Pirate King (31 page)

Any plans we might have laid went over the edge seven minutes after they were shown in.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

MABEL
: Young Frederic was to have led you to death and glory.

POLICE
: That is not a pleasant way of putting it.

“Y
OU’VE
WHAT
?” I cried in horror.

“Oh,
good
!” exclaimed the others, along with “Too right!” “That shows him!” “God save the King!” (for some reason), and even “Alan and Bert will rescue us!” (from one of the more excitable girls, momentarily forgetting that our police constables were fictional).

The two diplomatic persons had disturbed us at our breakfast, with half of us still in our dressing-gowns and the other half wearing various of the exotic dressing-up garments from the day before. However, such was the urgency of their mission, they merely cast their eyes away from our state of
déshabillé
and spoke in the direction of the lemon trees.

Clearly, the two had concluded their negotiations over who would speak first before they came here, because once the introductions had been concluded, the French gentleman cleared his throat (this being, after all, a country governed by France) and informed us that ransom had been asked for our safe return to the English community, and M. Dédain and Sir Morgan Brent-Williams had been dispatched (hastily, to judge by Sir Morgan’s poorly shaved chin) so as to bear witness that we were well. (In other words, that we hadn’t already been tipped into the sea.)

This was the first inkling the majority of the women present had that our prolonged presence within these four walls was not merely a side-effect of Randolph Fflytte’s inefficiency. Mrs Hatley set down her tea-cup with a clatter and said sharply, “Young man, don’t be absurd. We’re not being
held
here. We are—” but her admonishment was drowned in the voices of the others, shocked and eager and in the end acknowledging that, indeed, we had not been permitted to leave. I kept a close eye on young Edith, lest she blurt out that
one
of us anyway had gone a-wandring, but she had her lips mashed together so tightly, the words stayed in.

Sir Morgan then cleared
his
throat to request silence. His own speech repeated much of what M. Dédain had said, which suggested that his frown during M. Dédain’s monologue was not due to disagreement, but because he was hard of hearing. His audience was beginning to grow restless in its desire for originality when he drew a piece of paper from one breast pocket, a pair of reading spectacles from another, and began to read off our names, pausing after each to locate the respondent. The last name was Graziella Mazzo, and it took a while to convince him that she had left the crew under her own authority back in Lisbon. The news caused some consternation and shaking of heads, but it was finally admitted that neither English nor French citizens could expect to have any control over an Italian
danseuse
.

At the end, satisfied that we were all (with the regrettable exception of La Graziella) alive and present, he folded away his page and said, “I understand that the men of your party are being kept in separate quarters. We shall go there next. But rest assured, ladies, that we shall soon have you away from this foul and dreadful place.”

The songbird in the tree chose that moment to launch into a gentle ripple of notes, rather belying the keenness of our suffering, but the King’s representative went on, undeterred (or perhaps unhearing). “These rascals imagine that they can play fast and loose with British citizens, but we shall show them otherwise! We have already taken their chief into custody—a rough-looking type with a scar, can’t imagine how you ladies stood having him near.”

“You’ve
what
?” I cried in horror.

“Oh, good!” exclaimed the others, and our contrary opinions filled the courtyard. I stepped over the chorus of dissenting opinion to seize the man’s arm. “You mustn’t do that. If you arrest him, it will make the problem far, far worse!”

His stout expression wavered as his eyes drifted to his companion, and I was not surprised when he said, “Madam, I might have agreed with you, had it been my decision, but as M. Dédain explained to me, the French have their own way of dealing with such things.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that “their own way of dealing with such things” might well duplicate the bloody Fez uprising of 1912, but voicing my apprehension risked plunging the gathering into the tedium of hysteria. Instead, I permitted him to go on with his little speech, his awkward enquiry as to whether we had any … particular needs (to his patent relief, the needs expressed were no more intimate than fresh cow’s milk and a packet of English biscuits), and his promise to convey any letters we might wish to send home with utmost dispatch, ending with a heartfelt declaration that His Majesty’s Government—and that of France, but perhaps not that of Italy—would not rest until we were safely in the bosoms of our families again. And that he would be back on the morrow.

The women, naturally, erupted with questions.

“How much ransom are they demanding?”

“The picture will still go ahead, won’t it?”

“Will we be paid for our time here?”

“Mr Fflytte wants—”

“Mr Hale said—”

“My agent won’t—”

“My family will—”

“I can’t possibly go into—” Sir Morgan protested, blanching at the thought of discussing finances with ladies.

“I’m sure they’re asking more ransom for me,” Bibi said.

“You!”
Mrs Hatley was outraged. “They’d throw you in for nothing.”

“Why, you—” Annie and three others dove in to separate the two furious divas, allowing the alarmed diplomats to beat a hasty retreat for the door, with me foremost among those in their wake.

I hated to do it—oh,
how
I hated to do it!—but with this many innocents being caught up in a well-meaning but potentially catastrophic process, I had to speak up. As Sir Morgan turned to pound on the door, I thrust forward to murmur as loudly as I could into his ear, “You need
urgently
to consult with Mr Mycroft Holmes in the Treasury Office. Urgently!”

Not that Mycroft would be in time to stop the gun-boats entirely, but he might possess a spanner sufficient to slow the works, and permit us time to work.

The door closed; a hubbub of outrage and tears and
How dare theys
and
I knew there was something wrongs
shocked the little songbirds into silence. But as if to speak up for its fellow creatures, a terrifying but familiar scream ripped away the clamour of the mere humans; our chins jerked upwards to the shape on the rooftop grate.

“The people will rise!” it roared, adding darkly, “She was a phantom of delight.”

There above us, its head descending through a square too small for the rest of its body, perched La Rocha’s parrot, in search of its gaoled master. Lesser voices held their silence for a moment, then as one burst into the relief of laughter. When conversation started up again, the panic had retreated, although talk was no more coherent than at their first reaction.

Annie calmly went to fetch herself coffee, and brought it back to sit at my side.

“This makes matters considerably more serious,” she murmured around the cup.

“We have to get them out of here.”

“And abandon the men?”

Our presence might be the only thing keeping the men from slaughter. “No, we have to get them, too.”

“I’d say we have at least three or four days before …”

“I agree. I’ll talk to Holmes tonight, and co-ordinate our resources. I gave him a pen-knife. I wish I still had my revolver.”

“I have one.”

“You do? How did they not find it?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Probably not. But you only have the one?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Pity, it might have given the men’s side an edge.”

“We could let them have it. Just barricade ourselves behind the door and trust that His Majesty will reach us before the pirates break it down.”

“We may have to.”

“If you want to take it with you tonight, let me know.”

“What are you two talking about?” Edith demanded.

Not missing a beat, Annie said, “We were agreeing how smashing you look in that garment.”

Men in this place wore long robes (not, in fact, night-shirts) called
galabiyyas
, with or without hoods, of plain fabric but often with elaborate embroidery down the front. The women’s garments, called
kaftans
, were nearly identical—to an outsider. Edith’s
galabiyya
had been made for a taller person, but we did, after all, have an official seamstress with us, for whom it had been no task at all to raise a few hems.

Edith looked unconvinced, but couldn’t help glancing down at the thick intertwining pattern decorating the front of the otherwise plain brown garment. “I need a belt for my knife.” Somehow, the child had adopted (and what was more, managed to retain) one of the pirates’ dummy knives, impressive but useless for anything more demanding than cleaning beneath one’s fingernails.

Annie stood up. “Lots of men wear their weapons in a sort of sash. I’m sure we can find something that will do.”

And thus the long day began, with the worst possible news and a dive into the dressing-up box. Many, many maddeningly long hours later, during which every possible permutation of our captivity and rescue had been mooted, I finally took up my climbing rope and Annie’s revolver and made my escape over the wall.

Holmes was expecting me, the shutter-latch already open. The odour from within suggested that a candle had recently been extinguished, lest it outline my figure dangling outside, but the room remained dimly illuminated by the light seeping around the door. His hand came out, reassuring and warm. I adjusted the rope so the pressure was to the side of the previous bruises rather than directly on top of them, and greeted him.

“Were you permitted to converse with the two diplomatic gentlemen this morning?” I asked.

“Briefly, but enough to see that they are working hard to shape a disaster. You caught the messages I embedded into the song?”

“That Hale is not a villain?”

“When La Rocha and Samuel came for Hale the other evening, it was to compose letters to the British and French authorities. Ransom has been set, two thousand guineas a head in British or French currency, to be paid the day after tomorrow.”

“Hale told you this? And you believe him?”

“I think him an unskilled actor. In any event, his claim is verified by Maurice.”

“The cook?”

“He is French, so Samuel handed him the letter and had him translate it aloud into English, or enough of it to satisfy him that it was as he had instructed.”

“Two thousand guineas a head,” I mused.

“They must be in a hurry to conclude the business, else they’d have asked for more.”

“Well,” I said, “Annie thinks—oh, that’s right, you don’t know—oh, for heaven’s sake, Holmes, if I try to tell it all out here, I’ll never make it up the rope again. Move back.”

Between my wriggling and Holmes’ tugging I got inside without a huge amount of noise or loss of skin, and I was alone with my husband for the first time since Lestrade’s bombshell of a letter had arrived in Sussex. He relit his candle and we sat, shoulder to shoulder, as I recounted the events since last we had met.

“When I returned to the rooftop the other night,” I began, “two of the girls were waiting for me. Though one is a boy, and the other is Mycroft’s man.”

He reached into his garment and came out with his tobacco pouch; clearly this was a tale requiring thought. His hand went still when I told him Annie’s theory about white slavery, and although I tried to keep it light, by that time I more than half believed it myself. The grimness with which he continued filling the pipe bowl suggested that he did, too.

When I had finished, he asked a question that seemed to have nothing to do with it.

“Am I correct in thinking that from your side, there is no view of the water?”

“A slice to the south and another to the north, but you’re right, the wall they put up to separate the two houses blocks most of it.”

“Then you will not have seen the British gun-boat, lying offshore.”

To that, there could be little response but an expletive. I readily provided one, adding, “Do they think they can shell the town?”

“I shouldn’t say the verb
think
applies in this case.”

“And Holmes, they’ve arrested La Rocha.”

“That explains why one keeps hearing the parrot.”

“Searching for his master, yes.”

“A person would imagine Lestrade was in charge here,” he muttered.

“Sir Morgan intends to come back tomorrow with biscuits and fresh milk, and to take away any letters we wish to send home.”

“They won’t permit him inside the city wall.”

“I agree.”

“Tell me the rest of your day.”

My story took some telling, but eventually I came to the distasteful admission of my surreptitious message to the English envoy. I added, “I have to say, however, that the name seemed to have no effect on him. Either he is ignorant of Mycroft, or so hard of hearing that he missed the message entirely.”