Christopher glanced at the bar, only to discover that Dave, Alf, and Clyde had left. “Damn! I should have asked what spot in the church they used.”
“Never mind.” Ellen gathered her reticule and rose. “Let’s go and see what we can find.”
There was no holding her back. Christopher didn’t try and kept pace beside her as she strode briskly along the pavement to the church, which was a short block away.
She marched through the lychgate, then paused on the path and surveyed the church, which stood directly before them. “Is there a crypt, do you know?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but there’ll be someplace on church grounds that was used by the gentlemen, as they were called.”
She huffed and walked on.
The door creaked as he pushed it open, then followed her inside.
A clergyman—the minister, by his appearance—looked up from setting out hymnals in the pews. His face brightened at the sight of Ellen in her gaudy dress. “Can I help you?”
Ellen looked at Christopher.
He strolled forward. “I’m Christopher Cynster, from up near Tenterden.” He offered his hand, and the minister gripped it.
“Reverend Alcott. I’m the vicar here.”
Christopher glanced at Ellen. “This is Miss Martingale, who has lived all her life in London. I’ve been telling her about the smugglers who used to haunt this area.”
That was all the introduction Ellen required. She leapt in to say, “I was particularly intrigued by the notion that the smugglers used church crypts and the like to store their cargoes.” She opened her eyes wide. “I understand this church was often used.” She looked around. “Is there a crypt here?”
Alcott was no fool. Christopher sensed Ellen’s innocent façade wasn’t bamboozling the minister, yet Alcott somewhat carefully replied, “There is—or rather, was—but it’s been bricked up. Seepage, I gather—it was before my time.”
“Oh.” Ellen visibly deflated, then rallied to ask, “I don’t suppose there’s been any sign of smugglers recently?”
Alcott studied her for a second, then looked at Christopher. “I’m not sure what your interest is, but if you had asked me that last week, I would have laughed and assured you that all smuggling in this area was in the long-distant past. However”—he glanced at Ellen, then turned again to Christopher—“over the past few days, I’ve noticed a…disturbance around two large tombs in the rear corner of the graveyard. I looked through the notes left by my predecessors and learned that, in decades past, both tombs had been used as smugglers’ stores.”
Christopher straightened, and all pretense of airiness fell from Ellen like a discarded cloak. “What sort of disturbance?” she asked.
Alcott hesitated, then said, “Frankly, if I didn’t know that the smugglers around about have been inactive for decades, I would have thought they’d returned to their old vices and were using those tombs to store contraband again.” He shook his head. “But surely that’s absurd.”
“Speaking in general,” Christopher replied, “I would agree. However, there may be a very special cargo being run in as we speak. I’ve been asked by the authorities to check for any signs of recent smuggling activity along this coast. Can you show us these tombs?”
Alcott eyed him assessingly, then crisply nodded. “Yes, of course.” He set the stack of hymnals on a pew and waved them to a side door. “It’s faster through the vestry.”
Ellen and Christopher followed Alcott through the vestry and into the graveyard. The vicar led them to the rear quadrant of the church grounds, where two massive tombs raised high on plinths sat beneath the spreading branches of a towering beech.
The tops of the tombs, clearly a matched pair—presumably that of husband and wife although the inscriptions had long since worn away—were nearly as high as Ellen’s shoulder.
Christopher and Ellen circled the tombs, searching for signs that the heavy stone lids had been lifted.
“Not there.” Alcott pointed down, into the narrow passage between the tombs. It was just wide enough for a man to pass through. “See those scrapes on the ground? It’s as if those side panels on both tombs had been opened and shut again.”
Christopher and Ellen peered at the ground and saw what the sharp-eyed Alcott had spotted. Fresh grooves were cut through the sparse grass, scoring the earth beneath just enough to leave a detectable mark.
“When did you first notice the marks?” Christopher slid sideways into the gap and carefully crouched to examine the side panel on one of the tombs.
“Three days ago, on Sunday afternoon. I walk through the graveyard on my way back to the vicarage, checking that the tombs are as they should be. I noticed the first marks then.”
Christopher looked up. “ First marks?”
Features set, Alcott said, “It rained on Sunday night, and on Monday, still puzzling over the marks, I looked again, and they’d almost washed away. But those marks”—he nodded at the scoring on the ground—“are fresh. They were made last night.”
Christopher had been prodding and poking at the panels, to no avail. Now, he straightened and moved out of the gap, rejoining Ellen and Alcott at the head of the tombs. “So the tombs were opened and shut again on Saturday night—and you saw the marks on Sunday, which were subsequently washed away. Then the tombs were opened and shut again last night.” Christopher tipped his head at the scored ground. “Leaving fresh marks.”
Alcott nodded. “I tried to find the catch for the panels, but had no more luck than you.”
Christopher stared at the tombs. “I doubt there’s any point in trying to open them now.”
“Because whatever was hidden there has been taken away,” Ellen said.
He nodded. “Something was delivered here on Saturday night—Mrs. Withers heard the ponies that night. And whatever was delivered was collected last night.” He met Ellen’s eyes. “Whatever it is, it’s started on its journey across the county.”
Alcott sighed. “So there’ll be nothing there now—nothing to worry about.”
“Only old bones,” Ellen helpfully remarked.
“So one would hope!” Alcott huffed softly, then met Christopher’s gaze. “Have the smugglers started up their trade again?”
“I don’t believe so.” Christopher held the vicar’s gaze. “I’ve been asking along the coast from Hastings to here, and other than this, there’s no indication whatsoever that the smuggling fraternity are thinking of setting up again. In fact, most assured me that, these days, there isn’t enough profit left in smuggling to tempt any of them out of retirement.”
Alcott frowned at the tombs. “But someone has used the old spot. Someone knew of it and used it again. And you said ponies were heard, too?”
Christopher nodded. “The authorities expect this to be a single event. There were likely some small runs before, but the one that’s just come in is expected to be the last.”
“Thank the Almighty for that,” Alcott said. “I really don’t fancy having to guide a flock indulging in the old trade.”