“Excellent!” Toby’s eyes lit. “In that case, let’s go.”
They returned to their horses, mounted up, and rode via the side lane to the front of the inn. After leaving their horses with the young ostler, they entered the inn through the front door and strolled into the taproom.
Hardcastle was presiding behind the bar, which was a relief; that was a crucial requirement for their plan that they hadn’t seen any way of ensuring.
Hardcastle recognized Christopher and gave him a deferential nod. Hardcastle’s beady eyes moved on to Toby, where they paused assessingly, before Hardcastle fractionally dipped his head in acknowledgment.
The only other occupants of the taproom—two old men in the inglenook—raised a hand to Christopher, and he smiled genially and nodded back.
Giving every appearance of having nothing better to do, he and Toby slid onto stools at the far end of the bar.
Once they’d settled, Hardcastle lumbered up. “What can I get you, gents?”
They ordered pints of ale and, once the tankards arrived, leaned on the bar and sipped. Taking the coins Christopher pushed his way, Hardcastle retreated to his position in the middle of the long bar, about two yards distant. He picked up a rag and returned to his, it seemed perennial, occupation of polishing glasses.
Minutes ticked by, then Toby sighed and stared into his half-empty tankard. “I hope this isn’t going to take too long. I was planning to meet some friends in Tenterden.”
Christopher hauled out his fob watch, consulted it, then tucked it back into his pocket. “They said they’d be here sometime in the next half hour.” He raised his tankard, sipped, then, lowering the mug, murmured, “You don’t have to stay. They requested my presence as a witness representing the local landowners—you’re just here for the excitement.”
“Well,” Toby returned, “it’s not often these days one has the chance to witness such an action.” Toby was angled toward Christopher, who was sitting farther from Hardcastle.
They were both careful not to look at the publican, but from the corner of his eye, Christopher noted that Hardcastle’s polishing had slowed. Although his gaze remained on the glass in his hand, the man was listening for all he was worth.
Toby leaned closer to Christopher and whispered, “Do you have any idea what they’re expecting to find? I mean, I thought smuggling had died off years ago, yet here they are nosing about in deepest Kent.”
With a warning look at Toby, Christopher repressively said, “They didn’t say. For all I know, this is just some exercise.” He lowered his voice still further. “I can’t imagine there is any contraband about. Not these days.”
Before Christopher had finished speaking, Hardcastle set down the glass he’d polished to a high gleam. Without glancing at Christopher or Toby, Hardcastle pushed open the swinging door behind the bar and called, “Shep?”
“Yes, Pa?” The barman Toby had seen that morning appeared in the doorway.
Hardcastle thrust the polishing cloth at his son. “Take over. There’s something I have to see to.”
Shep did as ordered, replacing Hardcastle behind the bar, while Hardcastle vanished through the swinging door.
Christopher and Toby waited until the door ceased swinging, then drained their tankards and, with a nod to Shep, left the taproom.
In the entry hall, Christopher signaled Toby to silence and led him around the reception counter to the door leading deeper into the inn. Christopher eased the door open enough to look past, then opened it and slid silently into the corridor beyond.
Toby was a ghost on his heels.
They crept forward. Straight ahead, at the corridor’s far end, lay the inn’s rear door. To the left was an open archway that gave onto the busy kitchen, while to the right, set in the stone wall, a door normally secured with a heavy padlock gave access to the inn’s vast cellars.
As Christopher had hoped, the padlock hung open and the cellar door stood ajar. To follow Hardcastle, all they needed to do was to slide through the gap before anyone in the kitchen spotted them.
Toby tapped Christopher’s shoulder and held up a hand with four fingers raised. Christopher nodded. Hardcastle’s wife, two daughters, and younger son were preparing the evening meal.
As if in confirmation, a woman called, “Jed, Mary—get over here and help me with this pot. And Polly—don’t you take your eyes off that gravy!”
“No, Ma.”
A flurry of footsteps on the flags signaled the two summoned were rushing to their mother’s aid. “Right, then,” she said. “On three. One, two—”
Christopher and Toby walked quickly forward and, without glancing into the kitchen, slipped past the open cellar door. They found themselves on a narrow wooden landing. They paused, but no shouts came from the kitchen.
Toby nudged Christopher and held up a hand.
Dangling from Toby’s long fingers was the padlock he had lifted from the door latch. Christopher nodded and faced forward. The narrow beam of light striking past the edge of the door illuminated wooden steps leading down.
Gradually, their eyes adjusted enough to attempt the steps; they couldn’t risk a light. Christopher cautiously started down. When they stepped off the wooden stairs onto the cellar’s beaten-earth floor, they saw the glow of a lantern issuing through an archway to their right.
The sudden clatter of wood striking stone came from the same direction.
Stepping carefully, avoiding kicking or bumping into anything, they made their way across the first large chamber, passing between rows of ale barrels—perfect for hiding behind when Hardcastle made his way back. Given he would be carrying the notes and doubtless would be focused on removing them from the inn with all speed, with any luck, he wouldn’t notice the missing padlock, or if he did, he would leave it to deal with later.
Getting the counterfeit notes out of the inn before any excisemen arrived would be his overriding priority.
They reached the archway. From beyond came the sounds of wood shifting. Flattening themselves against either side of the arch, Christopher and Toby craned their necks and peered into the next chamber.
Hardcastle had set his lantern atop a wooden crate and was delving into another that he’d plainly just opened; the discarded lid was dumped on the floor on his other side, and on it, he’d stacked several packets of lace, loosely wrapped in thin paper.
After a moment, Hardcastle grunted, straightened, and placed a pile of notes, neatly banded into inch-high stacks, beside the lantern.
He turned back to the open crate, reached in, then rose with more notes to add to the pile.
He glanced around, causing Toby and Christopher to reflexively pull back. When they looked again, Hardcastle was holding a large piece of ordinary wrapping paper. He dumped the lace back into the open crate, lifted the lid and dropped it into position, then spread the paper on the top of the lid.
They watched as Hardcastle carefully wrapped the notes in the paper, then secured it with a string he drew from one pocket, resulting in a package about twelve inches long and nine inches high.
Christopher caught Toby’s eye and, with his head, signaled that they should retreat to hide among the ale barrels. Soundlessly, they did and waited for Hardcastle to return to the steps.
Barely breathing, they waited, their eyes now well-adjusted to the gloom.