by Paul Reid
“Oh, yes. This was the spot for all sorts of desperate carry-on—murder, highway robberies, and even golf. The Scot James the First introduced golf to us Southrons for the first time here on this heath. Needless to say, we were baffled by it. Seems to have caught on since, though.”
They wandered up to the Royal Observatory on the crown of the hill. The home of the prime meridian. At one o’clock each afternoon the time-ball would descend, and the precise time was then telegraphed to all important cities and towns.
Later they drank tea in a cobbled square while a troupe of street acrobats performed stunts for the crowd. The sun became more intense during the afternoon, and so they withdrew for lunch into a small, tree-shaded plaza near the river. The yellow canopy of the restaurant fluttered gaily in the air. Somewhere inside a piano played softly. A gaggle of American children were throwing food morsels to the seagulls and pigeons.
“Call it a diversion,” James said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It’s the least I can do, bringing you here. To thank you for your work.”
“Mr. Bryant,” she smiled in embarrassment, “the government will pay me well enough. And besides, I’ve hardly done any work yet.”
“Not true. You’re keeping me company, aren’t you? And that alone is priceless.”
She removed her hand from the table, thinking that he was about to grasp it. But James had already turned to signal for the bill.
To her disappointment it was soon time to leave and catch the last boat to the city centre. She could have stayed in beautiful Greenwich forever. It was early evening by the time the boat docked in Westminster, and the sun was sinking behind the skyline.
There was just time for Westminster Abbey. For five pence each they were shown round the ambulatory chapels, the chapter house, the cloisters, and the tombs of kings and queens. They saw the grave of the Unknown Warrior, the final resting place of an anonymous British serviceman killed in the Great War, his body carried home from France and buried on Armistice Day in the presence of King George the Fifth. An ordinary soldier, he now unwittingly lay in the company of the illustrious greats of British history.
In a small receptacle below the tomb lay the Congressional Medal, recently bestowed by the United States government on the remains of the Unknown Warrior. Tara stood for a long time before that touching symbol. It made her think of another man, another warrior of the Great War. She wished he was here in London with her.
“I could murder a drink.” James nudged her arm. He had visited the Abbey countless times and was clearly getting bored. “Have you seen enough? Interesting, isn’t it? I fancy an ale, though.”
He ordered a hackney to Fleet Street. The journalistic centre of London, it was wide and modernised, but on either side was an abundance of old, quaintly named courts and byways. The tavern that James escorted a reluctant Tara to was, however, somewhat brash and viciously loud.
“You won’t believe this,” he shouted into her ear as he reached over the bar for their glasses, “but I used to come here all the time. Me and the fellows.”
“Really?” Tara was barely listening. There were several men opposite clutching beers, their shirt tops open, waving across at her and winking.
“’Owse about it, love?” one of them called.
James hadn’t noticed. He paid the bartender and manoeuvred them both into some clear space. “But like I said, it was quite the spot in those days. My parents didn’t like me coming here, of course. Nor my wife.”
She almost dropped her glass. “Your what?”
“Relax,” he chortled. “Susan and I are divorced now. She’s still lives in our old home in Harrow.” He took a hefty draw of his beer. “A stuck-up little needle, was Susan. Glad to be shot of her.”
Tara was taken aback by this sudden, casual revelation. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He shook his head. “I’m not. She wasn’t right for me. The ideal woman only comes along once in a . . . blue moon? Isn’t that the expression?” He rubbed her shoulder. “Any fellow with sense should seize her as soon as he finds her.”
Before she could compose a reply, one of the grinning loudmouths across the bar sauntered over, beer glass in his swinging hand.
“’Ere mate,” he said to James, “me and the lads have a wager going on. Is this here blond poppet your wife, or are you just paying her wages for the night?”
James turned to him and blinked. “My good man?”
“I said, mate—”
“I heard you,” Tara interjected. “And it’s neither, to settle your bet.”
“Oh?” The man was flush faced with alcohol, his belt buckle straining over his belly. Lines of sweat ran down his laughing face. “That’s a charming accent, love. Irish, are you? I love Irish girls. I’d love to kiss your Blarney Stone, in fact.”
“Now look here.” James glowered. “Drag your knuckles back to your cage over there, and let us be.”
The man looked to his friends as they doubled over in merriment. He guffawed. “Bloody hell, mate, I was only having a chat with the lady. I was going to ask her for a dance.”
The conversation around them had quieted a little. The drunk’s voice was drawing attention.
“I don’t dance,” Tara said calmly.
“Not with your like, anyway,” James snapped. “Now be off, you oaf.”
“Hang about, mate. That’s rather rude.” The man straightened his back, mustering up some drunken dignity, and he thrust his face towards James’s. “I don’t half like being told what to do by some silver spoon like you. If I want to dance with the lady, I’ll dance with the lady.”
James’s face had gone shockingly pale. Yet his eyes flashed furiously. “I said no. Deaf, are we?”
Now the room was still. The bartender leaned across anxiously. “Now, chaps—”
The man suddenly dropped his shoulder, drew his arm back, and unleashed a powerful right hook. James blocked the punch with his left, grabbed the other’s throat, swept a leg behind his feet, and dumped him on the floor.
The crowd roared their approval and applauded. James’s expression was wicked; he put his shoe on the aggressor’s neck and demanded, “Are you done now? Are you going to behave?”
On the ground, the man couldn’t breathe. He pushed James’s shoe away and gasped. “Yeah . . . easy, mate.”
“It’s not mate. It’s Bryant. Detective Bryant.” James released him and faced the remaining threesome watching nearby. “Hello, boys. Not going to have any more trouble tonight, are we?”
Their eyes dropped quickly to their glasses. “No, Detective,” one of them mumbled.
Dumbstruck, Tara stared at the man on the ground, cawing for air. She glanced at James. “We should leave.”
“Leave? Because of them? I don’t think so. Landlord, two more glasses for us, and get us a table.” He clasped Tara’s hand. “Come, my dear, let’s be away from the riffraff.”
It was almost midnight when the cab dropped them to the hotel. The doorman gave them a nod and a knowing wink. James tipped him ridiculously and then almost fell into a row of potted shrubs. The doorman helped him up as Tara followed behind.
“You see,” James explained loudly to Tara in the lobby, “it’s a different crowd there these times. Even the staff. They wouldn’t remember me. So I just had to remind them who I was.” He hiccupped and put his hand on a marble pillar to steady himself. “Be a dear and get our keys, would you, Tara?”
She did as instructed. The receptionist gave her a haughty look, and she shrugged helplessly.
“Well,” she returned to him, “it’s certainly been an eventful day. What time is our train tomorrow?” Their ship for Dublin was leaving late in the evening, but they had to make an early train to Liverpool first.
“Hmm? Train? Oh, yes.” James glanced into the lounge and swayed. “How about a nightcap before we retire?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Bryant,” she sighed. His attempts at wooing her had long ceased to be sub
tle. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“Whoa, hold on, I’m going too.” He lurched across the lobby to the elevators, and the attendant took them to their floor.
On the plush red carpet, Tara handed him his key. “Good night.”
“Tara,” he slurred, “I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman unless I walked you to your door, would I?”
“There’s really no need.”
When they reached her door, she asked again, “What time tomorrow? Will you need me by eight? I want to finish the notes, and the rest I can do on the train.”
He smiled dazedly. His breathing was heavy. “Tara, darling, it’s now that I need you.”
“Mr. Bryant, I—it’s been a lovely day, but—”
“It’s our last night in London together. Could we not just . . . ?”
“Good night, Mr. Bryant.” She unlocked her door.
“I thought you would want this as much as I do, Tara. And so what? Is there anything wrong with a little secret fun?”
“Nothing at all, Mr. Bryant.” She stepped inside and tried to push the door closed. “But it’s late. I must sleep.”
“Tara, come now. Don’t ruin what’s been a wonderful time with each other. I want you, Tara. I have from the first moment I . . . ” His lips moved for the softness of hers.
“Get out.” She gave the door a violent shove, and it smacked against his advancing mouth. He swore under the impact and recoiled.
“You crazy girl,” he howled. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” she said quickly, afraid for an instant that he might lash out. “I didn’t mean that. But I do want to sleep. Alone. Good night.”
“I’ve been nothing but nice to you,” he snapped. “And you’ve been teasing me every step of the way, haven’t you? You probably think me some sort of lapdog, to be used or shooed away at your pleasure?” He touched his lip where a bead of blood had appeared.
“I do not, Mr. Bryant. It was you who asked me to come to London.”
“And it was you who asked me to kill Larry Mulligan for you, was it not? Perhaps that’s your motive. That’s your real reason for being with me all this time, fixing your hair and looking so pretty. What?” His face reddened. Out of breath, he stood back.
She took the fleeting opportunity to shove the door closed. And she locked it. Through the spy hole, she saw him wipe his mouth and spit on the floor before he staggered off towards his own room.
The voyage home proved unpleasant. The sky over the Irish Sea was an uncertain one, glimpses of rare blue corralled by black-hearted clouds, and the water heaved in a roiling, green tumult. Within an hour of sailing, as the ship was lifted high on the swells and dropped callously into the troughs, white-faced passengers were abandoning the lounges to scurry back to their cabins. A hardy few kept vigil at the bar, half-shrouded in their tobacco smoke, but the dining tables were empty and the restrooms already reeked of vomit.
Tara withdrew towards her own cabin, not feeling the effects of the rough sea but anxious for solitude. She had barely spoken a word to anyone since boarding the train in London for Liverpool. James, bloodshot-eyed and sullen, had not sat with her in the compartment, and she had no idea where he was now.
The ship gave another lurch and her balance was thrown. She grabbed the hall railing to steady herself, and every fixture and lighting shook, the wind howling through the ventilators.
“Everything all right?” The voice behind stalled her. “Tummy troubles?” James had emerged like an apparition without her hearing him. He sidled up. “I have some herbal soothers in my cabin. If you need them.”
“No thanks,” she said. “I have a fairly strong constitution.”
“Splendid.” He gave her a grim smile. “Look, Tara, I was out of order last night. There’s no excuse. And I apologise for it.”
She was already wearied by this conversation. “Mr. Bryant, I think I’ve heard your apologies before. We’ve made a mistake by allowing our boundaries to be blurred. You are my colleague—my superior, I should say—and our relationship is a professional one only. You’ve shown me some kindness of a personal nature, and I am grateful, but it seems to have confused things between us.”
“It’s not like that—”
“Please let me finish, Mr. Bryant. This was as much my fault as yours, but boat rides on the Thames, dinners in fancy restaurants—it was inappropriate and it must not continue. I will complete my duties as your secretary once we return to Dublin, but after that I trust you will not require my services any longer. I will return to the stationery office, and of course I’m more than happy to serve you in that capacity.”
He stiffened, narrowing his eyes, and grunted. “My word. I hadn’t realised the strength of your feelings. It seems I am guilty of causing you some horrendous discomfort, Tara. Somewhat baffling, though, as I had thought you rather enjoyed yourself yesterday.”
“I did, James—Mr. Bryant. But none of the other detectives have been taking their secretaries on merry jaunts around London, have they?”
“Oh, well, forgive me, if I had wanted to give you a little treat.”
“It’s more than that you wanted, Mr. Bryant. You made it clear last night.”
“I was drunk,” he groaned. “Men say foolish things when they’re drunk. Don’t you know that? You’re making a fuss.”
She let out a long sigh. “I shall have to leave the Castle, Mr. Bryant. God knows I don’t want to, and I can’t afford to, but it seems I have little choice.”
“Is there somebody else?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Is there somebody else? You could have told me and saved us all this awkwardness.”
“Mr. Bryant,” she stammered, “that’s not the point. The point is we are professional colleagues—”
“So there is someone.”
“No.” She felt her face redden.
James regarded her a moment. “Never mind, such matters are hardly my business. Very well, Tara, we shall be model coworkers from now on. Nothing more and nothing less.”
“I would think it for the best.”
“Just one thing, though. About this matter of you pouring your heart out to me about Larry Mulligan. Am I to assume that this is no longer my concern? It’s personal, like I said, and boundaries are boundaries.”
She frowned. “Larry Mulligan is a wanted terrorist, Mr. Bryant. Goodness, don’t bring him to justice on my account, but I would have thought it your duty as a servant of the Crown. If not, don’t worry. I’ll deal with Larry Mulligan myself.”
“Really?” He scoffed. “You’re going to stop Mulligan, are you?”
“Yes. If I have to.”
He guffawed and was about to speak when there was a baleful shudder through the walls as the ship plummeted down off another wave. They both staggered. James’s smile slid from his face and he clutched his stomach. “Damned sea, I feel like . . . ” With some effort he straightened himself up, swallowed hard and muttered, “I-I need to return to my cabin. See to it that you’re rested yourself.”
He turned and shuffled back up the corridor, grasping the rail unsteadily. No sooner had he turned the corner than she heard a violent liquid expulsion and the sound of him slumping to his knees. The smell of vomit thickened.
In the darkness of his cabin James might have taken solace in a whiskey bottle, only that his stomach was seized with cramps. He lay on his side, knees up in a foetal position, cursing the ocean and cursing Tara. What a damned row she was making, and over what? His acts of kindness and concern, his honest regard for her welfare? What in damnation did these women want?
Perhaps folk were right about the Irish, after all. An ungrateful lot. Well, stiff medicine would be coming their way soon enough.
There was an apocalyptic crash as the ship hit the bottom of a trough, and James blenched with his hand clasped across his mouth. His cabin had a porthole, and the froth whipping off the sea was continuously flung against the glass, unsettling hi
s innards further. He pulled the shutter lower as if that might somehow dull the noise, but it didn’t work. He got up and vomited once more into the toilet.
Workplace colleagues, by God. Candid to the point of downright offence. As if she hadn’t enjoyed the expensive dinners and the sights of London, as if she hadn’t giggled in delight at the candy counter of the Maison Lyons. Oh, and she’d get Larry Mulligan on her own too, of course.
Little chance of that. Let her go ahead. But James knew men like Mulligan. He’d be sniffing her out still, tightening the net, bursting for revenge. And Tara would end up a corpse somewhere, as sure as daylight.
No.
The prospect of it was suddenly horrific. He couldn’t bear that, of all things. Not Tara. Sweet Tara.
Her recent ingratitude was simply another symptom of her pain, he realised. It wasn’t her speaking, not Tara herself. It was a manifestation of her inner confusion and fear. So how could he turn his back now? And leave her to the wolves?
He’d never leave her.
Poor, innocent, misguided Tara. He would show her, teach her, protect her. And she would realise in time that he wanted nothing but her happiness. That he alone could bring her happiness. She would love him for that.
The warmth of the thought seemed to dispel the aches in his stomach.
I’m good, Tara. I’ve always been good. You’ll see that, one day.
The Freya Angelica was moored at a wharf near the West India import dock. It was a hell of a walk from Vauxhall Bridge, but Adam left his filthy quarters during the night and managed to slink as far as Charing Cross, where he used a fistful of pounds and the muzzle of his gun to cajole a hackney driver into bringing him all the way out to Shadwell Basin. From there he hurried down past Narrow Street and Ropemaker’s Fields before spotting the ugly smokestack of the Freya Angelica riding off Aberdeen Wharf.
Dawn had given the Thames a reluctant, ruddy gleam. The waters sloshed around the wooden piles as Captain Jackson paced his decks, muttering and cursing at the dark bank of cloud to the east. For all his grousing, however, he was a model of discretion when he needed to be, and he didn’t cast a second glance at Adam’s dishevelled state and sleep-starved eyes when he lifted himself gingerly over the rail. Nor did he question the absence of Adam’s erstwhile partner. Instead he bellowed at the crew to get the boilers lit and swung his boot at a cat that had crept on board to investigate the fishy fragrance. By nine they were chugging up Blackwall Reach, and two hours later they could see the mudflats and the great pierhead of Southend to their left as they exited the Thames estuary.