Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  ‘All right. But who’d go to the trouble for a fourth-rater? Be different if it had been one of the flag-ships – more point to it.’

  Danny sighed. ‘Yes. I daresay you’re right. But what about the Royal Prince? Did you see what happened?’

  Freddy began to feel that the horrors of the day had left Danny temporarily unhinged.

  ‘Saw her burning, if that’s what you mean. Didn’t see her run aground though.’

  ‘And it doesn’t strike you as odd? I mean, wouldn’t you expect a first-rate ship to have a first-rate helmsman and pilot and Captain, all of whom should be capable of avoiding Galloper Shoal? Or does it just seem as silly as disabling a sister-craft?’

  Mr Iverson blinked owlishly. ‘What’s the alternative? That the Navy is riddled with enemy agents all popping out of the bulkheads like maggots out of a – ‘ He stopped abruptly as Danny’s hand closed tight on his arm. ‘What the -- ?’

  ‘Sh!’ Daniel took a step away, anxiously scanning the dark and seemingly deserted deck. ‘I could have sworn … did you hear anything?’

  ‘No. What’s the matter with you? You’re as jumpy as a rabbit.’

  With a rueful grin, Danny came back and perched himself on a hatch-cover.

  ‘I know. Sound thoroughly beef-witted, don’t I? But this engagement’s been one long disaster.’ He paused, looking steadily into Freddy’s face. ‘First we get a false report on the French so the fleet’s split – then we discover our mistake so Rupert’s recalled. But someone must have slipped up with that as well or he’d have been with us much sooner. Your ship’s crippled by one of our own and we lose our best vessel on a sandbank. Am I really an idiot to think that there may be more to it than just coincidence?’

  There was a long silence, then Freddy said, ‘Don’t know. Someone put the idea in your head?’

  ‘Yes. Willie Clerke – the Secretary at War,’ replied Danny, half-reluctantly. ‘And for God’s sake keep it to yourself. I haven’t told anyone else and I don’t suppose I should be telling you. If it isn’t nonsense, then I ought to go to Albemarle or Rupert – and if it is, then I should just keep my mouth shut. Only I think I need another opinion.’

  Mr Iverson folded his arms, a frown of concentration creasing his brow.

  ‘Sure mine’ll be any use? Not clever, y’know.’

  Danny grinned. ‘Maybe not. But you’ve got common-sense and that’s what I need right now.’

  Colouring modestly at this tribute, Freddy asked hurriedly, ‘So what did Sir William say?’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ Danny admitted wryly. ‘He didn’t say very much at all – and he died this afternoon. I saw him yesterday and he was in a lot of pain. Some fellow named Warner was with him and, although he left the room while I was there, Willie seemed convinced he was listening. To begin with I thought he was delirious but then I wasn’t so sure. He kept saying he should have told the Duke – over and over again. Then he made me promise to do it for him. He said, “All these accidents and faulty reports – someone’s behind them. Tell Albemarle or the Prince but not – “’ A tiny sound caught his ear and he stopped, looking up.

  Slightly baffled, Freddy followed his gaze but just a second too late. He heard Danny shout and then he was sent spinning by a hefty shove that carried him half-way to the poop as the yard-arm of the aft-mast came crashing down where he had been; and where Danny, with no time to do more than try rolling aside, still was.

  Shocked by the suddenness of it, Freddy took an instant to start forward to the wreckage around the great, solid beam. Then a knife, thrown from above, missed him by inches to stand quivering in the deck and he recognised his danger.

  Two weeks at sea had done a lot for Freddy and, without stopping to think, he wrenched the dagger from the planking and swung himself up on to the bulwark, his eyes searching the rigging for his would-be assassin. Already he could hear the sound of running feet and the voices of seamen, drawn from the wharf by the noise of the falling spar. Help was at hand; but beset, for the first time in his life, by cold anger, Freddy did not want it.

  Then he saw the man high above him, silhouetted against the moon and rapidly descending the mast; and, gripping the blade between his teeth, Freddy raised his arms and began to climb.

  His quarry reached a joist where the rat-lines would take him over to the mainmast and hesitated, glancing first at Mr Iverson in determined pursuit and then at the deck, now alive with sailors; then, evidently deciding on escape, he seized the ropes and started to traverse the cross-rigging.

  Arriving at the first yard, Freddy saw his intention and realised that his chances of catching up were diminishing by the second. He steadied his position and took the knife from his teeth.

  ‘Escape would you?’ he said to himself. ‘Well, not if I can help it.’ And threw.

  The blade took his adversary hard in the shoulder, impairing his grasp. He called out, tried to retain his hold and failed; then, with a single wild scream, he fell thirty feet to the deck below and landed with a sickening thud half across a capstan.

  In the sudden silence that followed, Freddy did not even spare him a glance but went swiftly back the way he had come, down to the poop-deck … and Danny.

  They had moved the huge timber spar from where it had lain across his hips and someone had covered him up to the chin in a heavy boat-cloak. In the light of the lamps, his face was chalky-pale and the bones stood out in sharp relief against the hollows of his cheeks. Freddy dropped on one knee beside him, seeking his hand.

  ‘Danny? You badly hurt, old fellow?’

  The sandy lashes flickered slowly open to disclose eyes that, although beginning to cloud, still held a trace of their usual smile.

  ‘Bad enough,’ said Danny faintly. ‘But I can’t feel anything.’ His eyes closed, then opened again. ‘Looks like Willie had the right of it. Did you get him?’

  Freddy cleared his throat. ‘Yes. I think he’s dead.’

  ‘He’s dead all right, sir,’ volunteered a young midshipman behind him. ‘His neck’s broke.’

  Danny’s lips tightened a little. ‘Pity. You could have asked him why … ‘ There was a pause and then, with the ghost of a grin, ‘Unless he just don’t like redheads.’

  It took an effort greater than any Freddy had ever made to grin back and reply in kind.

  ‘Might’ve been aiming at me for calling him a maggot. Only you … stopped him.’ And there he halted, not knowing how to express what he felt.

  The cold fingers gripped his hand weakly.

  ‘Don’t be an ass. You’d have done the same. It’s just … the luck doesn’t last forever.’ The lashes dropped again and he seemed to fall asleep.

  A rustling stir ran through the small group of sailors at Freddy’s back but he didn’t turn his head until he heard a familiar voice, unfamiliarly crisp, saying ‘What the devil’s going on?’

  And then he looked up into Giles Beckwith’s grey eyes.

  ‘Giles?’ Rousing, Danny looked hazily up. ‘Is that you?’

  And the cool gaze was cool no longer as it rested on the pinched face beneath its mop of tangled, fiery hair.

  ‘Danny!’ Giles knelt swiftly beside him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Freddy will tell you. I’m glad you’ve come … thought you were in London.’

  ‘No. I’ve been with Rupert.’ Giles scanned the young face with a sinking heart. He had seen death too often not to recognise it in the dimming eyes and bluish pallor before him. Taking care to move him as little as possible, he slid an arm beneath Danny’s shoulders and held him in a comforting grip. ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘No.’ Making a huge effort, Danny turned his head. ‘Listen, Giles – it’s important. Freddy’ll explain … only you mustn’t tell York or … or Arlington. Willie Clerke said so. Not York, not Arlington. Promise?’

  Giles cast a frowning glance at Freddy and then looked back at Danny.

  ‘I promise,’ he said calmly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everyt
hing.’

  He was rewarded by a faint sigh and the flaming head sank back. There was a long silence and then, in a voice that was now a mere thread, Danny said, ‘Will it be light soon?’

  Giles nodded. ‘Yes. Very soon.’

  Danny smiled. ‘Good. I’d rather not go in the dark. But they say you see the sun … afterwards … so perhaps it doesn’t matter.’ His glance flickered to Giles’s face. ‘Explain to Chloë … give her my love. Alex too.’

  ‘Yes. I will.’ A white shade bracketed Mr Beckwith’s mouth but his tone remained level.

  ‘And tell him … he’s lucky. Time he knew. Too damned clever to … to see what’s under his nose. Always was.’ A laugh which became a rattle shook Danny’s chest and for a long time he was silent, fighting to breathe. But finally, he said, ‘I’m glad you’re here … you and Freddy. But I wish … I wish there’d been more time.’

  He lasted until sunrise, slipping peacefully away as the first fingers of dawn lit the sky so that in death, as in life, he was smiling. And Giles, without quite knowing why, would not cover the dead face nor suffer him to be moved until the sun was truly up, but sat quietly with Freddy, waiting.

  ~ * * * ~

  SEVEN

  For those at home, the first days of June dragged by in a ferment of anxious waiting. On the second, London was ablaze with rumours of an engagement between Albemarle and de Ruyter. On the third came news that Prince Rupert’s squadron had been sighted off Dover and on the fourth, Alex took Chloë out to the gravel pits where they stood for half an hour listening to the guns.

  As soon as she stepped from the carriage, Chloë regretted having asked to come. The persistent booming of the cannon, unaccompanied by news or any view of the action, was both frightening and macabre when you knew that each shot could mean the end for someone; for Danny, or Giles, or Freddy. She discovered she was standing beside Lady Falmouth, pale and heavy-eyed with sleeplessness, and without thinking, took her hand and held it tightly while they stood listening till they could bear it no longer.

  On the following day Alex brought news that Rupert and Albemarle had finally joined forces.

  Chloë looked up at him and tried to smile. ‘Well, that’s good isn’t it? It may even be over by now.

  ‘Yes. They say the guns have stopped.’ His manner was oddly unfamiliar.

  ‘You’re worried,’ she said, wondering why this should scare her. ‘Do you think we may have lost?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps not. But we seem to have lost a lot of ships … and men.’

  She sat staring motionlessly down at her sewing. ‘Anyone we know?’

  There was a pause, then Alex said, ‘Falmouth is dead.’

  Chloë’s heart sank. She swallowed and said, ‘Oh God. When?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  She looked up then, brown eyes wide and upset, sharing with him thoughts of the Earl’s gaiety on the night of the banquet; and that, when they had stood at the gravel pits with Lady Falmouth, she was even then a widow.

  Wednesday the sixth was the customary monthly fast-day for the plague. Again no gun-fire was heard and likewise no more news came from the fleet, except that the Duke of Albemarle was believed unscathed save for a minor leg-wound. The citizens of London assumed that the battle was not only fought but won and rang bells and lit bonfires in celebration.

  Their joy was premature. On the following day came tidings that though the fleet had lost many ships, it had taken none; that the Navy had lost twelve commanders, several flag-officers and countless ordinary seamen; that it was not victory – but defeat.

  It was not until the tenth that Mr Beckwith arrived in London, made his way reluctantly to Southwark and, for the first time, had Naomi formally announce him.

  Alex stopped reading and his eyes sought Chloë’s. Then, laying his book aside, he bade Naomi send Mr Beckwith in and rose from his chair to meet him. Chloë, filled with relief that this one was safe, folded her sewing with less than her usual care and waited.

  He was as elegant as ever and apparently unhurt. Chloë smiled warmly at him and only then saw his face. It was tired and gaunt … and the grey eyes held an expression that had nothing to do with either.

  ‘My God,’ said Alex brightly. ‘You took your time. They say it’s been over since Monday – but perhaps you were enjoying yourself?’

  Giles, who for five days had been wondering how he was to tell them, promptly forgot every speech he had prepared and uttered the words that had been ringing in his brain since Tuesday.

  ‘Danny is dead.’ And then realised, through a haze of fatigue, that Alex had guessed there was bad news and deliberately made it easy for him.

  Alex might have been prepared for it but Chloë was not. The room seemed suddenly dark and sounds became muffled. The blood drained from her face and she stared disbelievingly at Giles.

  ‘He can’t be,’ she said. ‘It’s a mistake.’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Were you with him?’ asked Alex with a sort of detached calm.

  Giles sat down and passed a hand over his face.

  ‘Yes. Freddy was there too.’ He stopped and tried to think. ‘Freddy’s all right. He’s with the fleet.’

  Alex glanced down at Chloë who was sitting like a stone, save for hands that couldn’t keep still. He said, ‘What happened? And when?’

  Giles also glanced fleetingly at Chloë. ‘I don’t think – ‘

  ‘Say it,’ ordered Alex crisply, ‘and get it over with. Quickly. She’ll have to know.’

  It was a moment before Giles answered. Then he said unevenly, ‘It was in the early hours of Tuesday morning. A yard-arm fell. Danny pushed Freddy out of the way but – but didn’t have time to move himself. It … it crushed his spine and legs.’

  Chloë made a tiny sound and clamped her fingers hard over her mouth. Alex drew a ragged breath but said nothing.

  ‘When I got there,’ Giles went on with an effort, ‘he was still conscious but failing fast. He talked … mostly rambling … but some of it you should hear.’

  Mr Deveril’s face was completely colourless and as rigid as a carved mask.

  ‘Yes,’ he said politely, walking to the door. ‘I expect I should. And if you will excuse me for a moment, I shall be entirely at your disposal.’

  Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Chloë realised that he was probably going to be sick. There seemed to be something odd about that but she wasn’t sure what it was. Very carefully, she lowered her hands till they lay in her lap and looked down at them. She could not trust herself to speak yet for she knew that if she did, she would not be able to bear it.

  A minute passed, then two. Finally Giles spoke.

  ‘He wasn’t in any pain, Chloë. He – he even joked a little. And he sent you his love.’

  Before he had finished speaking she was on her feet and half-way to the door.

  ‘Sorry, Giles,’ she said. And fled.

  Passing her in the hall, Alex let her go. He re-joined Mr Beckwith in the parlour, nudged the door shut with his foot and placed a bottle of brandy and two glasses on the table. Having filled them both to the brim, he handed one to Giles and then sat down, taking a large drink from the other.

  ‘I think we’ll both be the better for getting this over with as fast as possible,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything.’

  Giles leaned back and closed his eyes.

  ‘I was aboard the Royal James with Rupert,’ he said wearily. ‘As you’ve doubtless heard, we didn’t catch up with Albemarle until the third – largely because no one had bothered to tell us that he’d moved to Gunfleet. You’ll hear people blaming Rupert for his slowness in coming – but the truth is that he turned back as soon as he heard the guns. There’s no point in going into detail – sufficient to say the action was heavy all that day and again on the next. Our losses are enormous – ten ships at least.’

  He opened his eyes and took a sip of brandy.

  ‘It was late Monday night before I
had a chance to get to Harwich and look for Danny. He’d been aboard the Henry but when I got there Harman said he’d given him leave to meet a friend sailing on the Portland. So I went after him.’ He stopped and frowned into his glass. ‘If I’d arrived even an hour earlier - - ‘

  ‘You might have died with Daniel or instead of him,’ observed Alex impatiently. He got up and walked to the window. ‘It’s a useless, damnable waste but blaming yourself won’t help.’

  Giles drew a deep breath and the words came out with an effort.

  ‘You don’t understand, Alex. If Danny had fallen in battle, it would have been a waste. But he didn’t and it’s more than that. It’s a tragedy.’

  Even without looking, he felt Mr Deveril’s shock.

  ‘Are you saying,’ asked Alex slowly, ‘that it wasn’t an accident?’

  There was no way to soften it. ‘Yes. Danny was murdered.’

  For a second, Alex just stared at him. Then he dropped heavily on to the window-seat, his face driven into the cage of his fingers. ‘Oh Christ.’

  There was a long silence and Giles wisely left him alone. Then, rising, he poured more brandy into Alex’s glass and pushed it into his hand.

  ‘Drink that and pull yourself together,’ he said harshly. ‘Alternatively, if you’re going to throw up again – go and get it over with. We’ve work to do.’

  It worked. Alex looked up, white but with a glimmer of his usual astringence.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘My guts are dismantled but I’ll live. You can continue.’

  ‘Good.’ Giles paused and then said, ‘Will you tell Chloë?’

  Alex stared back blankly. ‘In God’s name, what for?’

  ‘She might want to know the truth.’

  ‘And will it make her feel any better? If she has a right, it’s to be protected from knowledge that can only make her even more upset than she already is.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Giles simply, ‘that you realise it.’

  Alex contemplated him between narrowed lids, then said curtly, ‘Very clever. But if you’ve finished testing my discretion, I think we should get on with the business in hand.’