The Professor and the Smuggler Page 5

  “Why are you angry?” Singleton sounded curious and still too calm.

  “Stop observing me all the time,” Carne muttered, and once again, that unsettling embarrassment filled him. What a stupid explanation for such a disconcerting feeling.

  “I’ve told you, it’s all a matter of…” Singleton waved a hand. “Daffodils. Admiration on my part for something I cannot have.”

  “Does that mean you’re admitting that sort of interest? In me?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Carne was satisfied for several seconds—until he realized that Singleton only said he wouldn’t admit the interest, not that he didn’t hold it.

  He hoisted the camera box he carried and bounded along the path up the cliff, pausing when he caught sight of Mitchell the younger walking on the shore near his family’s cave. The young man spotted Carne and raised both hands in a signal. Don’t come this way. Something strangers should not see here.

  Damnation, this was unexpected. What was Mitchell up to, and why hadn’t Carne been told of it?

  In order to keep Singleton from looking back down at the water and spotting Mitchell, Carne addressed the professor, who puffed up the steep path behind him. “Enough photographs today to satisfy you?”

  “Enough of those two locations. I’d hoped you would show me more tomorrow, perhaps something with a little more historical significance.”

  Carne didn’t reply as he heard one short and two long whistles floating faintly on the breeze, signaling All clear.

  Mitchell must have stowed whatever he didn’t want Singleton to see. Or maybe it was Carne he hid it from. He’d be doing his father’s bidding whatever that was. And perhaps Gwalather’s, as the trio seemed nearly inseparable.

  Worry nibbled like a rat at the edge of Carne’s mind. He’d felt something off about Gwalather and Mitchell for the past several months. Now he feared they might be involved in some clandestine business beyond his control that might bring trouble to the village.

  But he couldn’t dwell on that as he led the way toward the Stoney Ground, determined not to apologize for the dinginess of the village or the neglected exterior of the public house. Carne trudged up the path quite a ways before realizing Singleton had stopped on a bluff overlooking the water. He squinted at wheeling gulls and slowly pivoted on his heel, hand raised to the brim of his battered cap.

  He seemed to be pure concentration, vibrating with it, the way he did when he looked at the ancient stones…or at Carne. Had he seen a ship at anchor or someone moving cargo on the beach? Perhaps the Concern’s expected shipment had arrived early and Carne had somehow missed hearing the warning bell. But no, that was impossible. The entire village would be bustling with activity if a ship had come in.

  Carne trotted over to the professor and scanned the shoreline. Nothing was there except breaking waves. He breathed in and out several times, calming his racing pulse. “What exactly are you looking at, Mr. Singleton?”

  “Everything. Nothing in particular. It’s a beautiful, utterly wonderful sight.” Singleton waved a hand, swooping it through the air. He made that gesture often, as if he were some kind of guide on a tour or the traveling magician who’d once passed through the village. Singleton indicated everything from the small, nearly hidden harbor to the battered houses perched on the steep hills up and down.

  Of course. The view. Carne hardly noticed it except sometimes during a sunset when the water turned orange and gold. For several heartbeats, he stood next to Singleton and saw it anew. Home. A fierce and lovely spot. His throat squeezed shut tight enough it hurt to swallow, a sensation he decided must be love.

  Occasionally a traveler wandered over a hill on the very bad roads and also fell in love with the sight. The village’s complete lack of hospitality usually drove off even the heartiest traveler within a day or, rarely, two.

  This Singleton might take more time.

  Singleton set down his case and pushed up his glasses in a way Carne already knew meant he was back to business. “I need to take this picture. It shall form the frontispiece of my book.”

  A picture in a book that people might read? That wouldn’t do. Carne’s idea of the professor’s book possibly bringing tourists to the area warred with the Concern’s need for privacy in order to carry on its business. One or the other would eventually have to win.

  “Later, sir.” He heaved up the case containing the camera and other gear, surprised again by its weight. Singleton must have some good muscles on that thin frame. What would it feel like to run his palms down those arms? And that flat belly… Carne felt mildly dizzy as if imagining a launch from the top of the bluff into the sky, off into thin air. He’d had this sort of thought about other men now and again when he lay in bed indulging in self-abuse, especially toward the end of such a session, though he hadn’t really acknowledged it to himself. But here, out in the open on a sunny day, standing next to a person who he strongly suspected might welcome such touches… He might as well throw himself off the edge and expect to fly. It would be that reasonable.

  Bea. That’s the ticket. Think of Bea and her sweet breasts and her big smile and…and—

  Singleton was unscrewing a leg of the tripod to pull it open.

  “No. Now isn’t the time,” Carne said curtly. He had the camera, and instead of arguing, he simply turned and walked down the path, away from the view.

  “You’re angry again,” Singleton noted when he caught up with him. “Or perhaps you have a prickly nature. I suspect the second. Therefore I shan’t grow offended when you are rude to me, because what would be the point? I might as well tell a feral cat not to hiss.”

  Carne couldn’t help it. He gave a startled laugh, then parted his lips and hissed.

  Singleton smiled. In the sunlight, his glasses flashed. “I wish I had a scrap of fish to help tame you, although I suspect you’d be tired of fish, hmm? Then some lovely raw meat. Just for you.”

  God in heaven, that last sounded entirely obscene. Carne glanced at him, but he didn’t leer in return or wink or do anything loathsome. He wore that amiable smile as they strolled along the rough path. Or perhaps that absent-minded look was a smirk on Singleton? Carne didn’t dare examine him closely.

  “Tell me about the people I can expect to meet in your public house,” Singleton said.

  “There is Bea Pollard. She’s a widow and the owner of the Stoney Ground. And a good friend. A very good friend.” He shot a glance at Singleton to see if he understood.

  Singleton beamed back. “And any others?”

  “Jermyn Trennick might be there.” He’d best not allow Trennick to talk to Singleton, or he might try to sell his farm as a vacation home for the wealthy man. “And Frank Mitchell and his son, um, Frank.”

  “Surely he must be called Secundus or Junior?”

  Did anyone ever call the Mitchells anything? “No. They’re both usually called Mitchell. Anyway, they’re more likely out on their boat.” He knew at least Mitchell the younger was on the shore, since he’d spotted him there.

  “There is James Gwalather.” He particularly wanted to keep Singleton away from that dour man. “And Roger Peters, who’s interested in politics. Also Robin Hammett is usually around.”

  “Are they all fishermen? Are there any ex-miners as well? Ah, but I should like most of all to meet anyone who works on the sea in any capacity. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you have agreed to help me. I know that I would have continued to meet nothing but obdurate silence without your open sesame! Stoney Ground indeed.”

  He burbled on as if they were walking into a garden party. Perhaps that was what he’d expected. That could be how Carne approached it as well. A happy hail-fellow-well-met sort of an event. They could go about their business and keep the man happily occupied as long as he wanted to stay in the area. This would give them the practice they needed to hide out in the open. The world might intrude into Par Gwynear more often in these modern days, and they’d best adopt a new method to dea
l with outsiders, as Trennick was fond of repeating.

  Carne didn’t expect that members of the Concern, most of whom had already gathered at the Stoney Ground for an afternoon ale, would take to any conversation with Phillip Singleton.

  He’d rarely been more wrong.

  Chapter Seven

  Over the course of a single day, Phillip had made a thorough study of his newest preoccupation and decided Carne had more than one secret buried deep. He wished he could dig down, oh so carefully, pry him open, and then, with soft brushes, gently expose and extract the treasures. The method worked on burial mounds, after all, not that he’d ever had the opportunity to be on any archeological dig.

  He’d tried blunt questions. He’d attempted hints. He’d even made shrouded lewd suggestions in case the secret might be a preference for men’s companionship in bed. That had been mere wishful thinking on his part, but the more time he spent with the man, the more uneasy Carne appeared. A man unused to nerves, Phillip suspected. Perhaps he was also unused to the idea of a bedmate with a penis. More wishful thinking.

  That mention of Mrs. Pollard. Carne had seemed rather defiant about his relationship with the tavern owner. Defiant and a little worried.

  It amused Phillip to think Carne might consider him some sort of threat. Even as they walked side by side talking of the village, he noted how that broad body contrasted with his own. Though they were not so different in height, Phillip was far thinner. He often forgot to eat and, until recently, had spent much of his time bent over books or his writing. But even when he gorged, he never gained weight. Geoffrey had once said Phillip must burn every scrap of energy he took in by thinking constantly.

  Perhaps some of Carne’s jumpiness might be related to sexuality. Phillip hoped that was the case. But also he seemed reluctant to volunteer many details about his fellow villagers. He seemed almost as closemouthed about them as they were about themselves.

  Before they entered the inn, Phillip decided to go for the direct route. “Do you suppose any of your friends and neighbors know firsthand about smuggling?”

  Was that a flinch? “The war with Bonaparte ended a lifetime ago,” he said easily. “New trade agreements with the French dried up that particular source of income.”

  Carne’s answer seemed so practiced and smooth. He pushed open the weathered gray door to the public house. In a markedly loud voice, he said, “I’m sure my friends can share stories their fathers told them of the old days, Mr. Singleton.”

  Phillip stepped into a room that probably hadn’t changed in several centuries. It might not have been cleaned in nearly that long as well. The scent of old fires, tobacco, ale, humans, mixed with the tang of the ocean pleased him, as did the scarred wooden tables and benches and mismatched chairs.

  After his eyes adjusted, he saw the place wasn’t all dirt and dust. A fire had been laid in a swept fireplace but not lit. Not so entirely neglected after all, merely very old. He wondered if there were any noteworthy treasures tucked into any dark corners, a carving or even ancient scrawls left by customers who had long ago been laid to rest in the graveyard or lost at sea. He adored the treasures of royalty and mythology as much as the next explorer, but he also appreciated the signs of an extinct way of life. The vanished mundane intrigued him.

  He stopped examining a smoke-darkened wall and focused on the faces staring at him. No smiles—other than one rotund man in the corner whose grin displayed a few gaps, half rising from his seat to nod in greeting. The rest stayed glued to their benches and chairs and glared as if Phillip were a bad dream come true. He recalled a room full of colleagues waiting to hear his talk, fully prepared to jump up and object to his latest theories. Academic life had been full of vicious rivalries. So, apparently, was this pub.

  Carne stood near him in the middle of the room and introduced each occupant. This did indeed feel more like a meeting than a casual drink. As he greeted each person in turn, Phillip went over Carne’s list. Two were absent, and one proved to be a Frank Mitchell. The Mr. Mitchell glaring at him had a round face that might have been any age between twenty-five and fifty.

  “Mr. Frank Mitchell the father or the son?” he asked cheerfully.

  Now Mitchell’s glare grew even stormier. Apparently, he didn’t like Phillip knowing anything about him. What had Carne told these people? No, they’d been shy of Phillip even before.

  Phillip gazed at Mitchell and cocked his head to show he listened for an answer.

  “Father,” Mitchell grunted.

  “Ah, so good to meet you,” he said. It was something of a relief to turn at last to the happy man. “And are you Mr. Trennick or Mr. Gwalather? Or perhaps some other man entirely?”

  Laughing, the man rose at once, hand outstretched to shake. “Trennick. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  The moment the handshake ended, Carne led Phillip to a table in the middle of the room and sat him down far from Mr. Trennick. It seemed he was to avoid the one friendly face in the room.

  A chair scraped, and Mitchell the father came to loom over Phillip.

  “How do you know our names?” Mitchell the father snarled.

  Phillip smiled up at him. “I asked Mr. Treleaven to list some the gentlemen I might meet.”

  “He wrote down our names?” Mitchell’s hands formed into fists. “You let him write down our names, Treleaven?”

  “No. No, I didn’t.” Carne rose from his chair. He put a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder and leaned forward. “Calm yourself,” he murmured. And in an even lower voice muttered something that might have been harmless.

  Interesting that the moon-faced Mitchell became so very upset. This visit grew more exciting with each passing minute. “No lists except in here.” Phillip tapped the side of his head, dislodging his glasses. As he straightened them, he went on. “I have an excellent memory. Especially for names and dates. Comes in dashed handy during examinations.”

  That did not seem to mollify Mr. Mitchell. Clearly there was going to be no winning this one over, so Phillip turned his attention to some of the others.

  “Mr. Trennick,” he called across to the other table. “What do you do for a living?”

  “My people was farmers, sir. I own ten good acres just waitin’ for someone with a hankerin’ to till the soil. I’d do it m’self but for my back.” The round man rubbed at his spine.

  Carne snorted, suggesting either the back injury was invented or the acreage wasn’t so fruitful. But Phillip encouraged Trennick with a few questions about his place. He knew the best way to win over a negative group was to get people talking about things important to them.

  Sure enough, within minutes, Trennick had joined them at their table to continue painting a glowing picture of his land and suggest a gentleman might build himself a summer home close to the balmy beach. He was quickly joined by Roger Peters, who was more than willing to chime in with his opinions about wealthy landowners versus small holders.

  “The rich would buy up the world and push the poor onto the fringes. We should cling to what’s ours, not sell it off to them, Trennick!”

  “As if you wouldn’t sell your own hovel in a heartbeat if someone offered you a hundred pounds.” Bea Pollard plunked glasses filled with chocolate-brown stout in front of all the men. Then she stayed there with hands on hips and her gaze on Phillip.

  He was just as eager to study the woman Carne apparently bedded. Bea was a buxom redhead with a pretty face worn by life to harsher lines. She grinned at Phillip, and he smiled back. A nice woman who’d been through some hard times, he guessed. A comfort to cuddle with, but did she arouse strong passions in Carne? He’d hadn’t mentioned her as if she were the love of his life.

  “Pay no heed to these cakeys. They’ve more opinions between the pair of ’em than a leopard has spots.” Bea moved a little closer and leaned in so Phillip could smell her body and a hint of perfume. “Is the ale to your liking, Mr. Singleton?”

  He took a sip and tried not to grimace at its potency. “Very fine,
Mrs. Pollard.”

  She squeezed his shoulder before moving away. Interesting. Was she trying to make Carne jealous or expressing interest in a strange man in their quiet village?

  “You should come to my place for dinner.” Trennick talked over Peters, who continued to drone on about his liberal agenda. “Me wife bakes a nice stargazy pie.”

  “A what now?” Phillip continued to sip the thick stout and decided it wasn’t so bad after all.

  “You’ve never heard of stargazy pie? ’Tis a fish pie made with pilchards—well, no more since they’ve gotten rare. Right tasty, it is. Comes from Mousehole.”

  “From where?”

  “Village not too far from here. Long ago, when all the villages depended on the yearly catch to survive the winter, it was nigh on Christmas and the pilchards still hadn’t come. One brave soul, Tom Bawcock, braved dangerous seas to go out and search for them. Story goes he brought back a catch large enough to feed the entire village, and they made one great pie large enough for all to share.”

  “Communal sharing. No landlords or mine owners,” Peters intoned. “That’s my point.”

  “The feast is still celebrated on the twenty-third of December around these parts,” Carne added.

  “Why is the pie called stargazy?” Phillip asked. “Because the fisherman navigated his way by the stars?”

  A youth who’d entered the pub hurried to join the table and the conversation. “The pilchards is baked whole with their heads up out of the crust like to gaze at the stars.”

  “More fish food,” Phillip muttered to himself. “Remarkable.”

  “Remarkable,” the boy repeated Phillip’s word and accent, trying out the sound. He gazed at Phillip intensely as if he rarely saw anyone from beyond the village. Likely he didn’t. “Where’s your motorcar, sir?”

  “Oh, I left it at Mr. Treleaven’s house where I’m staying. I haven’t enough petrol to drive it all around. And what might your name be?”

  “Robin Hammett. At your service, sir.” The youth half bowed while offering his hand to shake. “That contraption. I’ve never seen the like. If I could ever…that is, if you have the time, I’d give anything to have a ride. Bet she flies like the wind.”