Read Online Death at Rottingdean by Robin Paige - Free Book Online

discredit her. But the aunt did not seem inclined to surrender.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, Carrie,” Aunt Georgie said, “house agents will tell you anything you like to hear. The Elms was built by a man who made his living in the illegal export of wool, and it is common knowledge that his cellar was a smugglers’ depot. It lay at the hub of several tunnels that led to other houses. One may indeed be blocked, but who can say as to the others. And aren’t you the very one who complained of noises in the cellar a night or two ago?”
    Caroline responded to the challenge with a light laugh. “You’re not suggesting that there are still smugglers in this village?”
    â€œI am only suggesting that some intrigue or another is afoot,” Aunt Georgie replied, lifting her chin. “You cannot have noticed it, my dear, for you have not lived here a sufficient time, but an unusual amount of money has been coming into this village lately. The chemist has a new horse to pull his old gig, and the money to stable it. And Mrs. Howard, who has been poor as a church mouse, somehow found the means to open a dressmaker’s shop on the High Street and offer fabrics and laces as fine as any in Oxford Street. Perhaps you can suggest where the money might have come from.”
    Caroline looked cross and did not answer. The fire hissed and Kipling stirred uncomfortably. To ease the strain, Kate turned to him and spoke lightly. “Speaking of cellars—”
    â€œAh, yes, our ghost!” Kipling exclaimed with evident relief, and jumped up. “He may not be in evidence tonight, but you can at least see where he lives. Or where he walks,” he corrected himself. “I don’t suppose it is accurate to say that a ghost lives.”
    Caroline gave a horrified gasp. “Ruddy, you can’t be thinking of taking our guests to the cellar, of all places!”
    â€œOh, but we want to go,” Kate said quickly, rising.
    â€œDon’t trouble yourself to get up, my dear.” Kipling patted his wife’s shoulder. “You and John stay here, and we’ll get a candle from the kitchen. I’ll ask the maid to bring dessert and coffee while we’re gone.”
    Aunt Georgie rose with alacrity and picked up the brown shawl that lay on her chair. “I’ll come,” she said. She draped the shawl around her shoulders and smiled up at Kate, who felt like a giant beside the tiny woman. Small as she was, though, her erect carriage gave the impression of strength and self-possession. “Perhaps I was wrong when I said you should find no excitement here, my dear. The notion has just come to me that you might think of writing a story that takes place in our tunnels.”
    â€œNow, that’s an idea, Kate,” Charles said warmly. “You could set the tale in King George’s day and be sure of smugglers. You might even ask about the village and gather the names of some of the men who were involved. I’m sure there are many older people who have interesting smugglers’ tales to tell.”
    â€œIf that’s your plot, you should visit the old windmill on Beacon Hill, behind North End House,” Kipling suggested as they left the room and turned into a dark hallway with old-fashioned framed pictures on the wall. “It was often frequented by smugglers, who used the sails to signal boats out in the Channel.”
    â€œThe old windmill!” Aunt Georgie said. “The very thing! Ruddy, you shall put the old mill into one of your poems, and Beryl Bardwell can put it into a story.” She patted Kate’s hand with a chuckle. “No argument, now. As I tell my nephew, those with a gift for writing stories are obliged to do so, in order to relieve those of us with an insatiable need for reading them.” Turning to Kipling, she said, “What story are you working on now, dear?”
    â€œI’ve begun to revisit the Irish boy I