by Mark Walker
The men who were digging, the slaves, were almost beyond being called men any longer. They were now reduced to walking Zombies—dead men who continued to move though their spirits were gone. They came from all parts of the world—six out of the seven continents and were of all ages and nationalities. But now they had melded together as one through trial and tribulation, sewn together like a battered patched sailing canvas flailing away on a ship hopelessly lost in the doldrums.
The work they had accomplished was astonishing. The tunnel was so far shored up with timbers and mortar, and a track was planned to move goods and treasure up and down it. The other pirates who guarded the slaves, all battle-hardened scoundrels, were as varied in their ranks as their charges. They carried all manner of weapons, from cutlass, to blunderbuss to cat-o-nine tails, yet none dared use them without the orders of their leader—the tall man with silver hair. Out of the corners of their bleary eyes, they watched him take a swing of rum from a silver flask and begin smacking his lips.
The tall man opened in his mouth and began to sing in a pleasant baritone:
Once there was a sailor, who loved to drink his rum,
But he had no rummy for his tummy-tum-tum.
But a wise old sailor who had a wooden leg,
Hid his rum there inside it, no more rummy for to beg.
Yes, he always had his rummy, no more rummy for to beg.
Then he sang more pirate ditties, rather a Pirates’ Greatest Hits collection–“The Last Time I Saw Ye, Ye Was Walkin’ the Plank”…“The Deep Blue Good-bye”…“Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest”…“Old Jolly Roger Was a Jolly Old Soul”…“Davy Jones’ Bones”…“Blow the Man Down”…“A Jigger, a Jig, a Jug”…“Ho! Ho! Ho! Three Men in a Tub”…“The Maid of Madagascar”…
The slaves shuddered. There was only one thing those poor wretched men feared—feared worse than the whip, worse than an almost certain death—
“Now, me Mateys, let’s all sing!” roared the tall man. Everyone in the cave, pirate and slave alike, groaned inwardly, licked their parched lips, and began to sing raggedly, on into the endless night.
A man was going to St. Ives,
He met a man with seven wives,
The seven wives had seven sons,
The seven sons had seven wives,
How many were going to St. Ives?
Part One
1
Two Hundred Years Later, over Southwest England…
WHEN KELLY RIGGS BROKE THROUGH THE CLOUDS, the super-radial nine-cylinder Rampart engine housed in the nose of the Dunwoodie X–2 Whoopster thundered against the crisp silence of the brilliant afternoon sky. The plane flattened out above the clouds for twenty glorious seconds before banking starboard and soaring back down. The rain clouds were dark and misty, and the engine noise nearly drowned out the cry of disappointment from Detective Sergeant Fred Bellows, sitting in the open rear cockpit of the experimental single-wing aircraft.
Sitting directly ahead of him in the pilot’s seat, Detective Chief Inspector Kelly Riggs laughed and continued the steep dive through the clouds, plunging just below them and leveling off, but not before gently waggling the wings back and forth. A fine spray of cloud mist and rain pelted him, and he felt exhilarated, his bright plaid scarf whipping up behind him. The rain beaded on the waxed leather headgear, his eyes flashed behind the goggles, and a lopsided smile glinted under his twin slashes of dark brown moustache.
Kelly Riggs breathed in the glorious cold fresh air, reached for the speaking tube and called, “I didn’t want you getting bored, Sergeant, before you see your favorite Devon moors from the air.”
Behind him, his vast bulk squeezed into the seat, hating his leather headgear and goggles, his fur collar tickling his face, the irrepressible Sergeant Bellows replied, “Great galloping golly-whoppers, sir! I’d have lost me lunch—if I’d had any that is!” He was grumbling. “But, if you could, just ease it up a bit…”
“It’s quite all right, Sergeant,” Kelly Riggs replied through the tube, “I almost forgot—Mrs. Wiggins made some egg and cucumber sandwiches—they’re in the chamois pouch.” That was plenty fine with Sergeant Bellows, who, after getting Riggs to promise not to dive unexpectedly, tucked into Mrs. Wiggins’ offerings with relish. He had already warmed himself on a half a thermos of Mrs. Wiggins’ hot black coffee. Mrs. Wiggins was Riggs’s stalwart landlady, and a comforting presence in his life. She kept his smart Art Deco flat in Bloomsbury, and cooked and cleaned and fussed over him. In stalwart British style, she was used to his frequent absences and erratic lifestyle, accepting them as being all for the public good.
Despite his mood, Kelly Riggs suddenly felt a chill (it was after all January) and reached gingerly to turn up the heater switch. He juggled the “Wiggins E&C” as he thought of the sandwiches, and the joystick, and was glad of his plaid wool coat, plaid scarf and the fleece-lined cap. Perhaps the chill was a reaction to the strange, wild country of southwest England below him. Yes, that and his unusual sixth sense for danger.
Riggs’s eyes narrowed as he looked down through the mist at the checkered moors, thought idly about Sherlock Holmes and The Hound of the Baskervilles, and wondered what mysteries awaited himself and Bellows at their destination in distant Cornwall. He finished off the sandwich with a drought of the strong coffee. He smiled wryly, and thought about another Devonshire highlight, though not of the tourist variety, Dartmoor Prison.
Only a short time before Riggs had personally escorted a very nasty customer there to meet the prison governor in person, one whom Riggs had collared personally—the notorious Tex O’Bannion. He hoped the actor was comfortable there in his Extra Secure cell. Perhaps he was acting in the prison plays. Riggs decided he would look into it. And then he thought about the three amazing children he had met on the case and wondered what they might be up to now. Probably just home from school no doubt. And that wonderful girl, Brendalynn Welles… hadn’t seen her since that day they were having lunch and Ceci Devereux had popped up out of the past, surprising him. He sighed, reflecting it was always so extraordinary whom one met on the course of a case.
Ahead, the late afternoon sun was occasionally breaking through, sailing in and out of the clouds, throwing its rays across the angles of his face and glinting off the windscreen. The plaid scarf flapping behind him almost matched the painting of the plane—all plaid markings—brilliant against the deepening sky. Kelly Riggs was not called Scotland Yard’s “Tartan ‘Tec” for naught. Below, off the tip of the specially designed port Stratoblast wing, he could see the winding rails of the Great Western Railway, and shortly, the Express itself, heading in roughly the same direction as the plane. The train’s final destination would be Penzance to the south. Soon, at his current pace and speed, Riggs would overtake it. Yes, a brilliant idea, taking the X–2 to Land’s End and without an Anti–Gravity Day to complicate matters, infinitely faster.
Riggs had trained as a pilot just after the end of the First World War, and kept his license current. He housed the Dunwoodie Whoopster at Wimbledon Aerodrome, a short drive from Central London. A prototype for a new single-wing fighter, the Whoopster was tested as a stunt plane, and thereby acquired its unusual name. The air-cooled engine could almost top 500 kph, but to conserve fuel, Riggs kept the speed at a leisurely pace; and they were making excellent time. One hundred fifty meters below, the steam from the Express left a long curling tail, and as he sailed over it, Riggs flew lower and waggled the wings, the train toot-tooting its horn in reply.
His hand steadied on the throttle, and his mind turned briefly from his present journey to how he had come to be there. He thought back to the previous evening, when he had been seated at his favorite table at the St. Andrews Club.
2
THE ST. ANDREWS CLUB was not the most exclusive club in London. There were many other private clubs for the gentleman that were far more elegant, far more exclusive, and far more pretentious. Yet the St. Andrews Club was one of the oldest, and its cliente
le, though far from extra-wealthy, were some of London’s most solid citizens. Having at least some Scottish ancestry was the main qualification to be accepted for membership. For St. Andrews is, after all, the patron Saint of Scotland, and of course there are the famous Golf Courses at St. Andrews just north of Edinburgh. As a matter of fact, the club in London maintained such spacious quarters that it included duplicate putting greens of the last three holes of the celebrated course, replete with murals, so that the members would feel right at home practicing their game.
And though Inspector Riggs loved the game of golf, at that moment he was having a go at a different set of greens, accompanied by two huge lamb chops with special mint sauce, seated by the tall front window, when MacTavish, the club steward came up. He presented a small card on a polished silver salver that Riggs instantly recognized and pausing with a forkful of chop in mid-air said, “Oh, yes, if you would be so good, MacTavish, show the Sergeant in as my guest.”
And a few moments later, MacTavish returned followed by the portly, bowler-hatted, Oliver Hardy-like figure of Detective Sergeant Fred Bellows, Riggs’s assistant, and partner-in-crime-detection. He thanked MacTavish and sent for the waiter. “Have a seat, Sergeant.”
“Oh, thank you kindly, sir, but I’m afraid it’s a bit of a rush.”
“Surely, Sergeant, not that much of a rush, or you’d have paged me, now wouldn’t you?” His grey eyes twinkled, and Fred Bellows chuckled. Boyd, the waiter arrived.
“Would you care for dinner, Fred?” he addressed him frankly.
Sergeant Bellows fluttered his tie nervously but had the look of a little boy lost. Riggs, sensing his embarrassment at feeling out of his depth (as he always did when visiting Riggs’s club), took matters in hand and relieved him. “Right, Boyd, the same for Sergeant Bellows, but we’ll forgo the cheese board and just have coffee.” Bellows was secretly disappointed at this. The waiter left with the order and Riggs said, “Whatever the rush, it doesn’t do for a man to go off without a good hearty meal under his belt. At least that’s what Mrs. Wiggins would say. Well now, my friend, I expect you’re fair to bursting with news of some exciting new case so let’s out with it, man!”
Over coffee, Bellows had given him a brief sketch of what he knew of the case. Afterwards Riggs said, “Smuggling and playing at pirates in Cornwall, eh? How wonderfully old-fashioned and melodramatic! Hmmm…”
Then he and Bellows were off in a taxi, whisked through the bright streaming lights of the city to their destination, New Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, Riggs’s famous roadster, the Whip Master Double Derby-Dasher, that 16 cylinder, red and black bullet and wonder of the road—was ill, and currently lay recovering in hospital. The Dasher’s undercarriage had taken a beating during the chase for Tex in the Blood Stars Case, especially the ride up the steps at the Royal Albert Hall, through Kensington Gardens, and Hyde Park. But now she was being lovingly cared for, by the ugliest nurse in all England. Alfie Dunlop had once been pinched by Riggs for car thieving, but Riggs, in an effort to help his fellow man go straight, had helped Alfie set up his very own garage, Dunlop’s Auto Repair. Here, he could be his own boss, tinker with all makes and models, and be paid an honest wage.
In short order the taxi deposited Riggs and Bellows at their destination. At that time the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police and New Scotland Yard was located in a complex of large red-bricked buildings with turrets on the Embankment, overlooking the River Thames, just across the road from the Houses of Parliament. The detectives were soon through the various security checks on their way to the lifts and up to their floor. Outside the paneled office they shared, their secretary, the honey-haired Mrs. Peach was waiting anxiously with a file report on the case. Behind her rimless spectacles she was beaming in the way she always did when Riggs started a tough new case. Although this time she was inwardly a little disappointed that the action would take her boss and Sergeant Bellows far from London.
In the office Riggs said, “We had better take a ‘crime scene kit’—perhaps the small one just in case, and,” Riggs unlocked a drawer in his desk, “some protection as well, and I suggest you do the same. Get on to the armory and check out our weapons—the Browning automatic for me, and that old Webley revolver you cotton to if you want, along with some extra rounds for both of us. Then, pop down to the lab and see if Snuffy Franks, or Scotty has any little surprises or suggestions for us. Oh,” Riggs’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “and perhaps two PUFF Packs to finish out our kit.”
PUFF Packs were the Personal Utility Floating Facilitators, those jet packs of yesteryear that used a supply of compressed helium propellant instead of petroleum in order to lift the wearer for short rides of about five minutes only.
Riggs was taking a special magnifying lens from his center drawer when Mrs. Peach put her head round the doorframe. “The Super wants to have a word, sir, and asks you come up directly.”
“You’re a ‘wiggins,’ Mrs. Peach!” proclaimed Inspector Riggs in his light Scottish burr. He gave her a wink and was off.
Detective Chief Superintendent Makepeace was Riggs’s immediate superior, and his office was in one of the turrets on the Westminster side of the Yard. Riggs always marveled at the arrangement of the semi–circular office. A warm coal fired blazed from the hearth on his right. From his centrally located desk in front of the bow window Superintendent Makepeace acknowledged him and indicated a leather armchair in front of him. He continued working on a pile of papers. As he waited, Riggs gazed out the window toward the comforting solidness the Houses of Parliament. They were lit from below, and reached majestically into the overcast sky, almost white with reflected light. He watched a Zeppo and a Zeppouline float lazily by—those wonderful, though short lived, taxi and limousine helium dirigibles that carried people from place to place through the skies of London. There had not been one of the aggravating Anti-Gravity Days for weeks, so it was safe for them to fly. And that reminded him that another AGD was forecast to be coming soon; when the pull of the earth became only a fraction of a hair’s less, and caused an extra bounce in the step of pedestrians; cyclists and motorists to take extra care whilst enjoying a smoother ride; ships and aeroplanes to adjust their ballasts, and the London fog to lift a bit.
He noticed his pulse beating a little faster as it always did as he awaited word of an upcoming case and found himself counting it. He decided to concentrate on the Napoleonic Era cartoon prints next to the fireplace, but he found himself looking at the large cabinet beside it that housed the ‘Televisor’ instead. This new invention transmitted and received live images with sound through the air. With the technology still in its infancy, Televisors were used primarily only by the agencies of government, though there was talk that someday every home in England would have one or more “Telly” sets. Riggs couldn’t quite believe such a thing, but he was always impressed with what the modern scientists came up with these days. Besides, with the wireless, why would one need them, and what on earth would people watch on them anyway?
Superintendent Makepeace finished the papers, set them in his “out” tray and turned his attention to Riggs. The bushy white brows above the reading spectacles arched, and the blue eyes which had been coldly reviewing the files warmed as he looked across the desk at one of the Yard’s finest officers. The gruff commanding voice spoke:
“Commissioner Trenchard was quite pleased with the way your last assignment turned out.” He began to nod as he always did when a bit uncomfortable, which gave one the impression that he might someday take off and fly away because of the sandy upswept wings of hair over his ears. The “Super” might look like a fuddy-duddy from time to time, but he was one of the Yard’s toughest Policemen, with nearly thirty-five years on the force.
“And that female reporter for The Oracle, Verity Quest has been after the Yard for a big interview on our ‘star’ lad. Now I know how you feel about these things, and you know how we do,” here he raised his eyebrows, “so I’ve managed to keep her at bay. At lea
st for now.” He smiled and said confidentially, “Now the Guv’ wanted Inspector Teal to take the case I’m about to hand you.” His eyebrows again arched in amusement. “But he’s after that Templar fellow again.”
“The one they call the Saint?”
“Right, that’s him, Simon Templar, the Saint.”
Riggs smiled back. “Rather sporting chap; in fact, I rather admire him, sir.”
“Hurmph. Well, he cuts it rather fine if you ask me, but always seems to do a good turn in the end. Gives Teal the devil of a time, though! Goes through three packs of that American chewing gum a day! Ha!” He laughed shortly, but suddenly became serious again. “Let’s get down to business, as you haven’t much time. You’ll be off tomorrow. The Met. Office is forecasting a gigantic storm and AG Day, or series of days along with storms so you’ve got to move quickly.” He fumbled in his drawer. “Here are some things I want you to take a look at.” Makepeace placed three objects on the desk and Riggs examined them through his pocket lens.
“What do you deduce, Inspector?” Makepeace smiled thinly.