The Devil in Amber (10 page)

‘It is the captain,’ she hissed in my ear.

So here was Captain Corpusty again, whom I’d glimpsed only briefly when he stood deep in conversation with Mons a mere twenty-four hours before. At close quarters, his face was like a battered sail, strung tight across his bones as though against a force-ten gale. And just as the sailmaker might have patched and worried at the old canvas, so Corpusty’s flesh was uneven and terribly scarred. Jaundiced eyes popped out from sweaty, shadowed flesh. He glanced at me for the briefest of moments and was about to resume his patrol of the deck when he suddenly swung back round.

‘This our passenger, is it, Aggie?’ he rumbled.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sal Volatile,’ I croaked, holding out a trembling hand that the captain declined to shake.

‘And how are you finding us aboard the
Stiffkey
, Mr Volatile?’

‘Well,’ I said airily, ‘I’ve only just become acquainted with your friend here, though we did run into a charming one-armed fellow who seemed awful anxious to serve up corned beef for breakfast.’

Corpusty’s disastrous face twisted into a semblance of a grin.
‘Oh, old Bullfrog’s bark is worse than his bite. But then, since I cut his tongue out, he don’t have much of a bark.’

‘You…?’

‘I prize loyalty above all things, sir. Bullfrog got himself soused one night in ’Frisco and fell to telling tales about me. He won’t never tell those tales again.’

I swallowed another gobbet of bile. ‘Expect not.’

‘But he’s loyal now,’ continued the captain. ‘And he keeps a watchful eye on things for me.’

I nodded breezily. ‘Right-oh! Well, I must be getting below. Haven’t found the old sea legs yet. Good day, Captain.’

Aggie helped me towards the steps. I was aware of Corpusty’s eyes on my back the whole time.

B
y the next day, after some food and a modicum of hot water, I was feeling a little better. Aggie and I had become sufficiently pally for me to enquire as to the possibility of getting some togs more suitable for the crossing and I was sitting on the bed that night, the ship pitching horrendously in a gale, grey water slapping at the porthole, when her light knock sounded.

‘Yes?’

The girl’s head appeared around the jamb. ‘I have them,’ she said solemnly.

I jumped from the bed and relieved her of a pile of clothes, shaking them out and holding them up to the dim light. A cable-knit sweater, moleskin trousers, thick socks and stout boots comprised my friend’s booty yet I fell on them as though they were treasure. I swore a secret vow never again to be so damned fussy about my appearance, knowing that I would recant on such a promise at the first sight of a decent bit of Jermyn Street.

Without a thought to my modesty, I stripped off the wretched
vest and culottes and shrugged on the new clothes.

Aggie cast her gaze at the floor, blushing.

‘You’re a miracle worker, Aggie,’ I enthused, pulling the sweater onto my bare torso.

‘You must not say such things,’ she muttered.

‘It’s the exact and literal truth.’

‘No, no,’ she cried, earnestly. ‘I am only a foolish girl and miracles are not performed by the likes of me.’

I stopped in the process of putting on my new boots. ‘What a queer thing to say. Did someone tell you that?’

Aggie looked at me searchingly for a moment, then cleared her throat. ‘It was not too hard to find the clothes. There is much clobber’–she said the word with utmost care–‘aboard the
Stiffkey
. They will not be missed.’

She cleared her throat again, lifted off her woollen cap and scratched her head.

I caught her meaning, nodded and reached into my money belt. As I handed over some dollar bills I saw Aggie’s gaze stray to the belt. Hurriedly, I pulled down the jersey. We might be getting on well but I could hardly trust her. I might yet wake in the night to find her pretty face looming over me and a dagger in my ribs.

She put away the money in her back pocket. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’

‘Yes. Why not stay awhile? Have a drink.’ I gestured to the small bottle of Scotch I’d liberated from the blonde’s suitcase.

She shook her head. ‘I must get back. The captain says there is a storm brewing.’

As though to emphasize the point, the vessel gave a great roll and Aggie and I almost toppled to the floor. She fell into my arms and I laughed, but the girl looked confused and hastily got to her feet.

‘I can only apologize,’ she said quietly.

‘For what?’ I cried. ‘I’m not an ogre, you know, my dear.’

‘This I know.’

‘Well, then. What say you and I become better acquainted?’

Aggie looked shocked. I had meant what it sounded like I meant, naturally, but I quickly converted my statement into something far more innocuous. ‘Tell me your story.’

‘No, no. I must go. I shall…I shall see you tomorrow.’

She averted her eyes again and slipped out into the corridor, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I’d discovered from the girl that the
Stiffkey
was heading for Norfolk, swinging round the south coast of England and putting in at one or other of the tiny harbours that pepper that haunted coastline. The thought of home, however straitened my circumstances, was like a balm. Flarge would ensure I was a wanted man but I felt that the reassurance of British soil would do me the power of good.

But what exactly was I to do when I got there? Continue with my mission to investigate Mons? Plead my case with the frankly unsympathetic Joshua Reynolds? Or piece together whatever strange clues linked the silken relic (presumably the ‘lamb’ of which Volatile had spoken) and the dead man’s reference to the Convent of St Bede?

I lay back on the bunk, luxuriating in the relative freshness of my linen. The old divine’s name, of course, suggested some northern locale, possibly as far as Northumberland, but I had a vague intuition that the
Stiffkey
had been chosen for a reason. After all, Volatile was desperate to find safety. It wasn’t in his interests to go tramping across half of England when he felt sure his life was in peril.

But all that could wait until I was on terra firma. For now, I had the
Stiffkey
to investigate. The ship was apparently carrying dry goods–a description that might cover a multitude of sins. I knew Mons had some interest in the old bucket, but what? He and Corpusty had been thick as thieves when I’d seen them on the quayside what seemed like weeks before. A spot of rooting about was definitely in order.

I waited until the ship had settled down for the night before slipping out of my cabin.

Keeping snug to the stained woodwork of the corridor, I crept into the old tub’s bowels, passing the captain’s door–no sign of life–and the galley. I peered into the gloom. Bullfrog the cook lay in a stained hammock that creaked back and forth with the motion of the ship. But he wasn’t alone. His good arm was draped over, of all things, a salted pig. It nestled alongside him in the hammock, glazed eyes seeming to watch me as I slipped past the door. These voyages do get awful lonely, don’t you know?

There was even less light down here but I knew I was getting close to the engine rooms. Sea water sloshed about my ankles and there came the constant tattoo of shifting cargo, banging about in the hold.

I chose the closest door and stole inside. The hold was foetid and in total darkness so I lit a match, trusting that Captain Corpusty’s ‘dry goods’ were not sticks of dynamite. In the brief flare of light, I saw that I was surrounded by about a dozen crates, each branded with what looked like a Maltese cross. I used the remaining light to position myself by the nearest crate and then, as the match spent itself, began to wrench at the lid in the darkness.

The wood protested as I managed to force my ruined fingernails between the slats and then, with an astonishingly loud
crack
, the lid broke open. I felt about inside the crate and was answered by a curious dry, stirring sound. I fumbled in my trouser pocket and drew out the matchbox, lit another lucifer and stared down at the treasure. I laughed lightly. Of the things I thought I might see…

The crate was full of Communion wafers.

‘
Hosts
of them,’ I grunted to myself.

I turned in shock as the door to the hold swung open and a figure was revealed, silhouetted against the dim light from the corridor.

‘Mr Volatile?’

It was Aggie. I breathed a sigh of relief, got to my feet and stepped back into the corridor. Taking the girl by the arm, I flashed her my most endearing smile. ‘Best not say anything about this, my dear. I lost my way, you see, and was so damned curious about what this old wreck might be carrying—’

But Aggie had a puzzled look on her face as if my sneaking about was of no consequence. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she said with her accustomed gravitas, ‘but the captain asks if you would be so good as to join him for a
nightcap
.’

I straightened up in surprise. ‘Eh?’

Aggie nodded. ‘You are privileged, Mr Volatile. Captain Corpusty does not usually find time for such pleasantries.’

That was what worried me.

Nevertheless, I closed the door to the hold and dutifully followed Aggie out into the listing corridor. Another set of steps and we were at the captain’s door.

A barked ‘
Come!
’ was the response to Aggie’s knock and I was ushered in.

The cabin was a riot of disorder; charts and books lay everywhere, drawings and photographs had been tacked to the wooden walls and there were grotesquely carved African masks and a guitar made from alligator-hide slung lazily from the ceiling.

Captain Corpusty was of a piece with his room. He looked up from his contemplation of a book and the lamplight flashed in his yellowish eyes.

‘Ah, yes. Mr…Volatile.’

I shook his hand. ‘At your service, Captain.’

‘No, no. No indeed. It is I who should be at yours, sir. I’m heartily sorry not to have properly extended my hospitality earlier in the voyage but I’m a busy man, as you can see.’

He gestured about at the disarray and gave a helpless shrug. His gaze flicked over my shoulder. ‘That will be all, Aggie.’

The girl flashed me a worried look and slipped out, the door
clicking behind her. Something about the captain’s manner and the memory of those eyes boring into my back made me extremely jumpy all of a sudden. Why had the previously unresponsive Corpusty suddenly turned so friendly?

‘Drink?’

I accepted gratefully and relished the grog, though the captain knocked back his own measure of brandy in one go. I cradled the chipped custard glass and smiled warmly at him.

‘I’m very grateful for your expert seamanship, sir,’ I began. ‘I know the Atlantic can be treacherous and—’

‘Now, then,’ he cut across me abruptly, ‘let’s not waste time.’

‘How’s that?’ I queried.

Corpusty glanced idly down at his book and I caught sight of the lurid, hand-coloured illustrations. ‘It’s a rum old life out here on the seas,’ he grumbled, like some old-world pirate, ‘but we’re more up to date than you might expect. The
Stiffkey
’s got many of the modern conveniences.’

I found this very hard to believe. ‘Really? Don’t tell me that cook of yours is a maestro trained at Delmonico’s?’

He gave a throaty laugh and his grey skin puckered unpleasantly about the eyes. ‘No, sir. But we do have wireless. And we picks up all kinds of chatter on a lonely night. All kinds of chatter…
Mr Box.
’

I felt suddenly cold. As cold as though I’d been standing on the prow of the rusty old vessel and Atlantic spray had covered me head to foot. ‘Aha,’ I said at last.

Corpusty rubbed at his chin and it made a sound like sandpaper. ‘Fact is, there’s all hell broken loose. The Yanks are after you and have put out a description and a mighty big reward. All I have to do is wire them and the British coppers’ll be ready with a nice welcoming party when we pitch up in Norfolk.’

I looked levelly at him. ‘So why haven’t you?’

‘P’raps I’ve got a natural sympathy for those a little outside the law.’

Oh, Lor, I thought. It can’t be my body he’s after, can it? Bullfrog’s porcine pal showed how lonesome these jack tars could get but surely there were nicer sprats to be landed? And, if like me, he travelled on the number 38 bus as well as the 19 (you get my drift) then a comely little piece like Aggie was surely more in the grizzled old fellow’s line? Perhaps it was the novelty he craved. Able to take his pick of the fresh-faced young’uns, Corpusty had long ago tired of feeling the hot, quick breath of the cabin girl as she slipped onto his grimy mattress.

An extremely unpleasant vision leapt into my mind and I hastily banished it. Corpusty seemed to read my thoughts and slammed his meaty fist onto his desk. ‘I’m not a savage, sir!’ he barked. Then he gestured around the squalid cabin. ‘As you can see.’

For the first time, I looked in some detail at the pictures that had been tacked to the walls. To my utter astonishment, I now saw that they were, to a man, photographic representations of Old Masters. Here was Velázquez sharing a warped beam with a Venetian Madonna. An unfinished Romney overlapped the capacious bosom of a flabby Rubens. And dotted between them, Sargents, Whistlers and…me! I recognized in quick succession the portrait I’d done of Lloyd George just after the end of the last show that the House of Commons had commissioned, then refused to hang, and an earlier picture of a lovely girl with cornflowers in her hair, which had first brought me to the world’s attention.

Captain Corpusty nodded solemnly. ‘As I say, Mr Box, I am not a savage. If fate had conspired otherwise, I might have made a living from the canvas and the brush as you have done, but I wasn’t so lucky. But I’ve a brain in my head and a keen eye for beauty. And I should deem it an honour, an
honour
, sir, if you would consent to cast an eye over my humble scribblings.’

I blinked in absolute astonishment.

‘Good God,’ I breathed at last. ‘You’re a fan!’