Pirate King: A novel of suspense featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes

can conveniently make them.

“MOROCCO? BUT – BUT I thought we were going to film on the boat for a day or two and then get on the steamer!”

“She’s a ship, by the way, in case you’d rather avoid a lecture from Randolph-‘boat’ from a new hand suggests derision. Randolph decided that using her as transport would be a way to recoup some of the money we’d put out for repairs.” Fflytte hadn’t the courage to tell us himself, I thought: He’d sent Hale to do the job.

“We’ll all drown.”

“Actually, I was surprised. She’s more sea-worthy than she looks.”

“A bath-tub without a plug would be more sea-worthy than that boat looks.”

“Believe me, my reaction was the same as yours. I went down yesterday and poked around in all the corners. Beneath the surface untidiness, she’s been maintained – the bilge is even dry. I had to have them add water to test the pumps.”

I put a hand to my forehead: The very word bilge made me queasy. “But, the sails?”

“There’s enough to fill the camera lens,” he answered, adding, “It does have an engine.”

Oh, this was getting better every moment: stinking fumes to add to the heave of the boat.

“Although it only goes forward, for some reason,” he added. “But we have the sweeps, as back-up.”

“Sweeps?”

“Long oars.”

“I know what sweeps are. But who do you envision pulling them? Bibi and Mrs Hatley? The girls? Oh God – has Fflytte got it into his head that the pirates would use the girls as galley slaves?” I really would shoot the man. Or brain him with one of his oars. Sweeps.

“The crew will pull them. And as I said, it’s only as back-up.”

“How many days …?”

“To Morocco? Three or four.”

Meaning five, on a small and leaky tub, shoulder to shoulder with three dozen members of Fflytte Films and sixteen pirates – plus the ship’s crew, however many that was. I may have groaned.

Hale laughed, and gave my shoulder a comradely slap. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over in no time.”

I could always go home. I was not proving very successful in my assignment, in any event, which in all probability meant not that I was failing, but that there was no case here to investigate. Secretaries flee, drugs and guns are sold: The reasons for suspecting criminality among Fflytte’s crew were so ephemeral as to be nonexistent.

But I knew I wouldn’t.

Instead, I retrieved my increasingly splayed note-pad from my pocket, unclipped the pencil, and asked, “What do you need?”

He handed me a list, a daunting list, filling a sheet to the bottom, and then some. “Oh, and I meant to add, Mr Pessoa promised to find us some traditional Portuguese clothing.”

“I suppose he’s coming with us?” My heart sank at the prospect of explaining that our translator wrote enthusiastic poems about lascivious violence – and worse, explaining how I knew. But to my surprise, Hale was shaking his head.

“No. When I told him that we were going to leave on Saturday, he suggested that enough of the pirates spoke a rudimentary English for us to get by without him.”

“So you didn’t fire him?”

“I didn’t have to, no. In fact, I got the impression that he was quite relieved when I didn’t beg him to stay on. However, there were one or two things left undone, and although he said he’d come by first thing tomorrow, it’s probably better not to depend on him. If he has the clothing, you could give him his final cheque.”

I agreed, somewhat distracted by Hale’s list, and by his information. If there was any villain in this piece (indeed, if there was any villainy) I had thought that Pessoa would be in some way involved. For him willingly to retire suggested either that his part was done, or there had been no part to begin with, other than acting as translator.

As for the rest, it was a very long list.

* * *

I ran Mr Pessoa to earth in an office in the Baixa district, a remarkably unremarkable setting for the would-be poet laureate of Portugal. He was one of a number of men sitting at type-writing machines, cigarettes in mouths, oblivious of the clamour of clacks and dings. I waited for a surge of distaste when I spotted him, but somehow I could not feel it. He was a poet; he wore many personalities; one of those personalities took joy in repugnant images. But I could no more dislike the man himself than I could a young boy who played at shooting Red Indians.

As I wound my way between the desks, trying not to choke on the palpable grey mist oozing into my lungs, he came to the end of his document, jerked it from the machine, tucked it into an envelope, and dropped the result into an out-tray on his desk. He looked up and saw me swim out from the smoke.

“Miss Russell! I did not expect to see you again.”

“Mr Hale asked-” He waited politely for my paroxysm of coughing to clear. After a minute, he took his cigarette and crushed it into the overflowing tray, as if that would help. Finally, I managed to get out, “Can we speak outside?”

The shock of clean air made matters worse for a time; when I finally drew an uninterrupted breath, Mr Pessoa was looking quite alarmed. He suggested that we get something to drink.

I waved away his concerns, but accepted the offer of refreshment. Which – no surprise – was only a brief walk away, a narrow room fragrant with coffee and sprinkled with student types. Pessoa was so well known there, his cup was handed to him without enquiry. I told the waiter I’d have one of the same, which turned out to be the dribble of powerful coffee essence called bica, similar to the Italian espresso, and just the thing for clearing the lungs. When we were settled and he had begun to roll a cigarette, I said, “Mr Hale wanted me to ask you about Portuguese fancy-dress?”

“Er, do you mean the traditional clothing?”

“Precisely.”

“That should be delivered to the wharf before evening. Do you wish me to check on it?”

“It might be a good idea, thank you. Which reminds me-your cheque.”

He received the slip of paper and tucked it away in his billfold. “It has been an interesting experience, Miss Russell.”

Interesting. Yes. “I understand you won’t be coming on the Harlequin with us.”

“I find I have neither desire nor need to leave my city. Although I will admit, were I to do so, your enterprise might be the one to prise me away.”

I took a cautious sip from my cup, and reached for the sugar. “I don’t think I ever heard how you came to be involved in the first place.”

“A connexion through that office you just saw. They arrange for translations of business documents. I have skills in English and French, and I can work the hours I like. Poetry feeds the soul, but does little to nourish the body or keep out the rain.”

“So Mr Hale contacted you through the translation service?”

Pessoa struck a match, squinted at me through the resulting smoke-cloud. “Indirectly, I believe. He has a friend in London, a solicitor for whom I have translated any number of documents. The friend gave him my name and, when I received his enquiry, I decided that I could as easily do vocal translation as written.”

“Was it Mr Hale himself who wrote to you, or his secretary, Miss Johns?”

“I should imagine it was she, although I don’t remember precisely. I have exchanged letters and telegrams with both.”

“Would you have the letters?”

“Undoubtedly. Although they may have a poem or notes for a story on their reverse side by now. I tend to make full use of all the scraps of paper that come into my possession,” he explained. “Why do you ask?”