A quick conference ensued, then the spokesman approached. “If we agree, will you show us these quarries?”

“If we agree, I’ll take over right now. If not, say so, and I’ll be off.” Delia pranced.

The man sent a glance around his companions, then turned back to her. “Deal. What moniker do ye go by?”

“Kit.”

“Right then, young Kit. Lead on.”

It took them an hour to reach the quarries and find a suitable deserted tunnel to use as a base. By then, Kit had learned a great deal more of the small band. They contracted for cargoes through the inns in King’s Lynn. Whatever they brought ashore, they hid in the cave for a few nights before transferring it by pack pony to the ruined abbey at Creake.

“S’been a clearinghouse for years, hereabouts. We show the goods to the old crone who lives in the cottage close by, and she’s always got our cut ready an’ waiting.”

“The old woman has the money?”

“Oh, aye. She be a witch, so the money’s safe with her.”

“How very convenient.” Someone, somewhere, had put considerable effort into organizing the Norfolk smugglers. An unwelcome thought surfaced. “Are there any other gangs operating about here?”

The large man went by the unenviable name of Noah. “Not on the west here, no. But there’s a gang east of Hunstanton. Big gang, that is. We’ve never come across ’em, though.”

And I hope you never will, Kit thought. These poor souls were a remarkably simple lot, not given to unnecessary violence, fisherman driven to smuggling in order to feed their families. But somewhere out there lurked real smugglers, the sort who committed the atrocities proclaimed in the handbills. She’d no desire whatever to meet them. Keeping clear of this Hunstanton Gang seemed a good idea.

Once the lace was stored, she gave orders, crisply and clearly, about how they were to pass the cargo on. She also insisted they operate from the quarries henceforth.