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

The experts – that is, Samuel and La Rocha – were in agreement that were we to circle back for him (at least, I believe that is what they were saying) we would do little more than move farther out of his range.

“What about the motor?” Mrs Hartley asked.

“I heard one of them say that they’d broken it altogether,” Annie said. Inevitably, it was Underfoot-Annie who had overheard a conversation.

“What about the oars?” I suggested. They might slow our drift, if not actually reverse it.

Samuel had the same idea, and began shouting orders at the men, who leapt to do his bidding, tripping over the girls, puzzling over how to fit the lengths of wood into the brackets, dropping them overboard, cracking each other’s skulls …

I hauled Annie down the deck to where one of the ship’s boats hung in its davits. I jerked loose the front tie, thrust the rope into her hand, then jumped to loose the other end. “Let it out at the same speed I do,” I ordered.

The men were too occupied to notice what we were doing. In a minute, the boat’s hull kissed the water, and I – knowing enough about small vessels to have a clear image of what would happen if my weight hit in off-centre – scrambled out over the tackles above it. I paused a moment, to be certain the thing had not immediately sunk, then dropped gently into it.

Samuel’s voice rang out, commanding me to stop. But I had the tackles and painter free and managed to shove away from the hull before he could interfere. “I won the school rowing championship when I was fifteen,” I called. “It’ll only take me a few minutes to reach him, you’ll just weigh us down.” I lit the small lamp that dangled from the skiff’s prow, then dropped myself onto the seat and the oars into their rowlocks.

There was a pang I cannot deny as the lights of the only firm place in many miles grew farther and farther away. On the other hand, the man I had nearly killed grew ever closer, letting fly with the occasional splash to keep me on the right path.

Nine minutes later, I shipped the oars and looked over the side at Holmes. “You look like a drowned rat,” I said, and put down a hand to help haul him up.

“I’m grateful that your aim was off, or I’d have gone over the side unconscious.”

“My aim wasn’t off, I changed my mind at the last moment. Here, this blanket should be warmer than the coat.” We peeled away some layers of sodden wool, and I wrapped him in the thick blanket that I had been keeping warm with my backside.

I looked over my shoulder at Harlequin. She was alarmingly small and indistinct. I grabbed the oars and got to work.

“All right, Holmes, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m your new Major-General. I thought it best to stay out of sight until we’d had a chance to talk.”

“Good Lord. Hale said that Mr Scott was taken ill, but – why?”

“Mr Scott was taken ill because I paid him – generously – to exchange a sailing ship for a sleeper train bound for the south of France.”

“You know damned well that is not what I was asking. Talk, and be quick about it – once we reach the ship, we may not have a moment to ourselves until we get to Morocco.”

“The letter you wrote on Saturday very fortunately reached me on Wednesday. It was a test of my brother’s machinery to get me to Lisbon in twenty-four hours.”

“But, why?”

“Because I was beginning in Sussex, and as you will recall-”

“Holmes, I’ll tip you back over the side!” I hissed. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

“Because of the scar on your pirate king.”

“La Rocha?”

“A man can have many names, but few men could have that wound.”

“Who is he?”

“A pirate. Among other things.”

I looked over my shoulder at the ship. It was close enough now to see by the swinging lamp-light that most of the others had gone back to their bunks – once they knew who had gone over, and saw the skiff beat the dorsal fins to the swimmer, they’d grown bored and returned to their warm cocoons. Still, we only had a few minutes before our voices would be heard by those remaining.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes. Piracy was squashed two hundred years ago.”

“So long as men sail the seas, there will be pirates. La Rocha comes from a Moroccan family with a history of piracy – the accent is not as strong in his cousin.”

“Cousin? You mean Samuel?”

“His name is Selim, and they may be half-brothers instead of cousins, but yes. Although not all of the men share their linguistic history.”

My hands faltered as the Arabic name trickled down and stirred a memory: Selim. Selim the Grim. Who in 1512 became the Ottoman emperor and promptly set about slaughtering his brothers and nephews, lest they become a threat.…

I bent over the oars again: best to think of something else.

“I thought the men were Portuguese.”

“Oh, Russell, surely you-”

“Holmes!” This was no time to scold me for a mistake in accent identification.

“La Rocha took that scar in the second year of the War, when a small boat laden with gold and valuables escaped Turkey ahead of the Allied Forces. Nothing could be proved, no evidence was found. No doubt he is aware that the eyes of many agencies have been upon him for all this time, but to all appearances, he lives in peaceful retirement in his new home.”

“By ‘agencies,’ you mean Mycroft?” Damn: I knew this had something to do with the man.

“Keep rowing,” he ordered. “We don’t want them to wonder what topic two apparent strangers find so engrossing. Bad enough that it was you who came after me.”

“You’d have drowned, waiting for the others to make up their minds. Mycroft?”

“I’d have made it eventually. Yes, no doubt La Rocha is on Mycroft’s long-term list of interests.”

I thought that Mycroft’s interest was more immediate than “long-term,” but prising an admission out of Holmes – since that admission would also mean that Mycroft was ultimately behind my own presence here – might necessitate rowing in circles around Harlequin until the new day dawned, and I wanted my bed. Hammock. I went on as if Holmes had readily confessed an active focus from his brother’s shadowy agency.

“Is this to do with the missing secretary, Lonnie Johns? Has she been found?”

“A shoe very like hers was found at the top of a cliff near Portsmouth. The other was retrieved from a Jack Russell terrier, well chewed. Police theory being that the woman committed suicide, but that her note had been held down by the shoe the dog removed.”

The shadowy boat before me was replaced by images from a screen: pretty young girl; flowered frock that the wind presses against her lithe form; made-up eyes stretched with sadness; a note, tucked under her shoe; with a last woebegone look around her, her figure is replaced by:

I can live no longer, please forgive me!

And then: empty cliff-top; the approach of a small and business-like dog, applying its button nose to the shoe atop the fluttering note … I shook the images from my head. “So what is La Rocha up to?”

“I have no idea.”

“Right.”

“On my honour, Russell, I do not.”

“Then why risk life and limb to race down here? A telegram would have sufficed. Oh, don’t tell me you’re going all protective on me, Holmes?” Granted, our last case had been rather trying, scattering us across half of Europe as we strained to communicate, but still.

“I thought you might be glad of reinforcements.”

We had come into the edges of the light from the ship, just enough that, by leaning forward, I could make