The path became an alley running between two cottages to join the lane. Without pause, Phyllida crossed the lane and continued up the common. Lucifer hung back in the alley, letting the distance between them increase. The common was open ground, and there was little doubt now of her destination. She was making for the church.

Her peculiar conversation with the curate replayed in his mind. What in all Hades was going on?

On reaching the graveyard, he saw faint light spilling from the church's side door. Using gravestones for cover, he crept closer, exercising greater caution than before.

Phyllida was no longer alone.

A tall gravestone stood by the path leading from the side door; concealed in its shadow, Lucifer watched Phyllida standing beside Filing in the narrow porch before the open door. Both had ledgers in their hands; heads down, they were making notes, occasionally comparing entries.

Lucifer looked down the path to the lane bordering the graveyard. The lych-gate was shrouded in gloom; eyes straining, he could make out shapes and movement in the lane beyond. Then figures separated from the shadows and came up the path-men toting small barrels, boxes, packages. They passed his hiding place. Swiveling, Lucifer watched as Phyllida checked each box and barrel, speaking in low tones to the men and to Filing.

Then the men carried their loads into the church.

Lucifer slumped back, his shoulders against the gravestone. Smuggling?

The daughter of the local magistrate running a smuggling gang, aided and abetted by the local curate?

It was too hard to swallow, especially given what he knew of the daughter of the local magistrate.

Phyllida checked each item brought to the church door against the bill of lading. Beside her, Mr. Filing created a separate list, noting which men were assisting tonight and who brought what up to the crypt.

One of the men, Hugey, held a package up for her perusal. "This be almost it."

Phyllida nodded. "Good. That can go down now."

Hugey bobbed his head and trudged past them. She heard his boots clatter on the stairs down to the crypt.

"This be the last for tonight." Oscar, another heavy, hulking man, sat a barrel on the step.

Oscar was the leader of the band and a solid supporter of their enterprise. Smiling, Phyllida bent to check the barrel's markings. "A quiet and uneventful night?"

"Aye-just how I likes it." Oscar grinned back. At Phyllida's nod, he hefted the barrel to his shoulder. "I'll stow this, then we'll be away."

Phyllida closed her ledger and turned to Mr. Filing.

He smiled. "It's all running so smoothly."

"Thank heaven." Phyllida headed for the crypt stairs. "I want to get these figures into the accounts." She and Filing stood back as Oscar and Hugey came back up the stone steps. With nods and good-byes, the men trudged down the path to join the others. They would quietly disperse, returning the ponies to their respective stables, then go home to their cottages and their beds.

It would be an hour or so before she could do the same. Phyllida led the way down into the crypt. "I expect to be busy over the next few days, so I'll bring all the accounts up-to-date and work out the payments in advance. That way, once you've collected the money, you can disburse the men's share without having to find me first."

"A very good notion." Filing looked around as they reached the crypt floor. "I'll just make sure everything's where it ought to be."

Phyllida crossed to the sarcophagus she used as a desk. It was built flush to the wall, with various niches carved above it, presumably for offerings. The niches presently contained a set of ledgers, assorted writing implements, and the other paraphernalia she required to keep the accounts. There was a wooden stool beside the sarcophagus; she drew it out and sat, winding her boots around the stool's legs. Moving the lamp that had been left on the sarcophagus to a higher perch on a stack of boxes nearby, she checked that the light thrown on her ledger was even, then settled to her task.

Behind her, Filing moved between the rows of goods which largely filled the crypt. Phyllida transcribed numbers, then worked through the calculations. The sound of something sliding on stone reached her. She glanced back at the stairs. No one came down. Then Filing stepped out from one row, concentrating as he counted boxes. He rounded the next row; Phyllida turned back to her columns.

Fifteen minutes later, the intensity of light increased. Phyllida looked up. Filing stood beside her.

"Everything's as it should be. Thompson and I should encounter no problem sorting the next delivery."

"Good." Phyllida looked at the ledger before her. "I'll be a little while yet, so I'll wish you a good night."

She glanced up. Filing frowned.

"I don't like to leave you here at this hour, alone…"

"Nonsense!" Phyllida made the disclaimer with a confident smile, although, for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure she wanted to be alone, away from her home at this hour. She wasn't, however, about to display her fear-doubtless an irrational one-to Mr. Filing.

"I'll be perfectly all right and, truth to tell, I work faster in complete silence. If you shut the church door, no one's likely to come in. I'll be quite safe." She returned her attention to the ledger. "I'll probably only be another fifteen minutes."

Mr. Filing hesitated, but she'd spoken realistically. Why would anyone climb to the church so late at night?

"Very well-if you're sure…?"

"I'm sure."

"Then… good night."

"Good night." Phyllida nodded without looking up; as she corrected a figure, the light from Mr. Filing's lamp receded. A moment later, she heard him on the stairs, then heard the scrape of the church door closing.

She was alone.

In silence, her concentration absolute, she finished adding the figures in five minutes, then calculated and recorded the payments due to the men in another five. Pleased, she sat back, surveying her handiwork.

A shadow loomed on the page.

With a gasp, she swung around-

Lucifer stood beside the lamp, arms crossed, dark blue eyes narrowed. Her heart thudding in her throat, she stared at him.

"Would you care to tell me what this is all about?"

She drew breath into her lungs-and narrowed her eyes back. "No. And might I suggest that, given you intend to reside in this village, you'd do well not to prowl around at night scaring the occupants out of their wits!" She'd started her tirade evenly; the last word was shrill. Swinging back to stare at her ledger, she concentrated on breathing. Grabbing a piece of blotting paper, she blotted her figures.

After a moment, he replied, "You might have momentarily been frightened, but you haven't lost your wits. And you may as well tell me what's going on, because you know I won't leave you be until I know."

She did know that; he wasn't easily deflected. And there really was no reason he couldn't know the truth, especially as he was remaining in Colyton. Shutting the ledger, she returned it to its niche. "I'm running an import business."

He hesitated, then asked, "Is that the new name for smuggling?"

"It's all perfectly legal." Rummaging in a niche, she drew out a sheet of printed paper and handed it to him.

He took it and read, "The Colyton Import Company." He looked up. "A legal importing company that operates in the dead of night?"

His incredulity was transparent; nose in the air, she slid from the stool. "There's no law against it."

She reached past him for the lamp-he anticipated her and lifted it. Laying the paper on the sarcophagus, he waved her to the stairs. Head high, she led the way; as she climbed she became increasingly conscious of the side-to-side sway of her hips. She scampered up the last stairs, but with one step he was beside her, looking beyond her to the church door. Phyllida shut the small door to the crypt; he extinguished the lamp, set it aside, and pulled open the church door. Together, they went out into the night.

He tugged the door shut. She felt his gaze on her face.

"Explain."

Phyllida headed for the common. He fell in beside her, his dark presence more comforting than unnerving. He had the sense not to repeat his command; if he had, she might not have obliged. "This is a smuggling coast. There's always been smugglers here, running goods either heavily taxed or, in more recent times, prohibited because of the war with France. The end of the war led to trade resuming, so the goods previously prohibited could once again be openly imported."

Leaving the graveyard, she continued down the common. "Virtually overnight, smuggling was no longer, or only marginally, profitable. Selling smuggled goods became difficult because merchants could buy the same goods legally at a reasonable price-there was no longer any incentive to take risks. Most of the smugglers are farm laborers-they turn to the night trade to supplement their incomes and support their families. Suddenly, that extra income was no longer there, and the whole"-she gestured-"balance of things hereabouts was in jeopardy."

They crossed the lane and headed down the alley; she waited until they were in the wood before continuing. "The only way I could see to help was to set up the Colyton Import Company. Papa knows all about it-it's entirely legitimate. We pay our excise duties to the Revenue Office in Exeter. Mr. Filing is an accredited collector."

He was following close at her shoulder, head bent as he listened. She glanced his way and saw him shake his head.