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

case.

“The boy’s running errands for his mother,” he called to the taller guard.

“Must you listen to that noise all night?” I asked, with a gesture upwards: Holmes, too, had managed a room over the street, although his window was so narrow as to be impassable.

The man answered with a gutter curse, a new one to me. “When I go in tomorrow morning, I’m going to put my foot through the accursed thing.”

“You will do a service to us all,” I noted sweetly, and went my way. When the violin came to the end of its song, the music did not resume.

For two hours, I quartered the compact walled city, locating the gates, committing to memory the thoroughfares (some of which were wide enough for a motorcar) and the lanes (in which anything but a motorcycle would stick fast). The odours and debris underfoot told me which streets held leather-workers and which sold vegetables, which stalls were coffee-houses and which belonged to barbers. The pound of the sea was the loudest noise I heard, apart from one yowling cat, the clatter of dropped pans from a baker’s shop, and a vicious-sounding argument from an upper room between two women in a language I did not know.

Almost the entire time was spent on paving stones where the buildings came near to touching overhead, or where the sky was kept out by reed thatching. At half past five, with the sky growing light and my heart pounding with the conviction that I would not find the correct house in this mole’s maze, I succeeded in retracing my steps to my lane, to my rope, and to my window-sill. Inside the servant’s cell, I scrubbed off the dirt with a cloth I had wet earlier for that purpose, and set the bars and mortar back into place.

I fell into bed just as the day’s first call to prayer rang out, well pleased with my outing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

GIRLS: At such a time of night as this, so very incompletely dressed …

FORTUNATELY, A HOUSE full of young women does not wake early. I managed a solid three hours of sleep before the sound of voices roused me, and I dressed – wearing a skirt today – to go downstairs.

A banquet of breads, fruit, various spreads, and boiled eggs had been laid out in the courtyard. The air smelt of baking, of oranges, and of fresh-watered soil. The fountain was playing, the small birds dipping in and out.

My companions noticed none of it; clearly, one of them had attempted to leave, and met the same treatment I had the previous afternoon.

I came across the blue-and-white tiles – Miss Mary Russell, the firm’s fix-it girl – and they pounced on me, all talking at once.

“We’re being held prisoner!”

“Annie felt like going for a walk and-”

“-wanted to see the medina-”

“-see the river-”

“-the market-”

“-tried to go out and these rude individuals at the door-”

“-terribly rude, they positively bullied her-”

“I’ll admit, I did feel more than a little threatened.”

“-no English, of course-”

“What was Captain La Rocha thinking, to give us-”

“-none of the servants speaks a bit of-”

“-surely someone in this town-”

“-she tried to insist-”

“-pushed her, just put his hand-”

“Imagine!”

“-native person, acting like-”

“-really most threatening-”

“Miss Russell, you must-”

“-we insist-”

“Please, tell us you’ll-”

“-have to talk to Mr Fflytte-”

“-have to do something-”

I raised one hand. Like a conductor with his orchestra, the chorus of outrage went discordant and trailed away.

“Thank you,” I said. “I hope you slept well?” The chorus threatened to break out again, so I waved my outstretched palm, and continued, “I personally did not sleep very well, I suppose the lack of a ship’s soothing motion seemed odd, so I should like some coffee before the day gets much further along. However, yes, I am aware that we are not being encouraged to leave here just at present. I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Mr Fflytte chose to film these portions of the movie in Sale rather than Rabat, for the sake of realism. Had it been Rabat, which has a large European community, you should have been quite secure walking about at all hours. However, Sale is a small town with a high degree of suspicion regarding outsiders. I imagine that Captain La Rocha did not wish us to be made uncomfortable by the attentions and curiosity of the inhabitants. I’m sure that when we go out, he will provide us with bodyguards. In the meantime, you’ll have to admit that we are most comfortable here. Now, can anyone tell me, is this coffee as good as it smells?”

My phlegmatic attitude, more than my words, gave my fellow prisoners pause for thought. Twenty pairs of eyes followed me to the richly laden table; twenty pairs of ears heard the ting of silver on porcelain as I stirred in the cream; twenty stomachs decided that they might deign to try one of those croissants and some of that pale butter.

Annie seemed to have got over her affront at being ill-treated by the guards. She loaded a plate and filled a cup with tea, then brought them over to where I was sitting, on the wide, decorated edge of the fountain.

“I’m sorry you were frightened,” I told her.

“I was more angry than anything else,” she said. “And it’s frustrating, to not be able to speak to anyone. Even the maid and cooks just stare at one blankly when one asks for another bath-towel.”

“I’d have thought an actress would be skilled at making herself understood.”

“True, but some things are a touch embarrassing. And more complicated forms of communication, such as asking why one is not permitted to leave a door, can be difficult.”

“Yes, I’m sure we’ll find that this is all merely an oversight on Mr Fflytte’s part. Just as he overlooked the problems of arriving on the eve of the Moslem Sabbath.”

“Do you think so?”

I can turn a bland face on anyone short of the Holmes brothers and have it believed. “What else could it be?” I asked mildly. Before she could answer, I went on. “I for one intend to make the most of our paid holiday here, and gather the sun’s rays on the rooftop. And perhaps I ought to take a glance at those French novels in the sitting- room, before the younger girls spot them.”

I abandoned my empty cup and plate to do as I had announced – and did in the end notice one or two books that might be inappropriate for young girls, although I should have to read them to be certain. I carried them to the rooftop and made a show of setting up for a leisurely day of relaxing in the sun. The others, after some hesitation and grumbling, decided to throw over their complaints and take my lead.

By mid-day, we had a ladies’ salon going atop the house. In one corner, Bonnie and Harriet were taking turns translating one of the more innocent French novels aloud to an audience. Some of the mothers had uncovered a supply of embroidery floss and were teaching two of the girls (who in the normal course of events would have nothing to do with needlework) to pick out a design, an experience that became more enticing when I descended to the kitchen, figured out (using gestures and raised eyebrows) which of the inhabitants had been responsible for some of the towelwork, and dragged her up to demonstrate Moroccan designs. Celeste and Ginger were to be in a stage-play when we returned to England and were helping each other with their lines; Edith was teaching Kate and