Christopher nodded. “The authorities have started asking questions because someone told them a dangerous cargo is or recently has been run in via the Kent coast.” He pinned his gaze on Sam’s face. “So I’ve come to ask you as well, Sam—have you heard any whispers of any sort at all about a recent run? One recently completed, in progress, or anticipated?”
Sam’s lips pursed, and he shook his head. “I haven’t heard a single whisper.” He met Christopher’s eyes. “And that’s God’s truth, sir. I don’t want no excisemen turning up here again—it’s bad for business.”
Christopher read Sam’s eyes and accepted that as truth. “If there had been a run anywhere near, you would have heard, wouldn’t you?”
Sam hesitated, but then nodded. “Aye—anywhere from Camber around to Winchelsea Beach, and I’d’ve heard. And any run west of Winchelsea, Old Edgar would know about.”
Christopher nodded. “I’ll let those asking the questions know that from Hastings to Camber is clear.”
“Aye,” Sam said. “Whatever it is that’s being run, we’re not involved.”
“I’m glad.” Christopher straightened and glanced at Ellen, who was doing her best to look disinterested in their exchange. “I’ll have a pint of your ale, Sam, and perhaps a half of cider for the lady.”
Sam moved to the taps. “We’ve a nice drop of cider from up your way. Think she’ll like that?”
“Let’s see. And have a pint yourself as well.” Christopher scanned the blackboard listing the inn’s fare for the day. When Sam set the two glasses on the bar, Christopher nodded at the board. “What do you suggest?”
“The missus’s game pie can’t be beat.”
Christopher picked up the glasses and tipped his head toward Ellen. “I’ll see what she thinks.”
When he set the glasses on the table, she peered at the one before her, then raised her eyes to his face in question.
“Cider,” he confirmed, claiming the chair opposite hers. “Try it.”
Obediently, she sipped. Then she sipped again and smiled. “That’s very pleasant.”
He grinned and sampled his ale, then said, “You can’t live in Kent and not drink cider.” He set down the glass. “Did you hear?”
“Yes. Surprisingly well.” She directed a curious look at Sam. “Did you run with these smugglers as well?”
“No. But Gregory and I used to come here of a winter’s evening, along with many other young men of the same age, and listen to Sam’s tales. He was the leader of one of the largest and most active gangs in his day, and the stories he told were…well, for us, utterly riveting.”
Christopher read the open interest in her eyes and grinned. “For instance, that tunnel Sam mentioned.”
She nodded eagerly. “In connection with the Mermaid Inn—perhaps literally?”
“Indeed. Both the Old Bell and the Mermaid Inn were known haunts of the infamous Hawkhurst gang. The Mermaid lies a block south of here, and there’s an underground passage that links the Mermaid’s cellars to the cellars here. That passage was often used by smugglers to escape raids by the authorities and also to move contraband. Because the excisemen never had enough men to mount raids on both inns simultaneously, if they raided the Old Bell, the smugglers would escape via the passage and through the Mermaid and vice versa.”
“Ha!” Ellen sat back and looked about her with newfound appreciation. “So this place is steeped in smuggling history.” She refocused on Christopher. “And old Sam there would have heard if there’d been any recent activity nearby.”
Christopher nodded decisively. “He most definitely would have.”
A young barmaid approached to ask if they wanted to order any food. Christopher mentioned the game pie, and nothing loath, Ellen agreed.
The girl whisked away and promptly returned with two steaming servings.
Ellen nibbled at her first bite, then smiled and dug her fork deeper. “This is delicious.”
“Mmm” was all the reply Christopher made.
They chewed, swallowed, and sipped, then pushing away her empty plate, Ellen sighed and smiled. “You’re introducing me to new experiences—drinking cider and eating game pie in a smugglers’ den in Rye.”
He grinned. “We have to get you acclimatized to living in rural Kent.”
With their meal finished, they rose. Christopher paused by the bar to pay their shot and make his farewells to Sam, then side by side, they walked out into the sunshine.
Ellen halted on the pavement and looked at Christopher. “Now what?”
He was looking across the street. “Let’s take a walk.” He caught her hand, twined her arm in his, and started them across the road. “There’s a place nearby from which we can see the surrounding countryside laid out before us. In the interests of furthering your education into the wonders of Kent, from there, you’ll get an unparalleled view and an excellent notion of the lie of the land, especially with regard to the marshes.”
He didn’t volunteer anything more, and she didn’t ask. She and her curiosity trusted he would deliver on his promise.
They climbed a sloping street, which led to a church—St. Mary’s—and to her surprise, Christopher led her inside to the bell tower and urged her up the stairs.
Holding the front of her skirts high, she climbed, wary of her footing on the narrow stone steps. “I’m surprised the tower’s left open.”
“It’s always open.” Christopher was following close behind. “If there’s a ship in trouble or any emergency along the coast, someone will come running up here to look.”
They walked along an enclosed corridor, past the large bells, then had to negotiate a short ladder. On reaching the top, they emerged onto the tower’s roof, and she immediately understood why he’d brought her up there.
The view was utterly breathtaking.
“That’s Rye Castle.” He pointed to a collection of pale stone towers a short distance away. “And that’s the river leading to the sea.” The silvery ribbon snaked away into the haze obscuring the Channel.
Ellen halted before the stone parapet. The town clustered all around, a skirt of warm red bricks and tiles. Beyond the town’s boundaries, the fields were largely flat, except for the rise of an escarpment to the north.
Christopher waved toward the distant rise. “That’s the southern edge of the Weald.”
She looked to the south, then scanned the landscape around to the east. At that height, the wind was stronger and whipped her bonnet ribbons about her face. She raised her voice to ask, “Are those the marshes?” The land was flatter than any stretch she could remember seeing; it appeared to run horizontally into the distant gray-blue line of the sea.
“Yes. And yes, that is the Channel you can see in the distance.”
She took her time appreciating the views. He made no move to hurry her; leaning against the parapet, he watched her with a rather smug smile on his face.
Eventually, she returned to stand beside him. “So”—she held back whipping tendrils of her hair—“is there some other town we should visit? It’s only just after two o’clock.”