“No, it’s not, but any ship coming into the Thames has to deal with Customs and Excise, so again, that route would risk failure or, at the very least, raising an early alarm.”
The horses clopped on. He swayed with the movement, mentally filling in the picture her words had sketched in his mind. “Assuming the gunpowder was here, and the target chosen for destruction is somewhere in London, then…I assume they plan to move the barrels to London by road. As far as I know, if they just loaded the barrels onto a wagon, there would be no checks or hurdles for them to overcome. They could cover the load and cart it into London without anyone knowing what they were transporting.”
“That must be their plan.”
She sounded as bleakly grim as he felt.
They continued along the bridle path, the cliffs and shore stretching southward before them.
Just ahead on the seaward side, the cottages they’d seen the previous day—clustered on a semicircle of rocky land that ran out from the base of the cliffs—crouched above the waves. The cottages faced the cliffs, separated from them by a narrow path. He considered searching the cottages, but discarded the notion.
When Antonia glanced questioningly at him, he shook his head. “They’re too close to the water to safely store gunpowder even for a short time, and given their lack of elevation, any cellars or underground passages leading to the cliffs would fill with water.”
She grimaced and looked ahead, and they rode on.
Soon after, they neared the place where they’d broken off their search the previous afternoon. Sebastian halted the gray above the dip concealing the tiny lane giving access to the shore; this time, they were on the northern side of the lane. Away to the southwest, they could see the chimneys of Pressingstoke Hall rising above the canopy of the Home Wood.
They’d searched the entire estate and found nothing—no barrels, no sign of them, nothing at all.
He drew in a deep breath, folded his hands on the pommel, and thought. Rethought.
Antonia halted the mare alongside the gray; he felt her gaze on his face, but didn’t meet it.
After a moment, he mused, “It all hangs on what Ennis meant by ‘here.’ If I was inside Somersham Place and said something was ‘here,’ I would mean…something either in the house or close by—attached to the house.” He finally met Antonia’s gaze. “When we searched the house, we were looking for places where barrels might have been stored. But what if the place the barrels are or were stored is attached to the house via one of those secret tunnels Sir Humphrey confirmed are common in large houses hereabouts?”
Her gray gaze grew distant. After a moment, she said, “We looked for entrances to secret passageways in the cellars. We didn’t search above ground—and we didn’t look for hidden entrances to tunnels in the parts of the house in everyday use.” She glanced at him, her expression growing animated. “But entrances such as those could be anywhere, even on the upper floors.”
Grimly, he nodded. “That’s where we search next.” He gathered his reins. “And we need to do it now, because we—and Crawford and Sir Humphrey—are running out of time.”
He tapped his booted heels to the gray’s sides, and the horse surged.
A second later, he heard from behind him, “Sebastian! Wait!”
His instincts informed him Antonia hadn’t followed, hadn’t moved. He muttered an oath, slowed the gray, then wheeled.
He saw Antonia in her dark gray habit silhouetted against the paler gray of sea and sky. But she was transformed; her eyes were wide, her face alight, and she was pointing insistently into the dip, toward where the tiny lane ran down to the sands.
He couldn’t see what was exciting her interest from where he was. He rode back, scanning the sands as they came into view. “What?”
“There!” She pointed again. “See that churned-up sand?” Her eyes glowed as they met his. “That patch of sand was perfectly flat when we were here yesterday afternoon. I looked.”
He studied the area again. A section of sand at the end of the lane had, indeed, been trampled by many feet. The tide had come in and washed smooth the sands farther down the beach, but had only lipped the seaward edge of the churned-up section.
Antonia all but jigged in her saddle. “It’s as if, since yesterday, men have walked back and forth along the base of the cliffs on the other side of the dip—the trail disappears around the cliff there, heading farther along the beach. Perhaps they were carrying barrels to a wagon that waited in the lane!”
Her excitement was infectious. He could see the scene she was painting. The lane itself was surfaced in flints embedded in clay; there would be no wheel marks or boot prints to be found there. But the sands… The trail did seem to lead farther south; they couldn’t see how much farther from their present vantage point.