Unlikely Spy Catchers (St. Brendan Book 2)

by Carla Kelly

  “Sir, they did a bad thing,” Smitty said, showing his own tender side. “They duped the old dear into thinking they were harmless dockworkers and paid her rent, then killed them when they weren’t needed.”

  “We live in desperate and trying times, Smitty,” Able told him simply.

  But here was Nick, leaning close, happy for Able’s arm around him. “I flashed the message and got the answer.” He looked back at Jean in the doorway. “Master Hubert was able to read that second message.”

  “Oui. Dry Dock Two was to be the target in two days, the same night as the ropewalk, which was Nick’s message. Everything is better guarded, as of this morning. The Marines are even now searching all the houses along this stretch of shoreline. We owe a debt to Nick. Everyone is saying so.”

  Nick nodded and Able both heard and felt his sigh of satisfaction. “Nick, might you want to learn more about signaling? We of the Royal Navy have a great flag system.” He gestured to Jean. “Perhaps you might ask your friend Jacques Rien if he could teach your night time system. How is Rien feeling?”

  “Better. We will have to see if he will help us. I am not certain. Perhaps when he is eating better and regains his strength, he might be willing.” He shrugged. “Come, Nick. Let your sailing master sleep.” He laughed. “I knocked him on the head pretty hard. I don’t think his brains fell out, but we can’t take any chances.”

  After the door closed, Able leaned back and admired his son, sleeping so peacefully, safe and secure in his baby world because the Royal Navy’s wooden walls and iron men were standing the watch. His peculiar specters had been remarkably silent today. Maybe they were thinking twice about continuing their relentless reign in his head, since it could prove dangerous, even in a boys’ school. Will I miss you? Able asked himself, and thought that he might. Time would tell.

  Sir B arrived with Grace, his face troubled. Uh oh. Bad news about Gervaise, Able thought, and felt his own regret. “What have you heard?” was enough to launch Sir B into telling what he knew, and it wasn’t pretty.

  Able noticed but made no comment as he watched Grace hold Sir B’s hand, as he said the Turennes were currently guests in the Royal Marines brig right there in Portsmouth, near the dock. “I don’t know what will happen,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Henri Turenne claims they were forced to carry notes by someone they would not name. I asked if I could visit Gervaise, but he sent me a note that he was too ashamed to see me.” Another shake of the head, followed what looked like an absent-minded raising of Grace’s hand to his lips for a kiss. It was hard to tell with Sir B.

  Hours later, Meri helped Able to his feet and assisted him as he dressed for dinner. “I know you were thinking about that scar on your knee,” she accused, which made him tickle her in a spot he knew she liked, since she was bending so close. “Stop that! Someone will see you. You are hopeless of remedy and a sailor such as parish priests warn about over the pulpit.”

  “Aye, Admiral Six, and who is knocking now? Our bedroom has turned into a regular scuttlebutt.”

  “Hold still while I attempt this neck cloth,” she ordered. “It’s Walter Cornwall and he wants a word with both of us.”

  “I think we know what is coming,” Able said. “Should I tease him a little?”

  “Don’t you dare. He is terrified.”

  He was. Constable Cornwall nearly shook as he stood at attention in their bedroom, Able lounging in his stockinged feet with Meri proper beside him.

  In a clear voice, he declared his love for Betsy MacGregor, and yes, she is young, but she loves me too, and already loves my little daughter, and please, sir and madam, I will treat her ever so well and furnish all her wants and needs. All in one prodigious breath.

  He calmed down then, and delivered this piece of excellent news. “The powers that be have already announced a willingness to reserve all houses along the shoreline for families of constables.” He took a deep breath, almost as if he didn’t believe his well-earned and sudden good fortune. “Captain Ogilvie has already promised me the house two doors down that we raided yesterday, which now has no owners.” Another breath, one more confident. “Please, Mr. and Mrs. Six, your consent.”

  It was a remarkable outpouring from a self-contained, organized fellow who had served his own harsh apprentice in a Cornish workhouse. So this is what it will feel like when someone someday asks for the hand of a future daughter of mine, Able thought, beguiled by the notion. He glanced at Meri.

  “What say you, Mrs. Six?”

  “I am completely in favor, although I will miss Betsy MacGregor’s cheerful help,” Meri said, not sounding even slightly sad. “She’ll be two doors down and mistress of her own household.” Then the tears came, and Able hugged her. “I’m fair delighted!”

  “They’re like this,” Able assured Walter as he patted Meri’s back. “You’ll come to understand.”

  “I already do, Master Six,” the constable said. “I had a wife once, remember?”

  “Aye, you did.”

  “I’ve missed this, tears and all.”

  He gave Able a small salute and with a smile on his face hurried down the stairs. Able crossed his fingers that Mrs. Perry would not threaten him.

  Walter was still in the kitchen later when Able made his way downstairs, leaning on Meri’s arm, not because he felt particularly infirm, but because he knew it made her happy to help him.

  Nick and John Mark had already set the table, which meant Meri had to abandon him in the sitting room holding Ben while she dashed around and put the forks and spoons where they really belonged. Consequently, it was John and Nick who answered the doorbell and ushered in the dinner guests, come to celebrate a successful naval operation.

  They ran out of chairs, so the invited Rats scurried across the street for more chairs and a small table. Mr. and Mrs. Simon Goodrich brought along a surprise guest of their own, Henry Maudslay himself, who apologized profusely for invading their premises uninvited. “I am in town because the factory begins official operation tomorrow and I want to see it,” he explained.

  Captain Ogilvie strolled in with Headmaster Croker, followed by Grace Croker and Sir B, ably pushed by Junius Bolt. Mr. and Mrs. Bartleby, all apology and feeling uncertain in such august company, furnished an assortment of éclairs and profiteroles and found an especially warm welcome. Walter Cornwall blushed and protested, but Betsy herself sat him beside Jean Hubert and dared him to move. Able could tell already that this would be a wonderfully successful marriage.

  They were mashed together tighter than whelks in a basket. Sitting at the head of his table, Able looked around in real pleasure. He cocked his head, delighted to hear the mentors and polymaths in his brain applauding politely. He already knew they were a hard lot to impress.

  Even Euclid and Copernicus fell silent when there was a knock on the door, and an awestruck Betsy ushered in William Pitt himself, prime minister, Trinity House Warden, and man with a message. Able happily yielded his seat at the head of the table and joined Meri at the foot, sharing her chair.

  Dinner was a sailor’s delight, beginning with tried-and-true lobscouse, succeeded by sea-pie, rounded off with whipped syllabub, and chased down with éclairs and profiteroles and smuggled sherry from Mr. Pitt himself. The food went around until everything was consumed except the pattern on the china. Rum formed the toast, not watered down this time, but dark and aromatic, because every man at the table, old and young alike, knew that rum was for heroes. Able laughed inside to see Meri watching her Gunwharf Rats’ consumption, anyway.

  They looked to Able for a toast. Flattered, he yielded to the prime minister of England, seated in his house at his table – the wonder of it all.

  William Pitt rose and nodded deferentially to Able, who smiled back. “There are so many we could toast this evening,” he said. “I will limit myself, because it would not do for you
to see your prime minister shot in the neck and staggering blind.”

  He grew serious after the laughter died down and raised his glass. “A hearty toast to the Gunwharf Rats and St. Brendan the Navigator School,” he said. “Your creation was a brilliant stroke, for which we thank Headmaster Croker. You former workhouse lads have earned the confidence of a grateful nation. This will be a long war and your best effort is needed for king and country. To you, future masters.”

  Don’t cry, Able told himself as he raised his glass. Don’t cry. What do you think of that, Euclid?

  Following other toasts, the guests gradually took their leave. The Goodriches hung back to ask Able and Meri if they could stroll to the sea wall with John Mark and Pierre Deschamps. “We’d like to ask them something,” Simon said.

  “As you wish,” Able told them. “I think you’ll be pleased with their answer.”

  “We have room in our house,” Mrs. Goodrich said, her eyes hopeful.

  “What’s more important, you have room in your heart,” Able replied.

  William Pitt was next, bowing to Meri and shaking Able’s hand. He looked toward the door, where an impatient Captain Ogilvie waited with no good grace. “If that man were not so useful to Trinity House and this nation, I vow I would order him to Canada on permanent assignment,” Pitt told them.

  “He does seem eager to leave,” Meri said.

  “You would be, too, madam, if you had just been informed that Claude Pascal has been allowed to escape,” Pitt said, in that droll way of his.

  Meri gasped. “What?” Able exclaimed, certain he had not heard correctly. Maybe Jean had struck him harder than he thought.

  “We at Trinity thought it best to allow Pascal to escape. He will be followed to the ends of the earth, I don’t doubt, by Captain Ogilvie,” Pitt said. “If anyone can turn up details about a truly evil man and his other plans, Angus can. Come now, Able Six! You of all people should understand the right man for the right event.”

  “I suppose I should,” he murmured. “Captain Ogilvie?”

  “If you want to thwart a spy, set a bloodhound on his trail. Go lie down, Able. You look a little fine drawn,” the prime minister said. He glanced toward the door to the sitting room, where Sir B and Grace appeared to be engaged in a lively discussion. “Those two,” Pitt said, then brightened. “Do something about them, Able. That’s an order from your prime minister. Good night.”

  He took his leave, walking by himself because Captain Ogilvie had already hurried ahead. As Able stood in the doorway, watching England’s prime minister make his way casually down the street, swinging his walking stick like the bon vivant he wasn’t, Able noticed a man in the shadows. Alert, he clapped his hand to his hip and could have groaned aloud. Why did he never have even a pea shooter handy when he needed one?

  There was no call for drastic measures. Captain Ogilvie stood in the shadows. Able knew the time was long gone when he should fear the man, but the hairs on his neck rose, anyway.

  “Sir, I hear you are soon to be on the trail of Claude Pascal,” he said as Ogilvie came closer.

  “Aye, Master Six. I am Trinity House’s dogsbody. Now you know.”

  “Surely there is some glamor with the drudgery,” Able said cautiously.

  “Precious little. I have the happy task of seeing if Monsieur Pascal will lead us to other rascals, who will disappear when I find them.” He rubbed his hands together, obviously a man who liked his employment.

  What could Able say to that? He took a long look at Angus Ogilvie, seeing this time a spy catcher, all bluster, common, vulgar, and someone with a remarkable facility to blend into his surroundings.

  “I waited in private to tell you something about the men we routed from that second house,” Ogilvie said. “One of them had a nasty scar. Looks like someone dragged a pair of embroidery scissors down his ugly face. You’ll be pleased to know it appeared infected. Obviously not all the men on the dock that night were English.”

  “How did you find out about…” Able stopped. Captain Ogilvie seemed to know everything. Best not to question it. “Where did you take him? I have a score to settle with a man so eager to do my wife great mischief.”

  Captain Ogilvie shook his head with something almost approaching regret, but not quite, not if the gleam in his eyes meant anything. “Poor man. He met with an awful accident between the house and the brig.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “Wise of you,” the spy catcher answered smoothly. “Let us say he will never trouble your wife, or anyone else’s wife, again. That one gave me real satisfaction!” He doffed his hat. “And now, master, I had better hurry after Monsieur Pascal. I’ll see you again when you least expect it.”

  Of that I have no doubt, Able thought. He watched Ogilvie do his own saunter down the street. He swore he was watching him closely, but the man seemed to vanish beyond a street lamp.

  Thoughtful, Able closed the door. Meri stood by the stairs. He took her hand and steered her toward the sitting room. “Well, my bountiful wench, I’ve been given an order by William Pitt. Follow my lead here.”

  He spoke to Junius Bolt, who stood respectfully by the door. The old retainer laughed softly and moved away. Without a word, Able wheeled Sir B into the sitting room, lifted the protesting man from his chair and sat him on the sofa.

  Quick to follow, Meri directed her friend, the prickly Miss Croker, to the same sofa and sat her down.

  When Meri joined him at the door, Able issued his final order of the day, this time to his captain, friend, and proud, stubborn man.

  “William Pitt ordered me to do something about you two. I’m closing the door. Talk to each other. It’s that simple. I’ll lock this door if I have to. Good night.”

  Silence on the other side of the door, then laughter from the two old friends inside. Then soft conversation, suggesting to Able that a great deal was going on. He extended his arm to his wife, who tucked herself close.

  “I have a headache, but it won’t last forever,” he confided. “Classes resume tomorrow and the war continues. What can we do about that?”

  “Weather on handsomely,” she said.

  “Spoken like a perfect sailing master’s wife. My dear, let us go to bed so this nice couple can propose to each other.”

  They looked in on Ben as usual, and found him sound asleep. “This is why we

  fight, Meri.”

  “Thank you for saying we,” she told him.

  “It’s your fight, too,” he acknowledged, which meant she kissed his cheek.

  “Don’t be long, my love.” She went into their room. He paused a moment, then tapped lightly on Jean Hubert’s door. The Frenchman came into the hall. “Smitty is asleep,” he said in a low voice. “I really should apologize for hitting you so hard. I have to know something: do you trust me now?”

  “Completely,” Able said without a qualm.

  “That’s all I need.” It was said quietly, but with deep feeling.

  “I trust you so much that tomorrow, if matters settle out with John Mark and Pierre as I think they will, I’ll move Smitty in with Nick Bonfort, and you can have your

  own room.”

  “Would you trust me to walk along the sea wall if I feel like it, and maybe go to that tavern to watch Englishmen play darts while drunk?”

  Able laughed. “If you must.”

  “Oui bien sûr. I enjoy laughing at drunk Englishmen.”

  “Very well, friend. Good night.”

  — Chapter Forty-six —

  Gracie, you realize, of course, that my damned wretch of a sailing master genius is expecting me to propose to you.”

  “I know. Cheeky of him, isn’t it?”

  Grace sidled closer to Sir B’s right side, the side with the leg mostly gone, attempting serenity, when she wanted
to straddle the man, shake him by his shoulders, plant a kiss on his lips and propose to him.

  Her brother always said she was too impetuous, and that was the reason no one had ever asked for her hand, but she knew better. She sat back, a smile on her face because no one was going anywhere, and remembered the times in their youth when she had whipped Belvedere St. Anthony at whist. Horrified, Mama had ordered her to lose gracefully, if she ever expected to get a husband, but it wasn’t in Grace to do any such thing, not with someone who played poorly and cheated, too.

  “Why, pray tell, are you favoring me with that daffy smile?” Sir B asked.

  “I was merely thinking of all the times I have trounced you at whist, dear Belvedere,” she said, digging it in because she knew how he disliked his first name. (“Blamed idiot name inflicted on me by parents of unsound mind,” he had joked with her years earlier.)

  He chuckled and put his arm around her. “Go ahead and beat me soundly once more, Penelope Mehitabel Grace Croker,” he told her, remembering how she hated her first two names. “I know you’re better at whist than I am. Billiards, too, as I recall.”

  She rewarded him by leaning her head against his shoulder. How to proceed? Able Six expected them to talk and settle the matter, but this was no ordinary man, no ordinary circumstance.

  “I could beat you in a foot race,” he said finally. “I remember several such instances.” He took a deep breath and another. “I could not do that now.”

  “No, you could not,” she said, not hanging back for a single moment, as an ordinary lady would, because every word mattered. “See here, Sir B, we are a little old for foot races.”

  Who first? All I stand to lose is my happiness, Grace thought. If I am rebuffed, I still have all my wealth. Thaddeus would still want me to teach here. Meridee will be my friend. I’ll have my Gunwharf Rats. She cleared her throat and doubted that sailing against an enemy fleet could be more terrifying than this.