The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(26)

Walsingham opened the door wider and flagged the man inside, then craned his neck to look down the hallway to see if they’d awakened Miss Thorpe.

“Where are Girard and O’Malley?” he asked softly once he closed the door.

Jarvis scratched his head. “They haven’t been here, sir?”

“No.” Walsingham rubbed his face and ran his hands through his hair. “What have you found out?”

“Girard and O’Malley reported people coming and going at all hours, deliveries arriving—”

“Contraband?” he interrupted.

“No, sir. According to them, they were legal shipments.”

Walsingham nodded. “Originating from?”

“All over. Polperro. Looe. Abbydon Cove.”

He took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “Miss Thorpe is a busy woman.”

“From sunup to sundown. Never complains, either. If you don’t mind me saying, sir, I’ve a mind to wed her myself. A man could do no worse.”

Walsingham agreed, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Why have you come to that conclusion?”

“She’s not afraid to work, sir. Girard and O’Malley oft find her in the fields collecting furze and turf and gloas.”

“Gloas?” he asked.

“Cow dung, sir. Poor folk use it to light their fires.”

Walsingham tried to picture Miss Thorpe up to her knees in muck. “What else does she deliver to the poor?”

“Clothing. Supplies. Ale.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Ah yes, the ale.” The pale, malted, peppered-lemon, hoppy taste with touches of pine kept customers clamoring for another pint.

“Aye. Folks talk of little else. Say it’s the best you’ll find south of the Tamar.” He strode over to the tapestry and pulled it aside to glance out the window, offering nothing more about the river dividing Cornwall and England. “I’ve never heard of a woman so determined to help other living souls as your sister is, sir.” He stepped away from the window and crossed his arms. “Girard and O’Malley said she delivers the items on her weekly route between Looe and Polperro.”

“They’ve told me as much.” And for some reason, he’d thought they exaggerated. He paced the bedchamber. “Does any of this tie back to Carnage?”

“Well, she stores most of it in a hidden room in the cellar.”

Walsingham hooked his hands behind his back, fighting back the anxiety that was building inside him. He suspected as much. “When I was in the revenue service, my men searched the grounds and never found a secret room.”

“A fish is still a fish,” Jarvis said sternly. “If Gabriel Thorpe figured out a way to hide his contraband from you, you can be sure his daughter can, too.”

Was Miss Thorpe hiding contraband? God help her if Jarvis was right.

“Did Girard and O’Malley happen to mention the tunnels?” Walsingham asked. “Has anyone been seen going in and out of them?”

“Aye. The landlady brews her ale in the cellar, and Girard and O’Malley themselves frequent the tunnels to load and unload the casks onto donkeys on the beach. The donkeys are then guided up the cliff path to the inn and the casks are loaded into wagons.”

“I’ve got to get down there and see this secret room. Carnage’s gold must be hidden there.”

“Aye, sir.” Jarvis slapped his billycock hat back onto his head. “But best be quick. You wouldn’t want to meet up with the landlady.”

Walsingham put his ear to the door and listened for any activity in the hallway. When nothing seemed to stir, he said, “Keep watch abovestairs, and come get me if you hear anything.”

“Aye. If anyone stirs, you’ll be the first to know. You can count on me.” Jarvis paused. “What will you do if someone catches you downstairs, sir?”

He thought of the tavern and the liquor readily available there. “I’ll act like I’ve been drinking.”

Jarvis nodded. “Sound plan, that.”

Walsingham opened the door and craned his neck, quickly surveying the hallway. No one appeared to be awake. At least he couldn’t hear anyone stirring in their room. He moved into the corridor. Stepping quickly but carefully, he descended the curving staircase, winding his way down to the first floor.

The wall sconces had been extinguished there, and the absence of light cast the lower floor in semidarkness. He gave his eyes time to adjust, reining in his imagination as shapes and shadows shifted in the bluish moonlight filtering through slatted windows on the south side of the inn. The building had witnessed its share of blood and gore, and it almost felt as if the spirits of those left behind were watching his every move.

He shook his head free of such nonsense and stepped into the kitchen, where an orange glow emanated from the hearth’s banked fire. Lured by the welcoming, muted light, he sought out the access door to the cellar and the tunnels. He’d need a lantern to use during his descent. First, he’d have to open the trapdoor to the cellar.

Determination flooded through his limbs as he skulked along, ducking beneath drying herbs and dangling pots, eager to learn exactly how the Roost generated income. Did Miss Thorpe collect contraband from France and then hide the merchandise below until she could sell it to nearby villagers, per Cornish custom? Was she part of an elaborate scheme, an intricate network of innkeepers that received compensation for their strategic positions near the shore? Or was she exactly as she appeared—a woman trying to hold on to the only thing she had left?