The Smuggler's Daughter Page 10

  I stayed in my little wooden hidey-hole for a while to be sure Morgan had gone, then I inched my way out and brushed down my dress. I walked back the way I’d come, slowly, so I could check no one was watching me emerge, and then I headed towards the butcher. My mind was whirling as I pointed to what I wanted from the butcher and paid for our meat. I tucked the package under my arm and walked as fast as I could towards the church.

  What was Morgan planning to do tomorrow night that needed the darkness of a new moon and thick clouds? Why was he talking about my mother? What part did she play in it all? It was obviously something bad. I needed to speak to Arthur and see what he thought about it all. And, I thought, opening the gate to the churchyard, I was going to follow Morgan tomorrow night if I could. I was going to find out what he was up to and somehow I was going to make him pay for all the terrible things he’d done.

  Chapter 15

  Phoebe

  2019

  I was going to Kirrinporth. In the rain. Again.

  I hadn’t wanted to come. I’d actually been wondering if I could somehow avoid the little town completely for the rest of the time that I was here in Cornwall. I was still totally and excruciatingly embarrassed about what had happened with the little girl. But Liv, damn her, had other ideas.

  ‘Can you go to the bank for me?’ she’d asked.

  I made a face. ‘Can’t you do it? Or leave it for now? How much money is there?’

  She jangled a bulging bag of cash in my face. ‘We did quite well last night and it seems people in Cornwall don’t like to use contactless.’

  I groaned. ‘I’d rather you did it.’

  ‘I’ve got stuff on.’

  ‘Really?’ I narrowed my eyes at her. ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Important pub manager stuff. You have to go.’

  ‘But I don’t want to.’

  She grinned. ‘That’s why you have to.’

  Liv’s important pub manager stuff involved a trip to Barnmouth to see a wine supplier. She was using her car, so because it was raining, I decided to get the bus to Kirrinporth.

  There was a stop just near to the pub and I didn’t have to wait long before the little single decker rattled its way along the clifftop to pick me up.

  When the bus pulled into the main square in the town, I got off along with the few other passengers and ducked into a shabby branch of Boots to buy an umbrella. It was still raining but I also wanted something that could hide my face if I happened to come across the mum and the little girl again. Or the man who’d called the police. Or the policeman.

  I went to the bank first and paid in Liv’s takings, then I wandered around for a while. It was quiet on the streets today, not surprisingly because the weather wasn’t exactly welcoming. I wasn’t sorry – it meant I was far less likely to come across anyone who’d remember my embarrassment. There were a handful of restaurants and coffee shops that were bustling with people and much to my delight, on my wanderings I went down a little alleyway and found a covered courtyard with a café on one side with chairs outside, and a bookshop on the other.

  I spent a happy half hour browsing the books and in a section marked Local History, discovered a book called Cornwall’s Ghosts. I flipped to the index and was thrilled to find Emily Moon mentioned. I felt drawn to her story. Perhaps because we were both Moon Girls, or perhaps because of Ciara James. But whatever it was, I wanted to find out more about the mystery surrounding her disappearance. On a whim, I bought the book and then went to the café across the courtyard to treat myself to a coffee while I read. I found a seat tucked away in the corner and opened my book.

  Disappointingly there wasn’t much information about missing Emily; just what Mark had said about how she had gone up on the cliff and plunged to her death. Then there was some over-written spooky nonsense about the wailing at night, which made me tut because it seemed ridiculous, and how Emily had been seen standing on the clifftop, looking for her lost love, who was a chap called Arthur Pascoe, which made me roll my eyes.

  But it did say that there was a memorial for Emily in St Neot’s church in Kirrinporth, so I drained my surprisingly good flat white, and asked the waitress for directions. Then I tucked the book under my arm, and went to find the church.

  It wasn’t hard to find, standing squarely at the edge of the town, but the memorial on the other hand proved more elusive. I walked round the churchyard twice and then, as the rain was still coming down on my new umbrella, I went inside to see if it was in the church instead.

  Inside was dark and cool. I shook off the rain in the porch and put the umbrella in a stand – they were clearly used to the Kirrinporth weather – just inside the door by the large stone font. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the gloom but when they did, I saw it was a church like any other. Sturdy, solid, with dark wooden pews and a glorious stained-glass window over the altar. And the walls were lined with memorial stones. Surely one of those would be Emily’s?

  Starting to my right, I walked slowly along, reading the names on the stones, pausing when I saw a memorial to the Diggory family and their baby daughter Theodora. I smiled wryly. Was that where the legend of doomed Diggory and Theodora came from? I reckoned so. At the front of the church, sitting on the first pew, was a man wearing a dog collar. He smiled at me and said hello.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ I said, feeling awkward.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. He stood up. He was in his forties, I guessed, with dark-rimmed glasses and hair that needed a cut. Exactly how a vicar should look, I thought. ‘Are you looking for someone in particular?’

  Oh no, did he think I was looking for him? I gazed at him blankly, unsure of what to say. But he nodded towards the wall. ‘The memorials?’ he said. ‘Are you looking for a particular one?’

  I laughed in relief. ‘Oh yes, I am,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for Emily Moon.’

  ‘Then follow me.’

  It was only tiny. A small grey plaque, about the size of the side edge of a brick with the names etched out of the stone. Emily Moon 1783–1799 it said simply. Requiescat in Pace.

  ‘Not what you were expecting?’ said the vicar, obviously noticing my disappointed face.

  I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what I was expecting really,’ I admitted. ‘Something with a bit more oomph I think. It’s sad. She was so young.’

  The vicar gestured for me to sit down and I slid on to the nearest pew. He followed.

  ‘I’m Reverend Frost,’ he said. ‘But call me Simon.’

  I shook his outstretched hand. ‘I’m Phoebe Bellingham,’ I told him.

  ‘So what’s your connection to Emily Moon?’

  ‘I don’t have one really,’ I said. ‘Except I’m staying at the pub – The Moon Girl – for the summer and I wanted to know a bit more about her.’

  ‘You’ve heard the stories I suppose?’ he said with a grin. ‘The spooky tales of how she walks the clifftops?’

  Slightly shamefaced I pulled my book out of my bag and showed him. ‘It’s all in here.’

  ‘Oh lovely, can I see?’

  I found the page and passed it to him. ‘Do you know much more about it?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. I do know that Arthur Pascoe was the son of the vicar at this church. It was the vicar who put in the memorial stone, I’ve been told.’

  ‘I’ve heard there were rumours that she hadn’t really died?’

  ‘Well, apparently they never found a body.’

  ‘Someone told me everything that goes in the sea at Kirrinporth washes up at Barnmouth.’

  ‘That’s true enough. We used to throw messages in bottles when we were kids and get replies from lads we played football with.’

  I smiled, wondering if he knew Mark and Jed. Then frowned as I thought about Emily disappearing. ‘But if Emily wasn’t dead then where did she go?’

  ‘Perhaps she and Arthur just ran away like young lovers often do in stories,’ Simon suggested.

  ‘Perhaps.’
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  ‘You like mysteries?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘I’m a …’ I stopped before I told him I was in the police. I didn’t want to get into explanations of why I wasn’t working at the moment. ‘I’m a true-crime buff,’ I said truthfully. Then I smiled. ‘And I’m a bit bored, to be honest. My friend Liv is running the pub and it’s not very busy so there’s not much for me to do. I’m wondering if finding out more about Emily Moon would keep me occupied.’

  ‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ said Simon. He leaned back against the pew. ‘I don’t know much about Emily Moon herself but I do know about the ghost stories.’

  ‘You do?’ I was surprised that a vicar was interested in spooks.

  ‘There were no ghosts.’

  I made a mock shocked face. ‘No?’

  ‘This coastline was rife with smugglers in the eighteenth century,’ he said, settling down in the pew like he was telling me a bedtime story.

  ‘What did they smuggle?’

  ‘Drink mostly, I think. Whisky and rum. Tobacco. It was a vicious, brutal, lawless trade and while many people in the town were involved, and some turned a blind eye, there were others who didn’t approve.’

  ‘Sounds like crime nowadays,’ I said.

  Simon looked at me. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Except now we have a proper police force. This was back in the days when there were just volunteer village constables in every parish, who more often than not were in the pockets of the smugglers themselves.’

  ‘No customs officers or border controls back then?’

  ‘Not like we know it now, but there were customs officers. Revenue men they were known as. Lots of former soldiers were recruited, and they patrolled the coastline. There were riding officers on horseback and fast ships called cutters, sailing along the shore watching for smugglers landing goods.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous.’ I wasn’t sure what all this had to do with the ghosts but I was quite enjoying the story.

  ‘Very dangerous.’ Simon nodded vigorously and his glasses slipped down his nose. ‘The smugglers weren’t beyond murdering anyone who got in their way. But to make sure people stayed away when they were doing their dastardly deeds, they told ghost stories.’

  I was delighted. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ He pushed his glasses back into position. ‘I’ve heard some of them would even paint children in phosphorescent paint and walk them up and down the cliffs.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ I said. ‘Very innovative.’

  ‘It did the trick. Everyone stayed away and the smugglers could do what they needed to do.’

  ‘I heard about a couple of ghosts called Theodora and Diggory but then I saw those names on a memorial over there,’ I said, pointing to the spot on the church wall. ‘Perhaps that story was one the smugglers told?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  I frowned. ‘But Emily Moon was a real person,’ I said. ‘She’s not a made-up ghost story told to scare people away. What does she have to do with smugglers?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Pubs were used by smugglers as far as I know. They were good places to hide their contraband.’

  ‘Big cellars,’ I said. ‘Lots of customers. Good distribution networks.’

  Simon gave me a slightly odd look. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘So there’s a link between Emily Moon and the smugglers there straightaway, plus I think the story is that she disappeared around the time a big smuggling gang was caught by the customs men,’ he said. ‘There have been theories over the years that she was involved with the gang – some people even say she was the mastermind behind it all and that she ran off with the booty.’

  I was pleased with all the intrigue. Digging into Emily Moon’s disappearance would definitely give me something to do while Liv looked after the pub. And, I thought, it was a good way to dip my toe back into police work of a kind. Get back on my bike, as it were.

  I grinned at Simon. ‘I’m going to find out more.’

  ‘I suppose it would be difficult to find out the truth after all this time.’

  ‘Difficult,’ I said, feeling my heart pound a bit harder with the thrill of it all. ‘But not impossible.’

  Chapter 16

  Emily

  1799

  ‘And he definitely said Janey Moon,’ said Arthur, frowning.

  ‘Definitely.’

  We were sitting in the churchyard. Well, Arthur was sitting; I was pacing up and down, desperate to get home to the inn and make sure my mother was all right. When I’d arrived at the vicarage, Arthur had been finishing up with his tutor, so I’d had to wait for him to put away his books before I could fill him in. And then it took me a frustratingly long time to get my words out. So now I was twitchy and anxious as he processed what I’d told him.

  ‘You couldn’t have misheard?’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘He said “Janey Moon”.’

  ‘But whatever could your mother have to do with what they’re planning?’

  I took a breath. ‘The inn,’ I said. I’d had a lot of time to think about it all while I was waiting for Arthur to finish his schoolwork. ‘It’s why he wants to use the inn.’

  ‘But does he want to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I was frustrated with how slow he was being, which was very unfair considering how patient he always was with me. ‘I must warn Mam.’

  Arthur made a face, and I felt a rush of anger. Morgan had killed my father, and now he’d got my mother messed up in whatever awful thing he was doing and I was the only one who could help her. As close to mute and helpless as I was, I had to try. I clenched my fists, showing Arthur I was ready for a fight and he nodded, resigned.

  ‘Do you think it’s smuggling?’ he said.

  I looked at him and nodded. ‘Must be.’ I sighed. I really wished it wasn’t, because since the authorities had clamped down on free trade, the stakes had got much higher. The penalties were imprisonment or death, and that meant the goods that were smuggled had to be worth the risk. But what else could it be?

  Arthur looked round to where one of the churchwardens – not Mr Trewin, but another stout, red-faced gentleman who I knew by sight – was walking up the path. ‘We shouldn’t talk here,’ he said. ‘Shall we go to the inn?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. Arthur took my package of meat, which had been out in the warmth for too long already, and together we set off towards the inn as fast as we could.

  Inside, the inn was quiet. Mam was leaning against the wall, talking to Petroc, who was sitting at a table, a tankard of beer in front of him. Much to my surprise, he wasn’t the only customer – there were two other men, sitting by the window. I eyed them with suspicion. Morgan had said he could bring the drinkers back to The Ship, but I hadn’t believed him. It seemed he had a lot of clout.

  Mam’s glazed eyes told me she’d already had a drink and she blinked at me as I walked by to put the meat into the cold pantry.

  ‘Where you been?’

  I showed her the parcel and she nodded.

  ‘She’s a good girl, my Emily,’ I heard her say. I didn’t know if she was talking to Petroc, or Arthur, or herself.

  When I came back into the bar, after putting the meat away, I gave Mam’s sleeve a tug and nodded my head towards the back of the inn.

  ‘What?’ she said, struggling to focus on me.

  I tugged her again.

  ‘I can’t leave the customers,’ she said.

  I raised an eyebrow. There were only four customers, including Petroc and Arthur.

  Arthur got to his feet. ‘I’ll keep an eye on things, Mrs Moon.’

  Mam looked annoyed and I supposed I couldn’t blame her. She didn’t want to be leaving the only drinkers we’d had for months. But with what seemed to be enormous effort, she slowly straightened up. ‘Come on then.’

  We went upstairs, me in front and Mam behind, and into her bedroom. She sat on the bed and looked at me. ‘What?’

  I took a deep breath, willin
g my voice to work. ‘Morgan,’ I began. Mam sighed in an over-exaggerated fashion.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s bad …’ I said. My throat was clenching and my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, but I was determined to carry on.

  Mam tutted. ‘I know what he is,’ she said. ‘I know. But what choice do I have Emily Moon?’

  ‘Da,’ I managed to say. ‘Da wouldn’t want this.’

  ‘Well he should have thought of that before he went off to God knows where with God knows who,’ Mam said. She went to get up and, despairing, I pushed her back down on to the bed, gathered all my breath into my lungs and spoke.

  ‘Da is dead,’ I said.

  Mam looked at me, her expression stricken.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dead,’ I said again. My throat was closing up and even my breathing was shallower.

  ‘How do you know?’

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  ‘How do you know?’ Mam said again. She was crying now. ‘How do you know?’ She gripped my shoulders and shook me hard but I still couldn’t speak. ‘How do you know?’

  Her aggression spent she slumped on to the bed.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she whimpered.

  I sat down next to her and stroked her hair as she cried.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said.

  I nodded, but I still couldn’t speak.

  Mam cried for a little while and then she sat up and wiped away her tears.

  ‘He didn’t take the dog,’ she said. ‘I knew he would have taken the dog.’

  I nodded again. ‘M …’ I began but the word wouldn’t come out. ‘M …’

  ‘Morgan?’ said Mam. She looked different somehow. Her eyes were focusing and she looked more upright. More like her old self, I thought.

  I took her hand. ‘M …’

  ‘I’ll tell Morgan not to come again,’ Mam said. ‘We’ll be right. Just you and me, Emily Moon. There’s drinkers downstairs today and where one comes, others will follow. Maybe I’ll speak to that farmer down the way, get us another pup. What do you think?’