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

the pay envelopes, trying to sound soothing as he ordered the young man to give each envelope to its destined owner and to him alone, then to write down when he had done so. And he made a list for Miss Russell, praying that she would be back from Cintra in time to take over a few of the tasks.

He managed neither lunch nor dinner – but then, at this stage of a production, he was well accustomed to surviving on cold coffee and stale rolls.

The sail-makers weren’t going to finish in time: Hale arranged to have two and all their equipment go along and finish the job while at sea.

Maurice, the kitchen’s prima donna (and that was definitely the correct gender) came wringing his hands, having seen the conditions under which he would be forced to labour. Since every kitchen Maurice encountered was inadequate for his purposes, beginning with that borrowed from a famous Parisian restaurant for Gay Paris fifteen years ago, Hale had anticipated the visit. He handed Maurice a note to the city’s top restaurant supplier in the Bairro Alta, instructing them to bill Fflytte Films for anything the chef might require. Maurice seized Hale’s face and kissed both his cheeks, as he always did, and went away singing “Va, pensiero” in an eerie falsetto.

Then one of the hotel’s staff – Harold Scott’s unofficial valet – came in with a piece of paper in one hand, and Hale’s heart sank. The actor playing the Major-General had spent the last week with his foot on a cushion, partly due to the gout but also because he required little rehearsing with the others. But it had been a mistake to leave him alone, and here was the result. “In hospital? For God’s sake, it’s only gout!” The cowering non-valet tried to reassure Hale that Scott would be fine in a few days. “I don’t need him in a few days, I need him now!”

“Mr Scott feels terrible about it, but truly, he is in miserable condition. And he’s found you a replacement, a most adequate replacement.”

“Oh yes, some scruffy drinking companion who doesn’t speak any English. I can’t believe-”

“No, honestly, the gentleman is a very presentable Englishman. He lacks the, er, physical attributes of Mr Scott, but he’s worn padding before, and is an accomplished actor. He even knows the lines, although I realise that won’t be nec-”

“Hell. Where is this paragon? I should at least see him before I go out to the hospital and skin Mr Scott alive.”

“He’s just downstairs, shall I-?”

“God, can anything else go wrong? Yes, bring him along and we’ll see how deep the hole is.”

But in the event, the hole proved a shallow one, and although the substitute Major-General was entirely the wrong build, being very tall and thin and about a decade older than Hale would have wished, there was a certain air about him, and he clearly knew the part.

Hale listened to the man’s precise, if spoken, rendition of the words, grudgingly admiring the combination of speed and clarity: He might be saying “IamtheverymodelofthemodernMajor-General,” but one heard each word clearly. He even shaped a decent cadence around the impossible bits, and when he produced “I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabulus In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous”em› without pausing for breath, Hale waved him to a halt.

“I don’t know if you’re running from the law or selling cocaine to the convent girls, but I’d appreciate it if you try not to get yourself arrested before we leave tomorrow. If you do, I’ll have to play the damn Major-General myself.”

As he shook the thin hand of this newly minted father-of-thirteen, Hale reflected uneasily that the fellow looked far too intelligent and sensible for an actor. But that was all the time he had for reflection: At that moment Artie appeared in the doorway, tears running down his face while two irate pirates glared over his narrow shoulders.

The new Major-General excused himself, saying that he would see if he could locate portions of a uniform suitable for his frame.

Artie sidled into the room. “Mr Hale, I’m so sorry, but these two fellows tell me they didn’t get their pay, although I could have sworn-”

And after Artie, Fflytte came with news of how the swarms of workmen they’d hired had done wonders on the Harlequin, rendering it not only sea-worthy, but actress-worthy. And then the charabanc-load of girls made it back at last and he had to hear how that went, and somehow fit in a review of the film Will Currie had shot. After which Bibi came to demand that her feather bed be installed on the ship, if she wasn’t to look haggard from lack of sleep when the camera was on her. Then Graziella Mazzo slithered in, batting her dark eyelashes at him and saying that surely she had misunderstood the arrangements, that she could not possibly be expected to sleep with all the girls in one room, and when Hale patiently explained that there were few actual cabins available on the ship, and that it was only for two or three nights, she pouted; when that did not soften his heart, she looked daggers at him; and when he still would not give way, she flounced out in her Isadora- inspired draperies to find Fflytte. Then Maurice came back and needed Hale to approve of the menus he had devised. And Randolph put his head in to say Graziella had decided to go visit her family in Naples. And … And … And …

* * *

And eventually, they had the last boxes, last actors, last crew crammed on board – except for Artie, who (Hale was not surprised to hear) had arranged to place himself in a sanatorium rather than risk the Harlequin. There was another unsettling incident shortly after they’d cast off, this time with La Rocha rather than Samuel, but the belaying pin missed, and the temper-tantrums of actors was a thing Hale was used to. He made a mental note not to push La Rocha too far, then let Fflytte’s near-concussion slide into the category of Life’s Lessons for Randolph Fflytte.

And so Mr Geoffrey Hale took to his bunk at last, exhausted to the edge of collapse, but content: He had done as much as any man could to bring Pirate King closer to completion.

He slept peacefully, until the screams began.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Enter the MAJOR-GENERAL’s daughters led by MABEL, all in white peignoirs and night-caps, and carrying lighted candles.

AT LEAST I had the sense not to scream out my husband’s name as I saw him floundering behind us in the dark waters. “Hol-” turned into “Help! Man overboard!” as I ran down the deck, flinging into the night anything that might function as a life-ring.

Sailing ships have no brakes. Thus the rescue of a man overboard becomes a somewhat leisurely event (unless, of course, a shark happens by) that degenerates into a cinematic farce, as if scenes of a man falling out of an aeroplane were interspersed with the calm arrangement of his means of rescue by those on the ground: discussion; the fetching of mattresses; further discussion; many lookers-on; the arrangement of pillows; the substitution of one pillow for another; and all the while the individual is tumbling closer and closer towards solid ground. Or in this case, farther and farther away from solid ship.

Adam immediately began to shout and crank the wheel around, while Jack ran forward along the rapidly tilting deck to throw himself at various bits of rigging. I clung to the rails to keep from following Holmes overboard; before I regained my balance, sailors were pouring onto the deck in a fury of activity, directed first by Adam (who seemed to have tied off the wheel before joining the others) and then by Samuel. Men hauled at ropes; sails beat angrily on their beams; other sails made an abrupt collapse down their lines. In less than two minutes, I could feel our forward drive die away.

In the sudden silence, the first of Harlequin’s passengers ventured out, tugging at dressing gown belts, patting at rumpled hair, picking their way through the unbelievable quantities of rope that now littered the decks. Soon, the ship’s entire population was at the rails, all of them with suggestions as to engines, reversing, coming about, and diving in to get our lost Major-General. Edith suggested that we could shoot an arrow with a rope upon it; fortunately for Holmes, no one had a bow.