laughter.

  “And you believe this balderdash?” the elder Mitchell asked, his dour face not displaying a glimmer of humor.

  “Why not? Had a camera and took pictures of the rock circle. I watched. The man knows what he’s doing.”

  “A camera?” Robin perked up. “Do professors make so much money they can ride around in motorcars and take photographs?”

  “He’s not actually a professor anymore,” Carne began.

  “Photographs!” Gwalather thumped the table again, this time with a fist. “He sells photographs of free traders, delivers them up to the authorities.”

  “Aw, now,” Trennick protested. “The customs men hardly be interested in such as Par Gwynear nowadays.”

  True enough, the free traders were all but gone from the shores of Cornwall—that was until Gwalather and others made contact with some rather shady gentlemen who were apparently French but sometimes seemed to speak a language that didn’t sound anything like français to Carne. These men needed a place to offload their goods and paid the Cooperative to carry certain duty-free items up the coast to Penzance. This unregistered cargo was only a portion of what the ship carried. After dropping anchor near Par Gwynear, the ship would continue on to its legal destination.

  “We could break his photographic plates,” Mitchell Junior suggested. “I’d do that.”

  Gwalather nodded solemnly.

  “I don’t think he’s the type to be scared off,” Carne said, then wished he hadn’t, because the grumbling started up immediately.

  “That has to mean he’s not just some mild old professor, don’t you think?”

  “What sort of professor has one of those automobiles? Is he some kind of earl or something?”

  Carne had to say the next part carefully. “Listen. We can’t keep driving people off.”

  “No, we can’t,” Trennick agreed in his reedy tenor.

  “Why not?” Mitchell growled and exchanged a look with his son. The pair was like a team of oxen, a little slow and dull, but deadly with their horns if provoked.

  Carne looked at Gwalather and the Mitchells in turn, the hardest to convince about changing direction. “We might consider exploring other sources of income in the future.”

  “Aw, listen to him. Exploring other sources of income.” Mitchell senior said the words in a falsetto. “You been reading too many books again, Carne. And what can you mean? Fishing, you think? Pilchards are gone more’n ten years past. And the mines around here are over and done with. A furze factory perhaps, producing woven gorse shrub coats for the masses, you think?”

  Carne knew Mitchell needled him on purpose, which helped him keep his temper in check. He constantly thought about what legal business the village could do with the mine gone and fishing scarce, but had yet to formulate a plausible scheme. This growling about Singleton worried him, though he could hardly imagine a man here who’d do the man bodily harm. So he listed his barely formed ideas.

  “If this professor publishes his book, with some pictures, maybe we could draw tourists to visit. That’d be a start. Or maybe look into building something like the cloth mill you joke about. Or a fish cannery. Yes, the pilchards are gone, but I hear the French like all different sorts of fish and sea creatures.”

  Mitchell snorted. “The Frogs like fishy fish.”

  Carne had had enough, yet he managed to keep his voice even. “If you’re going to mock what I say, why should I bother?”

  Mitchell raised his hands and leaned back in exaggerated defensiveness. “No offense, Treleaven.”

  “We got enough to worry about with another shipment coming soon,” Gwalather interrupted. “I say if the stranger gives us trouble, we tip this professor and his noisy motorcar and camera into the sea. Make it a permanent answer with no messy traces.”

  Everyone but Gwalather and Carne laughed.

  Carne said, “He’s hired me to be his guide. I’ll keep an eye on him. Keep him out of the way.”

  Gwalather stroked his iron-gray muttonchop with a hand gnarled by a tin-cart accident years earlier. “If he stays out of our business, we should be just fine. Just fine.”

  Mitchell said, “My boy is as good as anyone at mayhem.”

  That was certainly true, Carne thought.

  Mitchell Junior’s round face shone with pride, and he sat up straighter. “We could do it by stealth or otherwise, Tas. He must have some money on him, and those cameras would fetch a—”

  “Hell. No.” Carne leaned forward, palms flat on the table, hoisting himself most of the way off the bench. “Keep your bloody hands off him and off every single thing he owns, or I’ll come after ’e. Steal so much as an apple from him, and I’ll see ’e suffer.”

  Everyone fell silent and eyed him. Carne occasionally growled, but he never barked or bit.

  The flash of temper already dissipated. He dropped back onto the bench, ready with an answer for the surprised looks he got. “Don’t be fools. If we hurt a man like that, how long before the authorities come nosing around? It’s clear he’s got connections and wealth, so how long do you think? My guess is about five minutes.”

  “True, true,” the others muttered.

  But that fact hadn’t been the reason Carne had lost his temper with the Mitchells. He felt protective of Singleton, and that peculiar emotion was almost as unwelcome as the man himself.

  *

  Phillip leaned against the hood of the German motor vehicle he’d purchased from his friend Geoffrey in Truro and watched the sky turn all manner of colors rarely viewed in the city. There, the sun disappeared behind buildings with only an orange glow to mark its passing and streetlights quickly took up the banner of light, casting their more unearthly glow. Here in the country, he knew, the world around him would become pitch-dark absent the sun. He daren’t linger much longer, waiting for Carne to return.

  He adjusted a strap on his luggage, checked a third time to make certain all his camera paraphernalia was safely in the backseat, then decided he could wait no longer and reluctantly began the process of starting the vehicle. He prayed the engine wouldn’t betray him, though it hadn’t so far on his journey. Still, a motorist was taking his life into his hands traveling country roads not meant for modern contraptions.

  He should’ve left the automobile in the city and rented a horse and cart for this trip on dirt roads. But the romanticism of driving cross-country in his new vehicle was too enticing to pass up. He’d regretted it a few times already—when rains fell, when local drivers made crude gestures, and as he watched the supply of petrol he’d bought in the city of Truro slowly dwindle. If he hadn’t calculated usage correctly, he might truly kick himself for driving so far from where petrol was available. For the rest of his time spent near Par Gwynear, he’d have to rent a horse or use his own two legs.

  The engine started smoothly. Phillip hopped into the driver’s seat and set off down the bumpy road toward the village. He hadn’t gone more than a quarter mile before he spotted a large figure silhouetted by the glorious sunset, walking toward him.

  Phillip grinned and coasted to a stop as he neared Mr. Carne. “I’d begun to think you weren’t going to return.”

  “Said I’d be back. I’m a man of my word. Thought over your offer. I’ll introduce you to some folks.” Carne was nothing if not succinct.

  “Capital
! With your stamp of approval, people are going to be much more willing to tell me tales of their ancestors.”

  Carne shrugged his big shoulders. “Wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Climb on in,” Phillip invited. “Have you ever ridden in a motorcar before?”

  “Never.”

  “No need to be afraid. It’s not much different from riding on a train.”

  “Never did that either,” Carne said as he opened the door and slid onto the seat.

  “Oh. Of course.” Phillip realized it was possible this man might not have traveled as far as Truro, which was only a few hours north. How strange to live in modern times and remain so isolated. This was nearly like discovering some lost tribe in the jungle. He didn’t need to travel to Africa or China or any foreign land to uncover a self-contained civilization. These Cornish were going to be a treat to study. He already adored their dialect, the archaic words and rolling cadence.

  Phillip revved the engine and rolled down the road, sneaking a look at his rider’s reaction. If Carne was nervous about riding in a mechanical contraption, he didn’t reveal it in his expression.

  “I’ve just purchased her from an old friend in Truro,” Phillip informed him. “She was manufactured in Germany by Daimler-Mercedes. I’m told she can reach up to forty miles per hour or more, but of course I haven’t been able to test that. It would take an uninterrupted stretch of good roadway. On these country lanes, she can go no faster than a horse and cart.” He chuckled. “In fact, I probably should have taken that mode of transportation, but then think of the adventure I would’ve missed.”

  “Quite an adventure if it breaks down on a deserted road,” Carne said. “Hardly practical.”

  “No, it isn’t.” But Phillip refused to have his good spirits repressed. “I plan to park her for the duration of my time here. Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest livery stable?”

  The dark head shook. “None in these parts. Folks mostly walk. Those that own a nag are generally using it.”

  Phillip started to realize how foolish he’d been in assuming there’d be any of the amenities he was used to in this tiny village. No inn. No livery, certainly no garage. And only his limited supply of petrol for the auto. How in the world would he get around?

  “Do you have a horse? One I could rent. With a cart to carry my equipment?” He glanced over at Carne and smiled.

  A flicker of something—was it annoyance? frustration? amusement?—flitted in the man’s eyes. “So happens I’ve both of those.”

  “Naturally, I shall pay you,” Phillip promised. “Both for your guidance and for the rental of your horse and cart. Isn’t it wonderful when things turn out better than one had hoped? A remarkable coincidence that I should encounter a man who has everything I need.”

  He fell silent and wished he’d phrased that a little differently. Likely Carne didn’t hear the double meaning, but Phillip certainly did. Mr. Carne—he should probably learn the man’s full name—had the dark hair and sun-bronzed complexion, the muscular body, black beard, and the piercing brown eyes of Phillip’s romantic ideal. Phillip didn’t consider himself too particular about appearance. The few lovers he’d had were of varying types. It was their personalities which drew him. However, if he were to choose purely by looks, Carne’s rough laborer aspect was most attractive to him.

  But he shouldn’t be thinking in such a way. This wasn’t the sort of man he could philander with. It was readily apparent Carne was a man’s man—and not in an I want to rub cocks together sort of way. If Phillip made any overture, he might not only lose his guide and conveyance but would probably get his nose punched. So he would be friendly but not overly friendly to his guide here in Par Gwynear.

  “You just bought this vehicle, then?” Carne asked.

  “Yes. I traveled from London to Truro by train, intending to see a friend I hadn’t in years. From there I planned to hire a cart for the rest of my journey. My host was preparing to depart for America and was selling some of his things.”

  “Just a few trifles like a German motorcar.”

  Phillip could no longer see Carne’s expression in the darkness, but the sarcasm was clear. “This automobile is only two years old but was originally imported by a Lord Barrington, who sold her to pay off gambling debts. Geoffrey can’t resist beauty, and…well, look at her.”

  “It is a fine piece of machinery,” Carne admitted.

  “More than that. A lovely piece of engineering. Cogs and pistons and belts and pulleys are machinery. The exquisite orchestration of moving parts under this vehicle’s bonnet is nothing short of poetry. Listen to her hum.”

  “’Tis a song.” Carne’s teeth flashed.

  Phillip’s stomach gave a little flutter at the quick smile. Oh Lord, but this was a handsome man. How Geoffrey would admire his magnificence. Only perhaps not these days, for Geoffrey had eyes for only one—the greatest love of his life. The man for whom he was changing, selling assets, and moving permanently to New York, was an American with no title or great wealth. Geoffrey had met him quite by chance at an event they both attended. Remarkable how love could drastically alter one’s life. Unfortunately for Phillip, that change had been for the worse the two times he’d allowed his heart full reign.

  “Watch out!” Carne yelled.

  Phillip snapped to attention and swerved to avoid an animal that had flashed past in the blink of an eye. A deer, perhaps? He had no time to identify it as he fought the polished wooden wheel under control and got the car going straight again—over a rut that jolted the frame and made his teeth clack together.

  He cleared his throat and tried to pretend he’d been in control the entire time. “Where exactly are we going, Mr. Carne?”

  “There’s a public house in the village. Perhaps the owner, Bea, could put you up for the night. Or…” Carne paused.

  “Yes?”

  “My house is nearby. If you cared to park behind, it’d be a safe place to keep your motorcar. There are some as might be interested in taking a look at the engine and perhaps tinkering. ’Tis best to keep it out of sight.”

  “Oh yes. I hadn’t thought of that. It would be wise.” Phillip nodded. “I could pitch my tent in your yard, and I’ll be there, ready to go whenever you are, in the morning.”

  “If you’re set on living rough, then yes. But fact is, I have an extra room in the house. ’Twas my sisters’.”

  Phillip’s interest perked. This was the first personal detail Carne had offered. He remained in his family home. “Where is your family now?” he asked gently, in case they’d all expired.

  “My tas drowned at sea. Mam died a year after. My two sisters moved away from Par Gwynear with their husbands, so I’m left with the house and my father’s boat, the Magpie.”

  “Ah.” Phillip nodded. “I’m sorry to hear of your parents’ death. It is awful to lose a loved one. My own dear sister died young.” He didn’t add that his parents were dead to him, or, to be more precise, the opposite. Phillip was dead to them. They acknowledged his existence as little as possible since he’d proven such a disappointment in their eyes.

  “I should be happy to make use of one of your extra rooms. Thank you so much for the invitation.”

  “Turn here.” Carne gestured to a side track. “It’ll be even bumpier than the road, so drive slowly.”

  Phillip obeyed, inching down rutted grooves in tall grass. He saw no house ahead, and it abruptly occurred to him that he’d placed his trust in a complete stranger, a dark, scowling, much-stronger-than-him stranger. Carne had said earlier a man might disappear in these parts and no one would be the wiser.

  A stone house loomed out of the darkness. “Right here will do,” Carne instructed.

  Phillip quickly cut the wheel to steer around the side and park. He swallowed hard as he pulled the auto to a stop and wondered what he’d do if Carne pulled some sort of weapon like a knife on him. Weapon? Ha! All the man needed were those big fists. He could easily beat Phillip to a pulp.


  A dark night in a strange place plus a very vivid imagination added up to all sorts of harrowing fantasies. Phillip forced himself to calm down as both he and Carne got out of the vehicle.

  “Welcome to my home, Mr. Singleton,” Carne said. “And by the way, my surname is Treleaven.”

  Chapter Three

  Carne had lived in the modest whitewashed stone cottage his entire life, alone in it for the past four years. He’d ceased noticing what his house looked like, except when something needed urgent repair. When he lit the lantern and light struggled to reach the corners, Carne saw the place as Professor Singleton might. This well-heeled, educated Londoner had probably never set foot in a workingman’s home. He must be aghast at the crooked door that sagged on its hinges, the threadbare carpet worn through to the stone floor in spots, the rough-hewn wood furniture built to last through generations, the fogged window glass. The dwelling was humble, to say the least.

  “What a quaint home!” Singleton exclaimed and didn’t sound as if he meant poor and dingy in place of quaint.

  Carne shot a look at his guest to make sure he wasn’t teasing, but the tall man, whose head neared the ceiling, seemed sincere. Singleton gazed around with a wide grin on his face. “Just as I imagined it!”

  “You imagined my house?”

  “I only meant it’s exactly what I thought the interior of a cottage should look like. When I was a boy, I used to read stories, histories, really, of the Cornish coast, the shipwrecks, the mining, the piskies and buccas and knockers, all the local flavor. I was enthralled.” Singleton removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief. “Over the years, I forgot my boyhood fascination. My friendship with the fellow I mentioned from Truro during my student days renewed my interest as he shared his own tales from the area.”