Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/smugglerscave00birmuoft
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
The book has an extra Chapter XIV following Chapter XV
(i.e., the chapter sequence is XIV, XV, XIV, XVI). The
numbering has been left as printed.
THE SMUGGLERS' CAVE
* * * * * *
NOVELS BY
GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM
THE SMUGGLERS' CAVE
GOODLY PEARLS
THE GUN RUNNERS
THE GRAND DUCHESS
KING TOMMY
SEND FOR DR. O'GRADY
GENERAL JOHN REGAN
THE MAJOR'S NIECE
HYACINTH
BENEDICT KAVANAGH
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LIMITED LONDON
* * * * * *
THE SMUGGLERS' CAVE
by
GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM
Hodder and Stoughton
Limited London
Made and Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd.,
London, Reading and Fakenham
An Introduction
_Meant to make easy the task of those who review novels without reading
them and to awaken the interest of others who read novels without
reviewing them._
This is the story of the Hailey Compton Village Pageant.
Pageants, good and bad, great and small, were commonplace affairs a few
years ago. Every summer half a dozen of them were widely advertised and
probably a dozen more ran blameless courses unnoticed except by those
who took part in them. They were started by enthusiasts, worked up by
energetic committees, kept within the bounds of historic possibility
by scholarly experts. They came and went, amused a few people, bored a
great many and left not a trace of their brief existence behind them.
The Hailey Compton Pageant was staged in a small unimportant village.
The people who organised it, the vicar's wife and the local innkeeper,
were unknown to fame. It had, at first, no backing in the press except
a few paragraphs slipped into provincial papers by Miss Beth Appleby, a
young journalist of promise but small attainment. It had, at first, no
aristocratic patronage, except the half-hearted support of Sir Evelyn
Dent. It began in a casual, almost accidental way.
Yet the Hailey Compton Pageant excited England from end to end,
set every club in London gossiping, inspired a spate of articles in
the daily papers, smirched the reputation of an earl and went near
wrecking, at the next General Election, the prospects of a prominent
statesman.
Such are the tricks which destiny, a sportive imp, plays with human
affairs. An elderly gentleman, in search of local colour for a
perfectly innocent book, visits a remote village. An energetic lady
with a taste for theatricals seizes an opportunity for getting up a
show. An innkeeper, civil to every one and anxious to be obliging to
all possible patrons, sees a chance of making a little money.
What could possibly be less important? Yet out of the activities of
these people rose one of the most widely discussed scandals of our
time.
Chapter I
It has been said, somewhat bitterly, that the whole south coast of
England is now one prolonged watering-place, very horrible because
very popular. The bitterness is excusable, but the saying is an
exaggeration. There are still some places unvisited by chars-à-bancs
and excursionists, undiscovered, or at all events unused by those who
"take the kiddies to the sea" for August.
Hailey Compton is a village which until the other day escaped the curse
of popularity. Its good fortune was due partly to the fact that there
are no houses or lodgings in it suitable for letting. Nor can any be
built for there is no room for building. The village lies in a narrow
nook between high cliffs and all the ground is already occupied by
fishermen's cottages, with their patches of garden, the church, the
vicarage, and the Anchor Inn. It is also--and this helps to account for
its escape from the general fate--very difficult of access. The only
approach to it is by a steep, sharply twisting lane, with a surface
of abominable roughness. Horses descend with extreme difficulty and
climb up again only if they are very strong. Motorists shrink from
the hairpin bends and the blinding high banks between which the lane
zigzags. Even chars-à-bancs drivers, the gallant swashbucklers of our
modern traffic, never venture to take their clients to Hailey Compton.
Nevertheless a car crept down the hill one warm, May morning, a
light car, driven by an elderly man who sat alone in it. He went
very cautiously, his engine responding to its lowest gear, his
foot pressed on the brake pedal, his hands clutching the steering
wheel convulsively. This was Sir Evelyn Dent, and the car was a new
possession which he had only just learned to drive, indeed had not yet
learned to drive without nervousness. The age of sixty-five is rather
late in life for acquiring so difficult an art as motor driving.
Sir Evelyn bought this car after the fall of the Government, when he
ceased to be a Cabinet Minister. He might not have bought it even then,
if he had not lost his seat in Parliament in the disastrous General
Election which followed the resignation of the Prime Minister. While
still in office, with a salary of some thousands a year to cover
expenses, Sir Evelyn owned a large car and was driven about by a
competent chauffeur. Having lost his salary and having no longer any
official expenses he economised by buying a small car and driving it
himself. The plan had certain advantages. He could go driving where he
pleased and when. Previously he had gone where the chauffeur, a very
superior man, thought a Cabinet Minister ought to go at hours which he
regarded as suitable.
The lane twisted on, the gradient becoming steeper and the surface
worse. Sir Evelyn ventured from time to time to raise his strained
eyes from the road immediately in front of him and glance at the
roofs of the houses which lay below, and the sea, blue and sparkling,
below them. Each time he looked the roofs and the sea seemed a little
nearer, which cheered him; but the descent still twisted before him. He
began to wonder whether his nerves would remain under control until he
reached the bottom. Sweat broke out on his forehead and trickled into
his eyes, cold sweat. His hands on the wheel were moist and cold. On
the other hand--such are the compensations which nature arranges--the
inside of his mouth became perfectly dry, so that it was painful to
swallow. Yet he had to swallow each time he crawled round one of the
blind corners and found nothing on the other side.
There was much excuse for Sir Evelyn's nervousness. A highly skilled
driver would have disliked the hill. Sir Evelyn was a novice. A
reckless youth would have hesitated over it. Sir Evelyn was sixty-five
and most unwilling to throw away the few years of life remaining to
him. It is greatly to his credit and a proof of the fine qualities
which had raised him to the position of Cabinet Minister that he
reached the bottom of the hill safely. Passing a row of fishermen's
cottages, he crawled, not daring to change gear, till he came to the
Anchor Inn. There he stopped. A board, either new or newly painted,
announced that James Hinton was licensed to sell beer, spirits and
tobacco.
Sir Evelyn passed the tip of a dry tongue across a dry lip. At the
moment it seemed to him that beer, even the poorest, thinnest beer, any
beer at all, was the best thing the world contained. He left his car
and went into the tap-room.
Had Sir Evelyn been capable for the moment of any feeling except a
desire for beer he would have been surprised at the tap-room of the
Anchor Inn in Hailey Compton. Instead of reeking stuffily of stale
beer, the place was fresh, cool and pleasant. Instead of a soiled
floor, were clean polished boards. Instead of a messy counter and
stained tables there was shining cleanliness. Not such are English inns
in remote villages. Though thirsty Sir Evelyn could not help noticing
the landlord when he came in. He was not in the least the landlord who
might have been expected in such a village. He came from an inner room
and greeted Sir Evelyn with respectful courtesy. He was a tall, slim
man, neatly dressed, cleanly shaved. He might still have been, what
indeed he once was, the valet of a wealthy peer.
"A glass of beer," said Sir Evelyn. "In fact a jug of beer."
The landlord, the James Hinton of the newly painted board, spread out
apologetic hands.
"Very sorry sir," he said. "Very sorry indeed, sir; but at this
hour---- The law, sir. The law. Most unfortunate, but you know how it
is, sir."
Sir Evelyn did know and groaned. He had descended the hill at an
unfortunate time, arriving at the Anchor Inn at one of those hours
during which, no doubt to the advantage of the souls of Englishmen, the
buying of a glass of beer is a breach of the law.
Sir Evelyn's guardian angel, watching from on high, smiled, and no one
can blame him. He would have been less and not greater than a mortal if
he had not been a little amused. Here was a man who had spent his life
in making laws; who had taken a pleasure in that most objectionable
occupation; who had given energy and considerable ability to the
discovery of new laws, if possible sillier and more vexatious than
those already made. Here was this man, parched with thirst, a-quiver
with jangled nerves, cut off from the only thing in the world which
would do him any good, by one of the very laws which he and his fellows
had made. It is true that Sir Evelyn had never been directly and
personally concerned with the laws which regulate the sale of beer, but
he had been responsible for others quite as idiotic.
And once--the guardian angel sniggered when he remembered this--Sir
Evelyn answering a tiresome questioner in Parliament, had said that he
saw no reason why any of the existing laws should be repealed.
Here, surely, was an instance of that poetic justice, far too rare in
the world, in which all good men rejoice and which angels, guardian and
others, can scarce forbear to cheer.
But justice in this world is seldom perfect and even angels sometimes
smile too soon. It appeared that James Hinton was no fanatical
worshipper of the letter of the law.
"If I might venture to make a suggestion, Sir Evelyn----" he said and
paused.
Sir Evelyn was surprised by the use of his name and title. He had
never been in Hailey Compton before and this prompt recognition was
unexpected. A man may be an ex-Cabinet Minister, may be adorned with
a knighthood, may be, as Sir Evelyn was, the son of one earl, brother
of another and uncle of a third, may be entitled to be styled the
Honourable, besides being a knight; but he does not go about the world
with a placard round his neck announcing these glories. He looked
sharply at the innkeeper.
James Hinton offered an apologetic explanation of his knowledge.
"I sometimes had the pleasure of waiting on you, sir, when I was first
footman in the service of your brother, the late earl."
"What about the beer?" said Sir Evelyn.
He began to feel hopeful. A retired servant is a family friend and
ought to have more respect for the memory of a dead master than he has
for an existing law.
"If I might venture to suggest, sir----" said Hinton again.
"You may suggest anything," said Sir Evelyn, "except lemonade. That, I
cannot stand."
"Nothing would induce me to offer you such a thing, sir. If you'll
excuse my mentioning a personal matter, sir, I have lived in good
houses, some of the best in England, before coming here, and I'm aware
that lemonade--with the possible exception of the home-brewed variety
when suffering from influenza----"
"If it's not lemonade," said Sir Evelyn, "what is it?"
"My suggestion, sir--and I hope you will not regard it as unduly
familiar from one in my position in life--is that you should be my
guest, my private guest, for perhaps ten minutes or a quarter of an
hour, and during that time share a jug of beer with me in my little
room, my own snuggery, behind the bar. There is, of course, no question
of payment. Therefore there is no breach of the law."
"But I should like to pay for what I drink," said Sir Evelyn.
He was as thirsty as a man can be, but he shrank from drinking at the
expense of a footman.
James Hinton's eyes were fixed on a large photograph of one of
England's stately homes which hung, nicely framed, on the wall of the
tap-room. He spoke in a tone of reminiscence, as a man does who tells
a tale of old times, a tale which has nothing whatever to do with the
life of to-day.
"In the houses in which I used to live, sir, it was customary for
guests to offer some slight token of esteem, what is commonly spoken
of as a tip, to the servants when departing. There was of course no
obligation to give anything. The tip was entirely voluntary, a gift,
sir, not a payment, if you catch my meaning."
Sir Evelyn caught it; he was to have his glass of beer in spite of
the law, but it was to cost him two and sixpence, at least two and
sixpence, perhaps five shillings. In the best houses it is scarcely
possible to offer less than five shillings to the first footman.
"Hailey Compton is a very quiet place," said James Hinton a few minutes
later when he had filled Sir Evelyn's glass. "I don't know that I ever
came across a quieter place. No society, unless you count the vicar and
his lady. A very nice gentleman, the vicar, though not very energetic.
But perhaps you know our vicar, the Rev. Mr. Eames?"
Sir Evelyn did not and said so, holding out his glass for more beer. If
he had to pay five shillings for his drink he felt entitled to quench
his thirst.
"Perhaps you know Mrs. Eames, sir," said Hinton, pouring out the beer.
"A remarkable lady, Mrs. Eames, if I may say so without disrespect. A
very remarkable lady, though a little trying at times to the vicar."
Sir Evelyn took no more interest in Mrs. Eames than he did in the
vicar. He was not a rural dean, nor an archdeacon, and his visit to
Hailey Compton had nothing to do with the church.
"But of course not, sir," said Hinton. "It's not to be expected that
you would know Mrs. Eames or the vicar."
Then he waited, hoping to hear what had brought Sir Evelyn to Hailey
Compton. He was not disappointed.
"I understand," said Sir Evelyn, "that there is a remarkable sea cave
in this neighbourhood."
James Hinton talked fluently and agreeably about the cave. He described
its position and how to get to it. He congratulated Sir Evelyn on
having arrived in Hailey Compton at a fortunate hour.
"Not altogether fortunate, sir, as regards the beer. But if you wish to
visit the cave you could hardly have come at a better time."
The cave, it appeared, was accessible on foot only between half-tide
and low water. At other times it must be approached by boat, and
landing, except in calm weather, was difficult.
"According to local tradition, sir, the cave was at one time largely
used by smugglers. But no doubt you know more about that than I do."
Sir Evelyn did. He knew more about the Hailey Compton cave, indeed more
about all smugglers' caves on our coasts, than any man in England.
Having been forced, by a turn of the political wheel to leave office,
he had retired to a pleasant old Manor House, once the property of his
aunt, Lady Mildred Dent. It stood surrounded by gardens, some twenty
miles from Hailey Compton. It had the advantage of being in the middle
of the constituency which had lately rejected Sir Evelyn, which might,
he hoped would, ultimately change its mind. There he settled down
contentedly enough with his pictures, his old prints, his books and
manuscripts, until such time as he could appeal to the voters again.
Sir Evelyn had spent his adult life in making laws and arranging for
their administration. It was perhaps not unnatural that he should have
cherished a secret love and admiration for law breakers. If a bishop
were to tell the naked truth about himself he would probably say that
what he looked forward to most in heaven was the chance of intimacy
with heretics. A doctor, in hours of relaxation and influenced by good
wine, will confess to a liking for quacks and a contempt for orthodox
methods of cure.
Sir Evelyn's affections went out to the smugglers of the eighteenth
and early nineteenth centuries, bold defiers of law every one of them.
He had gathered a small library about smugglers and made a collection
of pictures and prints illustrating their ways. It was his intention
to devote his years, or months, of leisure--the period during which
the life of Parliament was denied him--to the production of a complete
illustrated history of English smuggling. The thing has never been
done, and Sir Evelyn felt it was due to the memory of a number of
adventurous men that it should be done sympathetically.
He intended, in course of time, to visit and photograph all the
genuine smugglers' caves there were. He had already made a list of
them, carefully eliminating those whose connection with smugglers was
uncertain. It was chiefly with a view to visiting the caves that he
had bought and more or less learned to drive his motor. His plan was
to spend the summer, perhaps several summers, in investigating the
caves one by one. During the winter he meant to arrange the material
collected, make extracts from books, and in due time actually write the
great history.
The Hailey Compton cave, an unquestionably genuine haunt of eighteenth
century smugglers, was first on his list. He reached it--as has been
already noted--early in May after a drive of some peril.
"Perhaps, sir," said Hinton, "you may be returning here for luncheon
after your visit to the cave. I can scarcely recommend it though I
shall do my best. This is a poor house, sir, not at all what you're
accustomed to. I can scarcely venture to promise more than a slice of
cold beef, a cut off the Sunday joint, with some bread and cheese. The
cheese, if I may say so, is excellent. But perhaps you will prefer to
lunch at the vicarage. Mrs. Eames is a very hospitable lady, sir, and I
may take it upon myself to say that she will be delighted to entertain
you."
"I shall lunch here," said Sir Evelyn, "on whatever you can give me."
"Very good, sir, I merely mentioned the vicarage because I thought you
might like to meet Mrs. Eames. A very remarkable lady, sir."
"I do not want to meet Mrs. Eames," said Sir Evelyn. "And I shall not
lunch at the vicarage."
Here Sir Evelyn's guardian angel smiled again. How far these beings
arrange our future for us is uncertain, but there is no doubt that
they know what is going to happen to us some time ahead. When they
hear us asserting confidently that we are going to do something, or
not going to do it, they are amused, being aware that our plans have
very little to do with what actually happens. Sir Evelyn's angel knew
perfectly well that his ward would lunch that day at the vicarage, that
he would meet Mrs. Eames, and that consequences of the most unexpected
kind would follow. His smile died wholly away when he reflected that
it would be his business to extricate Sir Evelyn from the tangled
difficulties in which he was soon to be involved, which began with his
visit to the Hailey Compton Vicarage.