‘Oh, it is so good to hear you laughing out loud again, my dear.’ Aunt Rosie smiled up from her chair set amongst the scattered picnic things. ‘And I could laugh like a girl, too. Thank you so much, Mr Defoe, Mr Stone, for this wonderful gift. And to my two stalwart bearers.’ She beamed at the chairmen who were lifting tankards to their mouths. ‘Just look at this view—you can see Lundy in the distance, see, gentlemen? And—’ She broke off. ‘Who is this coming?’
A procession was wending its way along the track they had just used. Three men on horseback, three militiamen on foot, the white cross-belts stark against their scarlet coats, muskets at the slope on their shoulders.
Cris nudged Jackdaw closer to Foxy’s side. Gabriel moved his big bay until it stood between the advancing party and Aunt Rosie’s chair.
‘Squire Penwith,’ Ta
msyn said as the party approached closer. She found her voice was not quite steady. She sat up straighter in the saddle and got it under control. ‘And the coroner, Sir James Trelawney. And someone from the Revenue by the look of his uniform.’
The group halted at the edge of the spread rugs.
‘Sir James, Squire Penwith. Good day to you.’
‘Mrs Perowne. Ladies.’ Sir James lifted his hat. ‘I apologise for interrupting your picnic.’
‘I have no doubt it is a matter of urgency, Sir James.’ She managed to sound just a trifle haughty, she was glad to hear.
‘It is, Mrs Perowne. I very much regret to say that the Riding Officer, Lieutenant Ritchie, has been murdered.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Murdered?’ Foxy backed as Tamsyn’s hands clenched on the reins. ‘How? When?’
‘Last night, in Cat’s Nose Bay. He was shot in the back,’ the rider in uniform said harshly. ‘I am Captain Sutherland of His Majesty’s Revenue Service.’
‘That is appalling news indeed,’ Cris said before she could do more than gasp. ‘But might I ask why you accost these ladies here with such a tale, told so brutally?’
‘I will be holding the inquest on the body of Lieutenant Ritchie. I require the attendance of Mrs Perowne to give evidence and to answer questions.’ Sir James narrowed his eyes at the two men so protectively close to the women. ‘I do not believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, gentlemen. Sir James Trelawney, Coroner for this district, at your service.’
‘Crispin Defoe, of London and Kent. My friend, Gabriel Stone, of London. Your servants, sir.’ Cris, his voice perfectly civil, managed to make the polite introduction sound like a declaration of war, without one word out of place.
From horseback Gabriel bowed. As he straightened his hand lay lightly on the pommel of his sword. The two chairmen lumbered to their feet, pewter tankards tight in their massive fists.
‘The inquest will be held in two days’ time. I require Mrs Perowne to reside at my house, chaperoned, naturally, by my wife, until then.’
‘You are arresting me?’
‘You have a warrant?’ Cris no longer sounded civil.
‘I have not. Nor am I arresting Mrs Perowne. This is for her own protection.’ The coroner was icy. Beside him the Revenue Officer was glaring at Cris, and Squire Penwith was flushed with anger, or excitement, Tamsyn thought, wondering why she did not feel more frightened. Sick, yes, but not as terrified as she ought to be. But Cris was there, of course. It was time she stood up for herself.
‘Against what am I being protected?’ she enquired.
‘Against the members of the gang responsible for this outrage,’ Trelawney snapped. ‘They will not want you giving evidence, I’ll warrant.’
‘The implications of that statement are insulting, Sir James.’ Cris cut across her furious reply. ‘To say nothing of prejudicial to a fair hearing. I see you are escorted by the militia. If you are fearful for Mrs Perowne’s safety, then I suggest that stationing them outside her house on guard will be more than adequate. It might also persuade the lady not to take a civil action for wrongful arrest, unlawful detention, kidnapping and defamation of character.’
‘Defamation?’ Penwith spluttered. ‘A smuggler’s moll has no character to be defamed, sir!’
Cris jerked his head at Gabriel, who circled his horse and brought it in on Foxy’s other side. As soon as he was in position Cris walked Jackdaw forward until the big black was nose to nose with Penwith’s horse.
‘On the last occasion we met, sir, I suggested a meeting in a field. At dawn. That still seems to me to be an admirable idea.’
‘Duelling is illegal,’ Penwith said. His horse began to back up; Jackdaw pressed in closer.
‘So it is,’ Cris said silkily. ‘A minor disadvantage. A greater one in this case is that it requires two gentlemen who both possess a little courage.’
‘Enough of this.’ The coroner directed a scornful glance at Penwith. ‘Your suggestion is sound, Mr Defoe. Sergeant Willis, you will deploy your men at Barbary Combe House and deliver…escort Mrs Perowne to my court the day after tomorrow for a ten o’clock hearing. Good day to you all. Enjoy your picnic, ladies.’