With everyone on board.
Sailing for Morocco.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PIRATE KING: When your process of extermination begins, let our deaths be as swift and painless as you can conveniently make them.
“MOROCCO? BUT – BUT I thought we were going to film on the boat for a day or two and then get on the steamer!”
“She’s a ship, by the way, in case you’d rather avoid a lecture from Randolph-‘boat’ from a new hand suggests derision. Randolph decided that using her as transport would be a way to recoup some of the money we’d put out for repairs.” Fflytte hadn’t the courage to tell us himself, I thought: He’d sent Hale to do the job.
“We’ll all drown.”
“Actually, I was surprised. She’s more sea-worthy than she looks.”
“A bath-tub without a plug would be more sea-worthy than that boat looks.”
“Believe me, my reaction was the same as yours. I went down yesterday and poked around in all the corners. Beneath the surface untidiness, she’s been maintained – the bilge is even dry. I had to have them add water to test the pumps.”
I put a hand to my forehead: The very word bilge made me queasy. “But, the sails?”
“There’s enough to fill the camera lens,” he answered, adding, “It does have an engine.”
Oh, this was getting better every moment: stinking fumes to add to the heave of the boat.
“Although it only goes forward, for some reason,” he added. “But we have the sweeps, as back-up.”
“Sweeps?”
“Long oars.”
“I know what sweeps are. But who do you envision pulling them? Bibi and Mrs Hatley? The girls? Oh God – has Fflytte got it into his head that the pirates would use the girls as galley slaves?” I really would shoot the man. Or brain him with one of his oars. Sweeps.
“The crew will pull them. And as I said, it’s only as back-up.”
“How many days …?”
“To Morocco? Three or four.”
Meaning five, on a small and leaky tub, shoulder to shoulder with three dozen members of Fflytte Films and sixteen pirates – plus the ship’s crew, however many that was. I may have groaned.
Hale laughed, and gave my shoulder a comradely slap. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over in no time.”
I could always go home. I was not proving very successful in my assignment, in any event, which in all probability meant not that I was failing, but that there was no case here to investigate. Secretaries flee, drugs and guns are sold: The reasons for suspecting criminality among Fflytte’s crew were so ephemeral as to be nonexistent.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
Instead, I retrieved my increasingly splayed note-pad from my pocket, unclipped the pencil, and asked, “What do you need?”
He handed me a list, a daunting list, filling a sheet to the bottom, and then some. “Oh, and I meant to add, Mr Pessoa promised to find us some traditional Portuguese clothing.”
“I suppose he’s coming with us?” My heart sank at the prospect of explaining that our translator wrote enthusiastic poems about lascivious violence – and worse, explaining how I knew. But to my surprise, Hale was shaking his head.
“No. When I told him that we were going to leave on Saturday, he suggested that enough of the pirates spoke a rudimentary English for us to get by without him.”
“So you didn’t fire him?”
“I didn’t have to, no. In fact, I got the impression that he was quite relieved when I didn’t beg him to stay on. However, there were one or two things left undone, and although he said he’d come by first thing tomorrow, it’s probably better not to depend on him. If he has the clothing, you could give him his final cheque.”
I agreed, somewhat distracted by Hale’s list, and by his information. If there was any villain in this piece (indeed, if there was any villainy) I had thought that Pessoa would be in some way involved. For him willingly to retire suggested either that his part was done, or there had been no part to begin with, other than acting as translator.
As for the rest, it was a very long list.
* * *
I ran Mr Pessoa to earth in an office in the Baixa district, a remarkably unremarkable setting for the would-be poet laureate of Portugal. He was one of a number of men sitting at type-writing machines, cigarettes in mouths, oblivious of the clamour of clacks and dings. I waited for a surge of distaste when I spotted him, but somehow I could not feel it. He was a poet; he wore many personalities; one of those personalities took joy in repugnant images. But I could no more dislike the man himself than I could a young boy who played at shooting Red Indians.
As I wound my way between the desks, trying not to choke on the palpable grey mist oozing into my lungs, he came to the end of his document, jerked it from the machine, tucked it into an envelope, and dropped the result into an out-tray on his desk. He looked up and saw me swim out from the smoke.
“Miss Russell! I did not expect to see you again.”
“Mr Hale asked-” He waited politely for my paroxysm of coughing to clear. After a minute, he took his cigarette and crushed it into the overflowing tray, as if that would help. Finally, I managed to get out, “Can we speak outside?”
The shock of clean air made matters worse for a time; when I finally drew an uninterrupted breath, Mr Pessoa was looking quite alarmed. He suggested that we get something to drink.
I waved away his concerns, but accepted the offer of refreshment. Which – no surprise – was only a brief walk away, a narrow room fragrant with coffee and sprinkled with student types. Pessoa was so well known there, his cup was handed to him without enquiry. I told the waiter I’d have one of the same, which turned out to be the dribble of powerful coffee essence called bica, similar to the Italian espresso, and just the thing for clearing the lungs. When we were settled and he had begun to roll a cigarette, I said, “Mr Hale wanted me to ask you about Portuguese fancy-dress?”
“Er, do you mean the traditional clothing?”
“Precisely.”
“That should be delivered to the wharf before evening. Do you wish me to check on it?”
“It might be a good idea, thank you. Which reminds me-your cheque.”
He received the slip of paper and tucked it away in his billfold. “It has been an interesting experience, Miss Russell.”
Interesting. Yes. “I understand you won’t be coming on the Harlequin with us.”
“I find I have neither desire nor need to leave my city. Although I will admit, were I to do so, your enterprise might be the one to prise me away.”
I took a cautious sip from my cup, and reached for the sugar. “I don’t think I ever heard how you came to be involved in the first place.”
“A connexion through that office you just saw. They arrange for translations of business documents. I have skills in English and French, and I can work the hours I like. Poetry feeds the soul, but does little to nourish the body or keep out the rain.”
“So Mr Hale contacted you through the translation service?”
Pessoa struck a match, squinted at me through the resulting smoke-cloud. “Indirectly, I believe. He has a friend in London, a solicitor for whom I have translated any number of documents. The friend gave him my name and, when I received his enquiry, I decided that I could as easily do vocal translation as written.”
“Was it Mr Hale himself who wrote to you, or his secretary, Miss Johns?”
“I should imagine it was she, although I don’t remember precisely. I have exchanged letters and telegrams with both.”
“Would you have the letters?”
“Undoubtedly. Although they may have a poem or notes for a story on their reverse side by now. I tend to make full use of all the scraps of paper that come into my possession,” he explained. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, my predecessor in the job quit rather unexpectedly, leaving one or two tasks unfinished. I’d like to ask her about them, if I could only find her.”
“Yes, I did wonder at the abrupt stylistic changes in the last communications I had from Mr Hale. That would explain it. But if you’re asking, no, she gave no indication that she was leaving, much less where.”
“Ah well, we’ll make do. Perhaps I shall see you on our return to Lisbon, Mr Pessoa.”
“I should enjoy another of our discussions, Miss Russell. Although I don’t imagine I shall be accepting a position as live translator again. Once was an experience; twice would be somewhat … disruptive.”
“Well, I shouldn’t think most translating positions would be as innately disruptive as working for a film crew.”
“You certainly have your work cut out for you, Miss Russell,” he agreed, with a definite twinkle coming from behind those spectacles.
The twinkle nearly loosed my tongue: I was hit by a powerful urge to tell the man who I was. Knowing that he was sitting knee to knee with the real-life wife of the storybook Sherlock Holmes would send Fernando Pessoa/Álvaro de Campos/Ricardo Reis/etc. into throes of intellectual and poetic ecstasy, and give him a lifetime of material for his theories of deliberate pretence and personal identity. But however much I liked the fellow, I did not know that I could trust him.
And so we ended, with Fernando Pessoa taking out his pouch to fashion another cigarette, every bit as enigmatic as he’d been when I’d first met him, eight days before.
* * *
I did not get to bed that night, and as a result, drew a line through the final item on Hale’s list-“check hotel rooms for items left behind”-at ten minutes after nine on Saturday morning. I’d even managed to scribble a brief letter to Holmes, telling him of the change in plans and reminding him that if the Harlequin went down at sea, my most recent Will was at the solicitor’s.
Of course, absolute chaos seethed at the wharf. Edith’s mother was frantic because her diabolical child had contrived to leave their passports in a drawer: I handed her the documents (which had, rather, been thrust into the farthest reaches of the bed). Bibi was in a fury because someone had stolen her pearl hair-clasp that the Duke of Edinburgh had given her: I assured her it had merely worked its way into a chair’s cushions, and held out the bag in which I had placed it, along with three frilly undergarments, an ivory-handled hair-brush, a pair of belts left on a hook in the bath-room, one red patent-leather shoe, five silk stockings, and a number of objects from the drawer of the bed-side table, which I took care not to examine too closely. Hale spoke in my ear – shouted, near enough – that he’d forgot to tell me that Major-General Stanley had drunk himself into a near-coma the other night and was in no shape to go anywhere, so he’d hired a replacement; that Will-the-Camera was going to need to take over one of the cabins to develop any film shot on board; that Will’s assistant, Artie, had another nervous collapse and was currently in a Lisboan sanatorium; and that he’d brought on board two sail-makers, who would also be available for sewing costumes if Sally needed them.
A dozen similar near-catastrophes and pieces of news assaulted me. Most of the problems I could deal with then and there, sending the complainants up the gangway onto the boat.
Unfortunately, the crowd soon thinned, a feather bed was successfully folded and inserted into the companionway with only a minor eruption of down, the last parcels were brought aboard (including, yes, Mr Pessoa’s traditional Portuguese dresses), and I was left with no distraction from what lay before me.
A very small boat, wasn’t it? And despite being in rather better condition than I’d anticipated, and showing signs of very recent and highly aggressive cleaning, it was still an old boat, and laden with a distressing number of chronically excitable people. My gaze travelled unwillingly down the twin masts (they did look more nearly parallel, didn’t they?) seizing on the occasional encouraging sign of a new rope and a gleam of varnish. The masts and beams showed no obvious sign of rot, the fore mast appeared to have a full complement of sails, and the aft mast, although naked of canvas, seemed to have the rest of its rigging in place. There were even a few scraps of fresh paint, one of which was her name.
“Ready to come aboard, Miss Russell?”
The high voice brought my eyes down to my next immediate challenge: the deck itself. La Rocha stood at the far end of the gangway, his meaty hands gripping the top of the bulwarks. His teeth were bared in a grin, and he exuded a most proprietary air. A pirate king, in all his particulars.
“Mr La Rocha-” I began.
“Captain.”
I sighed: another actor who had fallen in love with his character. “Won’t that rather confuse matters? I mean to say, the Harlequin’s captain may object.”
“I am Harlequin captain, Miss Russell.”
My jaw fell open. I felt it drop, and could only stare, but he just grinned all the wider. “Mr Fflytte buy Harlequin, I sail it for him. What, you think I was schoolteacher, maybe?”
“But, I thought … a fisherman?”
“Yes! On ship. Ship just like this, once. Come, Miss Russell. Everyone else on board.”
Yes, that was the rub, wasn’t it? Everyone else: all the people for whom I was responsible. I stood gaping up at him, wondering why I felt as if a spider had just invited me to see his nice web.
I took a deep breath, and set my foot on the worn gangway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MAJOR-GENERAL: As I lay in bed awake,
I thought I heard a noise.
EVEN WITH THE tide sucking us towards the open sea, it took us forever to reach it.
La Rocha’s crew was – I should have guessed it – our pirates.
Except that most of the men clearly hadn’t worked under sail for years, if ever, yet La Rocha absolutely insisted that we use the sails. The rest of us shifted around in front of the crew like herded sheep, trying to find a square foot of deck that might not be required by a man pulling on a rope – and continually failing to anticipate the antics of the racing, sweating figures. Eventually we were driven into four or five tight knots, and there we stayed, gazing at the antics.
Except that the antics of unpractised men made La Rocha roar, then sent him rigid and silent with fury while Samuel took over the roaring. The girls tittered when our captain’s voice climbed shrilly and commented at every slip of the hand and foot. Then the sailors’ tongues started as well, the meaning of their words plain despite the foreign languages, and the mothers hastily escorted their charges below, joined by most of the other girls.
Which left the rest of us – the men, six women, and me – shifting from amusement to discomfort to growing alarm. Finally, when we had spun lazily less than a mile from the port and twice nearly collided with other ships, Fflytte decided to take charge of operations. Hale tried to stop him, but the director shook off his cousin’s hand and marched down to the quarterdeck, where La Rocha’s hands gripped the wheel so hard one imagined the wood creaking while Samuel cursed one of the younger men dangling overhead – Irving or Jack, I wasn’t sure – for pulling on the wrong rope and sending everything into a tangle.
“I say,” Fflytte called as he went up the two small steps, “wouldn’t it be easier to just set the engine going and try out the sails when we have a little more elbow room? That last fellow seemed a bit-”
Only Samuel’s lightning reactions saved the director from a hospital bed. The belaying pin left La Rocha’s grip just as Samuel’s fist made impact, deflecting the heavy wood three inches shy of its target: Instead of smashing into Fflytte’s face, it took a chunk out of the rail, spun in the air, and splashed into the water. La Rocha turned on his lieutenant with his own clenched fist, but Samuel stood his ground. The two men stared at each other for an unnerving length of time before La Rocha’s shoulders subsided a fraction and Samuel raised his chin to yell at the boy in the rigging. Neither man acknowledged Fflytte’s presence, ten feet away.
White-faced, Fflytte crept back to where Hale and I stood. I removed my hand from the knife in my boot, and made myself sit. Fflytte mopped his forehead with a handkerchief,
and said in a shaking voice, “Best not to interrupt the fellow when he’s upset. He’ll sort them out in a minute.”
Indeed, in a minute Adam (who seemed to know what he was doing) directed Jack (or Irving) to the correct rope, and the dead canvas overhead began to stir, as if dimly calling to mind its purpose in life.
And then, magic: The canvas awoke.
With a startling crack and a jolt of the ship, the canvas filled, proud and taut. Harlequin gave a little sigh of relief and settled into place behind her square-rigged foremast, creaking all over as ten thousand planks, long accustomed to the ignominious drive of an engine’s screw, made their infinitesimal adjustments to the draw from above. The men cheered, Fflytte leapt up and clapped his hands, and I tipped my head back to watch the wind carrying us to sea.
Harlequin was, now that the accretions of the fishing trade had been hacked away, a brigantine, a two-masted ship (as Randolph Fflytte, instantaneous expert on all things maritime, had informed anyone who came within earshot the day before) designed expressly for nimbleness and flexibility. The fore mast had square sails, the kind that fly at right angles – square – to the line of the hull. These had beams along their tops – called yards – and a great deal of the shouting had been in encouraging the men to inch along the looped ropes strung beneath the yards, clinging for their lives as they prepared to loose the ties and drop the canvas. Not a job I would care for, myself, even in the softest wind.
The other mast, rising up just in front of the quarterdeck, held a different kind of sail. Fflytte had called them fore-and-aft sails and, as one might expect, they were arranged along the front-to-back line of the ship, rather than across it. Where the fore mast was fitted with four yards that sails dropped down from, the aft mast possessed a long yard at the bottom from which the big mainsail would be lifted. This yard, which was low enough to require the occupants of the quarterdeck to duck under it, looked a bit naked, since it had no canvas – no doubt the reason we’d brought two sail-makers on board at the last minute. Studying it, I decided its current nudity was probably a good thing: That massive beam would surely swing around when the wind hit its canvas, and in the confusion of getting out of the harbour, it would have bashed in the skull of anyone but Randolph Fflytte or the diminutive Linda.
Pirate King: A novel of suspense featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes mr-11 Page 15