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

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

MABEL: Young Frederic was to have led you to death and glory.

POLICE: That is not a pleasant way of putting it.

“YOU’VE WHAT?” I cried in horror.

“Oh, good!” exclaimed the others, along with “Too right!” “That shows him!” “God save the King!” (for some reason), and even “Alan and Bert will rescue us!” (from one of the more excitable girls, momentarily forgetting that our police constables were fictional).

The two diplomatic persons had disturbed us at our breakfast, with half of us still in our dressing-gowns and the other half wearing various of the exotic dressing-up garments from the day before. However, such was the urgency of their mission, they merely cast their eyes away from our state of deshabille and spoke in the direction of the lemon trees.

Clearly, the two had concluded their negotiations over who would speak first before they came here, because once the introductions had been concluded, the French gentleman cleared his throat (this being, after all, a country governed by France) and informed us that ransom had been asked for our safe return to the English community, and M. Dedain and Sir Morgan Brent-Williams had been dispatched (hastily, to judge by Sir Morgan’s poorly shaved chin) so as to bear witness that we were well. (In other words, that we hadn’t already been tipped into the sea.) This was the first inkling the majority of the women present had that our prolonged presence within these four walls was not merely a side-effect of Randolph Fflytte’s inefficiency. Mrs Hatley set down her tea-cup with a clatter and said sharply, “Young man, don’t be absurd. We’re not being held here. We are-” but her admonishment was drowned in the voices of the others, shocked and eager and in the end acknowledging that, indeed, we had not been permitted to leave. I kept a close eye on young Edith, lest she blurt out that one of us anyway had gone a-wandring, but she had her lips mashed together so tightly, the words stayed in.

Sir Morgan then cleared his throat to request silence. His own speech repeated much of what M. Dedain had said, which suggested that his frown during M. Dedain’s monologue was not due to disagreement, but because he was hard of hearing. His audience was beginning to grow restless in its desire for originality when he drew a piece of paper from one breast pocket, a pair of reading spectacles from another, and began to read off our names, pausing after each to locate the respondent. The last name was Graziella Mazzo, and it took a while to convince him that she had left the crew under her own authority back in Lisbon. The news caused some consternation and shaking of heads, but it was finally admitted that neither English nor French citizens could expect to have any control over an Italian danseuse.

At the end, satisfied that we were all (with the regrettable exception of La Graziella) alive and present, he folded away his page and said, “I understand that the men of your party are being kept in separate quarters. We shall go there next. But rest assured, ladies, that we shall soon have you away from this foul and dreadful place.” The songbird in the tree chose that moment to launch into a gentle ripple of notes, rather belying the keenness of our suffering, but the King’s representative went on, undeterred (or perhaps unhearing). “These rascals imagine that they can play fast and loose with British citizens, but we shall show them otherwise! We have already taken their chief into custody – a rough-looking type with a scar, can’t imagine how you ladies stood having him near.” “You’ve what?” I cried in horror.

“Oh, good!” exclaimed the others, and our contrary opinions filled the courtyard. I stepped over the chorus of dissenting opinion to seize the man’s arm. “You mustn’t do that. If you arrest him, it will make the problem far, far worse!” His stout expression wavered as his eyes drifted to his companion, and I was not surprised when he said, “Madam, I might have agreed with you, had it been my decision, but as M. Dedain explained to me, the French have their own way of dealing with such things.” It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that “their own way of dealing with such things” might well duplicate the bloody Fez uprising of 1912, but voicing my apprehension risked plunging the gathering into the tedium of hysteria. Instead, I permitted him to go on with his little speech, his awkward enquiry as to whether we had any … particular needs (to his patent relief, the needs expressed were no more intimate than fresh cow’s milk and a packet of English biscuits), and his promise to convey any letters we might wish to send home with utmost dispatch, ending with a heartfelt declaration that His Majesty’s Government – and that of France, but perhaps not that of Italy – would not rest until we were safely in the bosoms of our families again. And that he would be back on the morrow.

The women, naturally, erupted with questions.

“How much ransom are they demanding?”

“The picture will still go ahead, won’t it?”

“Will we be paid for our time here?”

“Mr Fflytte wants-”

“Mr Hale said-”

“My agent won’t-”

“My family will-”

“I can’t possibly go into-” Sir Morgan protested, blanching at the thought of discussing finances with ladies.

“I’m sure they’re asking more ransom for me,” Bibi said.

“You!” Mrs Hatley was outraged. “They’d throw you in for nothing.” “Why, you-” Annie and three others dove in to separate the two furious divas, allowing the alarmed diplomats to beat a hasty retreat for the door, with me foremost among those in their wake.

I hated to do it – oh, how I hated to do it! – but with this many innocents being caught up in a well-meaning but potentially catastrophic process, I had to speak up. As Sir Morgan turned to pound on the door, I thrust forward to murmur as loudly as I could into his ear, “You need urgently to consult with Mr Mycroft Holmes in the Treasury Office. Urgently!” Not that Mycroft would be in time to stop the gun-boats entirely, but he might possess a spanner sufficient to slow the works, and permit us time to work.

The door closed; a hubbub of outrage and tears and How dare theys and I knew there was something wrongs shocked the little songbirds into silence. But as if to speak up for its fellow creatures, a terrifying but familiar scream ripped away the clamour of the mere humans; our chins jerked upwards to the shape on the rooftop grate.

“The people will rise!” it roared, adding darkly, “She was a phantom of delight.” There above us, its head descending through a square too small for the rest of its body, perched La Rocha’s parrot, in search of its gaoled master. Lesser voices held their silence for a moment, then as one burst into the relief of laughter. When conversation started up again, the panic had retreated, although talk was no more coherent than at their first reaction.

Annie calmly went to fetch herself coffee, and brought it back to sit at my side.

“This makes matters considerably more serious,” she murmured around the cup.

“We have to get them out of here.”

“And abandon the men?”

Our presence might be the only thing keeping the men from slaughter. “No, we have to get them, too.” “I’d say we have at least three or four days before …”

“I agree. I’ll talk to Holmes tonight, and co-ordinate our resources. I gave him a pen-knife. I wish I still had my revolver.” “I have one.”

“You do? How did they not find it?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Probably not. But you only have the one?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Pity, it might have given the men’s side an edge.”

“We could let them have it. Just barricade ourselves behind the door and trust that His Majesty will reach us