The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet, Katherine Cowley [books successful people read .TXT] 📗

When she combined the words, it no longer seemed like Mr. Holloway had been writing about Colonel Coates. For while Colonel Coates had been to France, and obviously visited for smuggling purposes, he served in the militia, not the regulars. He had never served or fought on the continent. Yet there was another colonel who had served on the continent, and who very well could have visited Worthing before taking up permanent residence: Colonel Radcliffe.

Chapter Twenty-One

“What a sanctuary for the nations of the earth has England proved herself to be! With what veneration must not every inhabitant of every despoiled country look upon an Englishman! A country which has appeared ‘like a rock standing out of the waters’ to rescue every poor mariner, and every drowning wretch, from the overwhelming ocean of French rapacity and murder!”

–The Star, London, England, December 4, 1813

The other guests who had spent the night at Castle Durrington had finally woken; entertaining them required everyone’s attention, which allowed Mary to slip back to the stable. Mr. Tubbs helped her onto Dusty, then Mary rode to Worthing, stabled the horse, donned her disguise, and went down to the docks to investigate before taking additional action. In a stroke of luck, the dockmaster was not in his office, so she snuck inside to search it.

Mary could find no mention of a boat owned by Colonel Radcliffe, at least not in the official log. Of course, Mr. Holloway had written that the colonel paid for there to be no record kept of it, so she should not have been surprised. Yet everything in the dockmaster’s office was so detailed and meticulous that she had hoped to find something.

With haste, she opened all the drawers in the desk, examining every book and piece of paper. Certain that the dockmaster would return any minute, she could not prevent her eyes from glancing at the door.

Finally, she found a loose piece of paper titled with only the letters CR. Colonel Radcliffe. It detailed every payment the colonel had made to the dockmaster. She flipped the paper over and discovered a description of where Radcliffe kept his boat.

She heard someone approaching, so she started to put everything back in its place, but realized she was out of time. Instead, she scattered the papers, knocked over a pile of books, and fled from the room, down the hall, and then out, onto the wharf.

Mary walked up the wharf, not rushing or looking back at the dockmaster’s building, as either action could lead someone to suspect that she had been in the office. The wind was cold, and Mary was grateful that while the peasant cloak was ragged, it was still adequately warm.

Large military vessels did not land in Worthing, and no huge trading ships made port, nevertheless, it was a sea town and the number of seafaring vessels was numerous. There were endless small fishing vessels, private boats for excursions, and a few mid-size boats. Many of the smaller fishing vessels seemed to be gone for the day. She walked to the third pier, and then all the way to the end, where she found what she hoped was Colonel Radcliffe’s boat.

It was not a large boat, perhaps designed for four or five people, and could likely be sailed by a single individual. But it was a large enough boat to cross the channel and send word to Bonaparte, and it was a large enough boat for murder.

When Mary had visited Colonel Coates’s vessel, a gangplank had been lowered and she had walked serenely across, her hand held by Colonel Coates. But here, there was no lowered gangplank, no easy way to climb onto Colonel Radcliffe’s boat, if indeed it belonged to Colonel Radcliffe.

The boat was only about two feet from the dock, and the edge of the boat was only two feet above it. She looked around briefly; there were a few others on the docks, but no one was watching her. She leapt over the gap. Somehow, she hit the side of the boat with her stomach, but her arms managed to get over the side. With great effort, she pulled herself over the side and into the boat.

She walked along the deck, looking for evidence. There was some discolouration on the wood, but she could not identify its cause. A door and a short staircase led down to a single, cramped room. Against the far wall was a large chest, which was unlocked but contained only clothing. She examined every other drawer and unlocked container on the boat, but she found nothing, besides several small, locked boxes which she could not open. She even looked for the sort of hiding places Mr. Holloway would have liked, and although she found a few promising spots, there was nothing inside.

She returned to the large chest, this time, going through it more slowly, examining it item by item. It was lined by fabric, but as she pushed down on the fabric and board at the bottom of the chest, she felt them give slightly. She tugged along the edges of the base, found a spot for her fingers, and pulled. Underneath was a hidden compartment.

Inside she found Mr. Holloway’s coat. If you had murdered a man, why would you keep his cloak? Mary could not fathom that decision; of course, she could also not fathom the decision to murder a man in the first place. Inside one of the cloak’s pockets was another of Mr. Holloway’s missing notebooks. If she was not mistaken, this was the notebook she had seen him with that final day when he spoke with Mr. Withrow in the forest. It certainly was in his handwriting and included his notes on various matters, written in a more complete and clear style than the other two notebooks in her and Mr. Tagore’s possession. In a different ink, someone else—likely Colonel Radcliffe—had written their own notes and interpretations on