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

before the pirates break it down.” “We may have to.”

“If you want to take it with you tonight, let me know.” “What are you two talking about?” Edith demanded.

Not missing a beat, Annie said, “We were agreeing how smashing you look in that garment.” Men in this place wore long robes (not, in fact, night-shirts) called galabiyyas, with or without hoods, of plain fabric but often with elaborate embroidery down the front. The women’s garments, called kaftans, were nearly identical – to an outsider. Edith’s galabiyya had been made for a taller person, but we did, after all, have an official seamstress with us, for whom it had been no task at all to raise a few hems.

Edith looked unconvinced, but couldn’t help glancing down at the thick intertwining pattern decorating the front of the otherwise plain brown garment. “I need a belt for my knife.” Somehow, the child had adopted (and what was more, managed to retain) one of the pirates’ dummy knives, impressive but useless for anything more demanding than cleaning beneath one’s fingernails.

Annie stood up. “Lots of men wear their weapons in a sort of sash. I’m sure we can find something that will do.” And thus the long day began, with the worst possible news and a dive into the dressing-up box. Many, many maddeningly long hours later, during which every possible permutation of our captivity and rescue had been mooted, I finally took up my climbing rope and Annie’s revolver and made my escape over the wall.

Holmes was expecting me, the shutter-latch already open. The odour from within suggested that a candle had recently been extinguished, lest it outline my figure dangling outside, but the room remained dimly illuminated by the light seeping around the door. His hand came out, reassuring and warm. I adjusted the rope so the pressure was to the side of the previous bruises rather than directly on top of them, and greeted him.

“Were you permitted to converse with the two diplomatic gentlemen this morning?” I asked.

“Briefly, but enough to see that they are working hard to shape a disaster. You caught the messages I embedded into the song?” “That Hale is not a villain?”

“When La Rocha and Samuel came for Hale the other evening, it was to compose letters to the British and French authorities. Ransom has been set, two thousand guineas a head in British or French currency, to be paid the day after tomorrow.” “Hale told you this? And you believe him?”

“I think him an unskilled actor. In any event, his claim is verified by Maurice.” “The cook?”

“He is French, so Samuel handed him the letter and had him translate it aloud into English, or enough of it to satisfy him that it was as he had instructed.” “Two thousand guineas a head,” I mused.

“They must be in a hurry to conclude the business, else they’d have asked for more.” “Well,” I said, “Annie thinks – oh, that’s right, you don’t know – oh, for heaven’s sake, Holmes, if I try to tell it all out here, I’ll never make it up the rope again. Move back.” Between my wriggling and Holmes’ tugging I got inside without a huge amount of noise or loss of skin, and I was alone with my husband for the first time since Lestrade’s bombshell of a letter had arrived in Sussex. He relit his candle and we sat, shoulder to shoulder, as I recounted the events since last we had met.

“When I returned to the rooftop the other night,” I began, “two of the girls were waiting for me. Though one is a boy, and the other is Mycroft’s man.” He reached into his garment and came out with his tobacco pouch; clearly this was a tale requiring thought. His hand went still when I told him Annie’s theory about white slavery, and although I tried to keep it light, by that time I more than half believed it myself. The grimness with which he continued filling the pipe bowl suggested that he did, too.

When I had finished, he asked a question that seemed to have nothing to do with it.

“Am I correct in thinking that from your side, there is no view of the water?” “A slice to the south and another to the north, but you’re right, the wall they put up to separate the two houses blocks most of it.” “Then you will not have seen the British gun-boat, lying offshore.” To that, there could be little response but an expletive. I readily provided one, adding, “Do they think they can shell the town?” “I shouldn’t say the verb think applies in this case.” “And Holmes, they’ve arrested La Rocha.”

“That explains why one keeps hearing the parrot.”

“Searching for his master, yes.”

“A person would imagine Lestrade was in charge here,” he muttered.

“Sir Morgan intends to come back tomorrow with biscuits and fresh milk, and to take away any letters we wish to send home.” “They won’t permit him inside the city wall.”

“I agree.”

“Tell me the rest of your day.”

My story took some telling, but eventually I came to the distasteful admission of my surreptitious message to the English envoy. I added, “I have to say, however, that the name seemed to have no effect on him. Either he is ignorant of Mycroft, or so hard of hearing that he missed the message entirely.” Holmes drew thoughtfully on his pipe, although by this time it no longer contained any combustible material. “One must indeed speculate over the relationship between La Rocha and his brother. If they are close and Samuel is content to be subordinate, he will do all he can to free La Rocha. Which would include physical threat to his prisoners. On the other hand, if your new friend’s speculation is correct and Samuel is making a bid for control, then he will leave here as soon as possible, now that the British have confirmed the state of those to be ransomed.” “You don’t think he’ll wait until he receives the ransom money?” “He may. He may also leave us men here, under guard and with an agent, until the British monies are transferred, while he heads into the Atlas mountains with you women. Or he may simply dispose of us as superfluous burdens. I should say it would depend on whether or not he has a trusted agent he can leave behind.” “Like, a son.”

“Precisely.”

“And yet, I’d have thought Adam too squeamish for killing and abductions. He’s more than half in love with Annie.” “He is also the age at which young men need to prove themselves to their fathers.” I found that I had been leaning against him, firmly enough that his arm was now around my shoulders. I relished the heavy security, the sense of being under protection. Then I noticed what I was doing and sprang to my feet, suddenly furious.

“Holmes, I have no intention of permitting any of those girls to be put into a harem, even temporarily. We can get everyone away. We simply have to.” He withdrew his pipe from his lips; his grey eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “That’s my Russell,” he said. “How?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

POLICE [pianissimo]: Tarantara, tarantara!

I SPENT HOURS in Holmes’ cell as we shared what we knew of the city, of our captors, and of our fellow prisoners. We agreed that Fflytte and Will were our weak points: Will would refuse to abandon his reels of exposed film; Fflytte would refuse to abandon his dreams. In the end, we decided that Hale would just have to tuck his cousin under his arm, while Bert and one of the other pseudo-constables could deal with Will.

We would go at midnight tomorrow, an hour that in Lisbon would find half the city still moving around, but here found even the dogs asleep. Using the pick-lock I had given him, Holmes would let himself out of his cell and, when he had overcome the closest guard, loose his fellow prisoners.

At one a.m., we would assemble on the street outside, men and women alike, and move fast through the streets of the medina to the gate.

The success of the venture rested on the element of surprise: By the time anyone could decide to shoot at us, we would be upon them.

We sat on his hard cot, staring at the candle – wearing, no doubt, identical expressions of dissatisfaction. Holmes glared at his stone-cold pipe. “There are too many uncontrollable variables.”

“I don’t like it one bit!”

Get a grip, Russell. “I agree, it stinks of the stage. One of those plays in which every turn is thwarted by disaster. I keep expecting some unforeseen twist that will throw everything into confusion. Oh, I’m sorry, Holmes,” I said. “I’ve been surrounded by actresses too long.”

“Never mind,” he said. “I’ve spent much of my life being thought of as a fiction. One grows accustomed to