They’d heard the town’s bells ringing a few minutes before. She’d been glad the huge bells below their feet hadn’t joined in.
Christopher looked to the east. “As we’ve heard nothing thus far—meaning there’s been no smuggling of any kind between Hastings and Rye—we should check at Lydd.” He caught Ellen’s gaze. “It’s a tiny place, isolated and surrounded by marshland. It’s also on one of the oldest smuggling routes, and if our modern-day smugglers wanted to escape notice, then Lydd is arguably the place with the least number of other people about to see anything at all.”
Ellen’s chin set determinedly. “Lydd it is, then.” She waved at the trapdoor and the ladder leading down. “Shall we make a start?”
Getting down the tower took almost as long as climbing up had; Christopher insisted on going first down the long stretch of narrow stone steps, in case Ellen stumbled and fell. But eventually, they reached the ground without mishap. After returning to the inn and reclaiming his curricle, he set his pair trotting out of the town on the Ashford Road.
On reaching the hamlet of East Guldeford, Christopher turned his horses onto the lane that led to Camber and, ultimately, Lydd.
After the first mile, Ellen had a better understanding of what he’d meant by “isolated.” Gradually, the roadway rose higher than the land through which it passed. There were few trees to be seen, and those that clung stoically to life were stunted and bent by the strafing winds. The coarse grass grew in spiky tufts apparently unpalatable to livestock, of which there was a striking lack. Indeed, as they bowled along, everywhere she looked seemed eerily devoid of life. Even in summer, this was a bleak and desolate landscape. In winter… The thought made her shiver.
The lane angled to the sea, passing through a cluster of cottages that Christopher informed her was the hamlet of Camber, before running parallel to the shore for some way. Low sand dunes lay between the roadway and the shore, blocking all sight of the waves, yet affording little protection from the strong sea breeze.
Eventually, the lane turned inland, skirting several small lakes before finally reaching Lydd.
The village was a conglomeration of stone cottages clustered tightly together as if to better withstand the buffeting of the elements. Christopher guided his pair along the narrow cobblestone street toward the village’s center, then turned in under the arch of the George Hotel.
Ellen was very ready to get out of the wind. Christopher escorted her to the taproom—a cozy and comfortable space with tables set before windows that looked out on the street, while other tables were arrayed before a presently empty fireplace.
After seating Ellen at a table close to the bar, Christopher went to the counter to order tea—and to fall into conversation with the barman and the three locals propping up the counter, all of whom greeted him by name.
After ordering a tea tray for Ellen, Christopher signaled the barman to supply drinks all around.
While pretending to idly scan the street, Ellen found she could easily listen in to the ensuing exchange.
“Nah,” one of two ancients said in reply to Christopher’s query about recent smuggling activity. The old man picked up the mug the barman set before him. “And even if someone were to come along with a job, we’re all too old for that caper now.”
That, Ellen thought, was entirely believable.
Christopher persisted. “You haven’t heard any whisper of a run coming through anywhere around here?”
The second ancient, a grizzled, heavy man, took a slurp of his ale and shook his head. “Not a chirp.” He looked sharply at the middle-aged man beside him. “What about you, Clyde, m’lad? Any of you younger lot got your sticky fingers into any pies?”
At a guess, Clyde was in his fifties. “Nah, Dave—no sense in it these days.” Clyde looked at Christopher. “Though your question makes me wonder what this run you’re searching for was ferrying.”
From the corner of her eye, Ellen saw Christopher meet Clyde’s gaze. “Trust me—that’s one of those things you don’t want to know.”
The tea tray arrived, and she accepted it with a quick smile. She poured herself a cup while continuing to listen to the conversation at the bar.
“Aye, well.” The first ancient raised his mug to Christopher. “You’re one as has never steered us wrong, so we’ll take that as a warning. If we hear anything, we’ll send word.”
Christopher inclined his head in thanks. He was about to push away from the counter when the barman—who’d been silently listening to the exchange—volunteered, “This might be nothin’, but you speaking of runs like used to come through here put me in mind of it. Old Mrs. Withers, she who lives in one of the cottages down by the church and comes in every now and then for a glass of port of an evening, was in here only last Sunday, sitting right there”—the barman nodded to where Ellen sat sipping her tea—“and going on about hearing the clop of ponies in the night, just like when she was a child. She said it gave her a right turn. Well, we all thought she’d been dreaming, although she swore blind she hadn’t been.”
Dave grunted. “She was dreaming, like as not.” But after a moment, Dave raised his small, hard eyes and met Christopher’s gaze. “But in case she wasn’t, we’ll ask around the boys, just to make sure no one’s tramping through our patch. Still, like Alf said, I can’t see any of our lot—nor their sons, either—getting into the game again. Like you said, the stuff anyone would want to smuggle these days is too damned risky.”
“And,” Alf added, as if setting the seal on it, “not enough profit in it for us.”
Christopher thanked all four, paid for another round, then quit the bar for the table where Ellen sat. He drew out the chair facing her. “You heard.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded and drained her cup. “Perhaps we should go and speak to Mrs. Withers.”
He grimaced. “I doubt she’ll be able to tell us any fact we haven’t already heard.” He paused, then met Ellen’s bright, inquiring eyes. “I was more interested in where Mrs. Withers lives.”
Those bright eyes opened wide. “Near the church?”
He nodded. Leaning his forearms on the table, he gazed out of the window as he thought things through. “Churches were often used as temporary stores, and All Saints’ Church”—he tipped his head along the street—“in the center of Lydd, was well known as being one such smugglers’ storehouse. It’s only two miles from the beach—either beach, south or east. The smugglers would meet their contacts on the sands at night, off-load the cargo, then carry the goods to All Saints’ and store it there. The cargoes could only be moved at night, so on a subsequent night, the smugglers would return with ponies, load up, and ferry the cargo onward, through Kent and often all the way to London. But each night, they could only go so far, so they needed safe places to store the cargo along the way. They used to swap ponies, too, returning one lot and using different beasts borrowed from farms and estates whose owners turned a blind eye. Often the crypts of churches were used to store contraband cargoes.”
Ellen straightened, the light of adventure in her eyes. “So we should investigate All Saints’ Church.”