A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) by Deanna Raybourn (english novels for students .txt) 📕

good-bye and the last we saw of her was a pale face shining in the darkness of the receding cellar. Pengird led us through the iron gate and into a cave that gave way almost immediately to a narrow tunnel. There was enough room for Stoker to stand upright, but little more than that, and I wondered how the smugglers and seamen had managed through the centuries.

Mr. Pengird must have intuited my thoughts, for he called back, “This is why we use the small casks to bring the wine,” he explained. “More trips but a shorter distance by far. Now, mind your heads, for the land slopes away here and down.”

The tunnel took a sharp drop at this point, growing steep, punctuated at places with short flights of steps cut into the living rock and handrails of knotted rope. In other places, the floor of the tunnel was flat enough to permit easy walking, but we were always descending, and I thought what a devilishly hard time they would have hauling heavy goods.

Once more Mr. Pengird anticipated me. “The last master put in a hydraulic lift, he did, for bringing goods up from the beach. Used to bring his wife’s mother up that way, for the lady were so stout she could not climb it herself,” he added with a wheezing laugh. Suddenly, the tunnel divided and he stopped.

“This is where I leave you.” He pointed to the right. “This branch goes to the village, it does, right up into the smithy.” He indicated the left branch. “Here’m what you want. Just follow it straight down to the beach and you’ll not come to harm. The tide is out, so you’ve naught to fear from the sea, but mind you come back up sharpish. The tide’ll turn in three hours and you’ll not want to be caught at the bottom.”

“Is it dangerous?” I asked.

“Only if you’ve not the legs to carry yourself up,” Pengird returned with a grin. “But the beach is covered and the tunnel floods up the first twenty feet or so. Nothing but the sea beyond until you reach the First Sister.” He touched his cap and set off, shouldering his empty casks and whistling a merry tune.

Stoker and I turned towards the beach tunnel, holding the lantern aloft to cast the light as far as we could down the dark hole. “Mind your step. It’s slippery here,” he warned. He put out his hand and I took it, feeling the whole world in the warmth of that clasp. The air in the tunnel was fresher than I would have expected, smelling of seaweed and salt.

“We’re close now,” he called, and just as he did I noted a lightening just ahead. The tunnel made a slight curve and we emerged onto a narrow shingle of rocky beach. Offshore, thrusting upwards out of the sea, the smallest of the Sisters lay, its barren rock lapped by the grey waters. A gull stood atop, giving us a baleful eye across the water.

“She doesn’t look terribly inviting, does she?” I asked Stoker. But the beach itself was heavenly. The sun had emerged for a brief time, gilding the stones and warming the air. I stripped off my stockings and shoes and settled myself at the water’s edge to wait as I dabbled my toes in the surf. The water was frigid and I drew my feet back as gooseflesh dimpled my legs.

Stoker did not join me. Instead he stripped off his clothes without a word and strode into the waves, plunging ahead with a strong swimmer’s stroke until only his seal-dark head was visible.

He swam for some time, back and forth, parallel to the horizon and across the current until at length he emerged from the sea, taking up his trousers and pulling them on with deliberately provocative slowness. Water dripped from his black locks, running down the solid breadth of his chest and the flat plane of his belly. I turned back to the horizon. I pretended not to watch, but set my face to the sea, studying the gull as it flapped away from the tiny isle, wheeling overhead and making mournful noises as it searched for a likely fish. There was a flash of movement on the rocks at the edge of the shingle, a bird, no doubt, coming to inspect the shingle for an unlucky crab.

Stoker eased himself down onto the beach, pulling on his shirt but leaving it open and affording me a tantalizing glimpse of the hardened muscles that moved easily under his skin. I reminded myself forcibly that we were only to be friends, as established by the conversation of the previous night. No alluring display of masculine charms should distract me from that.

“You will catch your death swimming in water that cold,” I told him sternly. “You might take a cramp and drown.”

A tiny smile played about his lips. “How good of you to concern yourself with my health. But you needn’t fear. I have no intention of drowning.”

“They say it is a peaceful death.”

Stoker shuddered. “It isn’t.”

I said nothing, and after a moment he went on. “I’ve seen it. Twice. Sailors who went overboard, once during a storm and that was not so terrible. At least it was quick. We saw him thrashing and fighting the waves as they rose higher and higher, but we couldn’t come about. There was no chance to save him, and believe me, there was nothing peaceful about it.”

“And the other?”

He shook his head. “A rigger slipped from the mast. He missed the deck by inches and plunged straight into the sea. It was calm that day. If he’d known how to swim, he could have saved himself. But he never learnt.”

I raised my brows and he explained. “Most sailors never learn. They think a quick death by drowning or shark is better than lingering on when there is no hope. This fellow was one of those. He couldn’t keep himself afloat. In the time it