Contrary to his expectations, the trip had been anything but uneventful. They’d sailed from Bombay only to fall foul of a storm, which had left them limping down the African coast with one of their three masts crippled. Once they’d reached Cape Town, repairs had taken three full weeks. While there, his batman, Cobby, had ferreted out the information that Roderick Ferrar had passed through a week ahead of them, on the
He’d taken note, and so hadn’t fallen victim to the knives of the two cult assasins left in Cape Town who had subsequently joined the
Luckily, the cultists had a superstitious aversion to firearms. Both assassins were now feeding the fishes, but Del suspected they’d merely been scouts, sent to do what they could if they could.
The Black Cobra itself lay ahead of him, coiled between him and his goal.
Wherever that proved to be.
Gripping the railing of the bridge deck, which, as a senior company officer-albeit resigned-he’d been given the freedom, he looked down at the main deck, to where his household staff-Mustaf, his general factotum, tall and thin, Amaya, Mustaf’s short, rotund wife who served as Del’s housekeeper, and Alia, their niece and maid-of-all-work-sat on their piled bags, ready to disembark the instant Cobby gave the signal.
Cobby himself, the only Englishman in Del’s employ, short of stature, wiry, quick and canny, and cocky as only a cockney lad could be, stood by the main railing at the point where the gangplank would be rolled out, chatting amiably with some sailors. Cobby would be first among the passengers to disembark. He would scout the immediate area, then, if all was clear, signal Mustaf to bring the women down.
Del would bring up the rear, then, once they’d assembled on the dock, lead the way directly up the High Street to the Dolphin Inn.
As luck would have it, Wolverstone had nominated the inn Del habitually used when passing through Southampton. He hadn’t, however, been there for years, not since he’d set sail for India in late ’15, just over seven years ago.
It felt like more.
He was quite certain he’d aged more than seven years, and the last nine months, while they’d been hunting the Black Cobra, had been the most draining. He almost felt old.
Every time he thought of James MacFarlane, he felt helpless.
Seeing more scurrying below, hearing the change in the bosun’s orders, feeling the slight bump as the padding slung along the ship’s side met the dock, Del shook off all thoughts of the past and determinedly fixed his mind on the immediate future.
Sailors leapt down to the dock, hauling thick ropes to the capstans to secure the ship. Hearing the heavy rattle and splash as the anchor went down, then the squealing scrape as the railing was opened and the gangplank angled out, Del headed for the companionway to the main deck.
He swung off it in time to see Cobby scamper down the gangplank.
Reconnaissance, in this instance, wasn’t simply a matter of scanning for those with dark skins. Southampton was one of the busiest ports in the world, and there were countless Indians and men of other dark-skinned races among the crews. But Cobby knew what to look for-the furtiveness, the attention locked on Del while attempting to remain inconspicuous. If there were cultists waiting to strike, Del was confident Cobby would spot them.
Yet it was more likely the cultists would watch and wait-they preferred to strike in less populated surrounds where escape after the event was more assured.
Del strolled to stand with Mustaf, Amaya and Alia. Mustaf nodded, then went back to scanning the crowd; he’d been a sowar-a cavalryman-until a knee injury had seen him pensioned off. The knee didn’t discompose him in other ways; he was still a good man in a fight.
Alia bobbed her head, then resumed casting shy glances at the young sailors who rushed back and forth along the deck.
Amaya looked up at Del with liquid brown eyes. “It is very very cold here, Colonel-sahib. Colder than my cousin’s house in Simla in the winter. I am being very very glad I was buying these shawls from Kashmir. They are just the thing.”
Del smiled. Both Amaya and Alia were well wrapped in the thick woolen shawls. “When we stop at a big town, we’ll have to get you some English coats. And gloves, too. They’ll help keep out the wind.”
“
Despite her sweet face and matronly disposition, Amaya was quick-witted and observant. As for Alia, she would instantly obey any order from her uncle, aunt, Del or Cobby. When necessary, the small group operated as a unit; Del wasn’t overly worried over having Amaya and Alia with them, even on the upcoming, more dangerous leg of their journey.
Regardless, knowing the Black Cobra cultists’ vindictiveness, he wouldn’t take the chance of leaving the women anywhere, even with Mustaf to guard them. To strike at him, the Black Cobra was perfectly capable of wiping out his household, simply to inspire fear, and to demonstrate his power.
Human life had long ago lost all meaning for the Black Cobra.
A shrill whistle pulled Del’s attention back to the dock. Cobby caught his eye, snapped a jaunty salute.
“Come.” Del took Amaya’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Let’s go down and head for our inn.”
Cobby had commandeered a man with a wooden cart. Del waited with the women while their luggage was ferried down the gangplank and loaded in the cart, then he set off, leading the way off the dock and straight up High Street. The Dolphin wasn’t far; Mustaf followed with the women close behind, with Cobby bringing up the rear, ambling alongside the carter, eyes constantly shifting this way and that as he chatted.
As Del walked up the street, he found his gaze drawn downward-to the cobbles that covered the ground, to the first steps he was taking on English soil after so many years away.
He wasn’t sure what he felt. An odd sense of peace, perhaps because he knew this time his travels were over, a sense of anticipation over what his new and as yet unstructured future might hold, all tinged with a healthy dose of apprehension over what lay between this moment and being able to get started on shaping his new life.
Their mission to bring the Black Cobra to justice.
He was in it now. There was no going back, only forward. Ahead, through whatever fire the opposition might send his way.
Raising his head, he filled his lungs, looked about. It felt exactly like the moment after the charge began.
The Dolphin was a town landmark. It had stood for centuries and been refurbished several times; it currently sported two wide bow windows fronting the street, the solid front door in between.
Del glanced back along the street. He couldn’t see any likely cultists, but there were plenty of people, carts, and the odd carriage thronging the cobbled thoroughfare-plenty of cover for anyone watching.
They would be watching.
Reaching the inn, he opened the door and went inside.
Securing suitable rooms was no difficulty; his years in India had left him very wealthy and he wasn’t of a mind to stint either himself or his small household. The innkeeper, Bowden, a solidly built ex-sailor, responded appropriately, cheerily welcoming him to the town and summoning lads to help with the luggage as the others joined Del in the foyer.
With the rooms organized and their bags dispatched, and the women, Mustaf and Cobby following the luggage up the stairs, Bowden turned to Del. “Just remembered. I’ve two letters waiting for you.”
Del turned back to the counter, brows rising.
Reaching beneath it, Bowden produced two missives. “The first-this one-came on the mail coach nearly four weeks ago. The other was left last evening by a gentleman. He and another gentleman have looked in every day for the last week or so, asking after you.”
Wolverstone’s escorts. “Thank you.” Del accepted the letters. It was midafternoon, and the inn’s public rooms were quiet. He sent an easy smile Bowden’s way. “If anyone should ask for me, I’ll be in the tap.”
“Of course, sir. Nice and quiet it is in there at present. Just ring the bell on the bar if you need anything.”
With a nod, Del sauntered into the dining room and through an archway into the tap, a cozy room toward the
