A weary looking private slouched over, flapping a hand irritably at the mosquitoes that clouded around his head. Taking the bottle from Thorpe, he took a deep draught. 'God that's foul. If it's a cracksman you want, Riley's your man, sir.'
'Shut up Coleman, you…' Thorpe nodded warningly at Jack.
'Riley; where is he?' Jack glanced around. He focussed on the man with the book. Cracksmen were reputed to be more intelligent than the average criminal. They may even be able to read and write.
'He's not here sir,' Coleman glanced at the furthest of the houses and gave a greasy grin that almost proved the lie.
'Thank you, Coleman. I'll find him myself.' It was apparent that Coleman was hiding something.
'You bloody fool, Coley!' O'Neill hissed as Jack strode toward the house Coleman had looked toward, cracked open the door and stepped into a dark room.
'Riley!'
'What the hell do you want?' The voice came from the interior. 'Can't you see I'm busy?'
Jack pushed the door wider to allow in daylight. The speaker lay on a rough mattress in the corner of the room, with a blonde-haired woman at his side. 'Get rid of the woman, Riley; we have things to discuss.'
'I'm not to be got rid of on your say-so!' The woman slid sideways off the bed, holding a single blanket around her.
'It's best, Charlotte,' Riley sounded more educated than the majority of the 113th; that was hopeful.
The woman tossed her hair, still holding the blanket. She looked at Jack through suddenly narrow eyes. 'Who's this?'
'I am Lieutenant Jack Windrush,' Jack said softly.
'Sorry, sir.' Riley sprang to his feet, standing to attention with the tails of his shirt flapping around naked thighs. 'We're not used to officers coming here, sir.' He looked sideways at the woman and flicked his head very slightly toward the door.
'Wait,' Jack worked out what that simple motion meant. 'Mrs Riley can stay if she wishes.'
'Thank you, sir,' the woman gave a sudden smile.
Jack saw the expression of dismay cross Riley's face.
'You know, sir?'
'I guessed,' Jack said.
There was a minute's silence as both men mentally reviewed the regimental standing orders that were pinned prominently in half a dozen places around the island:
Regimental standing orders 1848
Section XV: marriage
No woman is to be allowed to reside in Barracks who objects to make herself useful in Cooking etc. it cannot be too often repeated to the men that they are on no account to marry without leave. A man marrying, without having obtained leave from the commanding officer of the regiment, will never be permitted to receive any of the indulgences bestowed on such as marry by consent. It is impossible to point out the inconveniences which arise and the evils which follow a regiment encumbered by women; poverty and misery are the inevitable consequences. Officers therefore cannot do too much to deter their men from marrying and there are few men, however hard they think it at the moment, that after a short period, will not be much obliged to thank them for having done so.
'You have had no permission to marry,' Jack said softly.
'No, sir,' Riley was equally quiet.
'You do realise that Colonel Murphy has ordered that even if the marriage is permitted, there are only two wives per company in this campaign?' Jack said. 'And your name was not on the list.' He took a deep breath, aware it was his duty as an officer to report this offence. 'You are now liable to serious charges that could have you flogged and would have Mrs Riley removed from camp.'
'Officers are permitted to take their wives,' Charlotte sounded bitter. 'Anyway, how do you know I am his wife?'
'Blondes are rare in Malta,' Jack told her, 'and all your husband's colleagues were very protective of him.'
'What are you going to do, sir?' A bead of sweat trickled down Riley's face, lingered on the tip of his chin and dripped to the stone-flagged floor.
'That depends on you, Riley,' Jack knew that he was about to venture onto hazardous ground, an area that could ruin his career. He fought his sardonic smile: career? He had none unless he succeeded in this dirty venture. 'You had better get dressed, Mrs Riley and wait outside.'
Once again Charlotte looked to at Riley, who gave a brief nod. Jack turned his back as she dressed, ignored her final desperate glance to Riley and waited until she left.
'All right Riley, you and I both know that you are already in trouble and if I ignore that, then I will be too.'
'Yes, sir.' Riley remained at attention. Jack let him stay like that; he wanted him unsettled.
'Colonel Murphy may only give you fifty,' Jack increased Riley's discomfort, 'or he may give fifty for each offence.' He allowed the prospect of the flogging triangle to press further down on Riley's already depressed face. Jack knew by his accent that he was from a different background to most of the men; to Riley, the cat would be even more degrading.
Jack's two steps took him to the far end of the cottage. He took a deep breath as if he was thinking deeply. 'There may be a way I could overlook that Mrs Riley is with you.'
'Yes, sir.' Riley did not allow any emotion to reach his face.
'You were a cracksman I believe?' Jack kept his voice casual.
'Yes, sir,' Riley replied automatically, and then looked at Jack with a start.
'Good; then we have a job to do you and me,' Jack said, 'unless you wish me to inform the colonel about your lady wife?'
Chapter Two
Malta
April 1854
The house known as Dar-il-Sliem, 'House of Tranquillity' stood a bare hundred yards from the Grand Harbour. It overlooked the massed shipping of the Royal Navy and the associated merchant ships and transports, whose reflected lights danced across the dark water. Red shutters covered a score of windows that punctuated the baroque façade, with squat columns flanking the round-headed door.
'Gerolamo Cassar was the architect,' Riley spoke quietly, 'the same man that designed the Grand Master's palace.'
'Oh?' Jack had no interest in the architect.
'He laid the ground plan for Valetta as well,' Riley said. 'Europe's first ever planned city. He was a genius of course.'
'Was he indeed?' Jack said. 'I am delighted to see you did not waste your time in the Knight's old archives.' He did not try to keep the sarcasm from his voice. 'You were meant to be studying the house to find how to break in, not researching its history.'
'Cassar built this place, but a hundred and fifty years later it was altered for Vincente de Borg, a name which will mean nothing to you,' Riley's voice was neutral. 'He commanded a small fleet of ships that fought the Ottomans, and everybody else in the Mediterranean.'
'I don't know the name,' Jack said.
'The name is not so important, sir,' Riley lifted a small telescope and scanned the building, 'it was his reputation that counted against him. He was so successful that he made enemies, so on two occasions, people attempted to assassinate him. They may have been jealous husbands, for he had a reputation that way as well, or maybe rival captains who lacked his ability to make money from the enemy, or even men hired by the Turks, but he decided he needed an escape route if things got dangerous.'
'A secret passage?' Jack said.
'Their Achilles heel,' Riley adjusted the focus of his telescope and glanced sideways at him. 'That means their weakness…'
'I am familiar with the expression,' Jack said.
'Sorry sir,' Riley said quickly. 'I am used to talking to… I am not used to talking to officers, sir.'
'Carry on Riley.'
'The escape route was a passage from a house by the waterfront, down by the harbour and into Dar-il-Sliem, Borg's house.'
'That will be our way in, then.' Jack said.
'No, sir. That will not, begging your pardon, sir; if I have found out about this passage, then so will Stevensen. That is where he will concentrate his security.' Riley's smile was unexpected. 'If we can arrange something there to divert Stevens
en's attention, we can get in and out of the building before he draws breath.'
Jack nodded. 'That might work. Good thinking, Riley. There is a corporal in you, I think.'
'No, thank you,' Riley shook his head at once. 'I'd prefer to remain as I am, sir.'
'As you wish.' There was obviously far more to Riley than met the eye and potential for a higher rank than a corporal. 'Now, it would be useful if we knew where Stevensen's office was,' Jack said.
'Upper floor, end room,' Riley said at once. 'The plans were in the archives, both the original architect's design and after the eighteenth-century renovations. That room has been used as the office since the builders handed it over. I can't see Stevensen having time to change anything in the last month.'
'Show me,' Jack took the telescope. The shutters were open at the window that Riley indicated. He saw the shape of a man and studied the face by what light a lantern provided. About forty, handsome, with cropped blonde hair and a thick moustache, he looked every inch the Swedish gentleman. 'I'll arrange a diversion,' he said, 'if you can get us inside the building.'
'I work alone,' Riley said.
'Not this time,' Jack told him.
'You might make a noise, sir.'
'I'm coming with you; that's an order, Riley.' Jack put an edge in his voice.
There was a moment's silence before Riley spoke again. 'You were a public school man, sir, so you may well make a good cracksman.'
'Thank you.' Jack ignored the slight, but pointed, bitterness in Riley's voice. The terminology 'public school man' indicated a similar background. Jack stored that information for future use.
At a quarter to three in the morning, a halo glowed around the sliver of moon. Riley adjusted the canvas satchel he wore across his back and looked skyward. 'The air is heavy. There is a storm coming in.'
'You could be right,' Jack said.
'That could be useful,' Riley sounded casual. 'You took my advice about clothing then.'
Jack glanced down at himself. Dressed in a mixture of black and grey, he wore soft-soled shoes and had pulled a dark forage cap over his head. 'I feel like I should be at a masque ball or a theatre.'
Riley threw him an odd look, opened his mouth and closed it again. 'Yes, sir. You won't be easily recognised; you will merge with the shadows and the soft shoes are quieter,' he said. 'Sir.'
'I've arranged for a slight diversion in fifteen minutes time,' Jack said. 'Hopefully, that will give us time.' He glanced at Thorpe, who stood a yard behind them, chewing on a wad of tobacco. 'You keep a good look out, Thorpe. If you see or hear anything suspicious, give us a blast.'
Thorpe held up a hunting horn. 'Yes, sir.'
'Come on then, Riley.' Jack said.
'Wait for that cloud to hide the moon, sir,' Riley watched the sky until the moonlight faded; 'right, here we go.' He tossed a grapnel hook onto the top of the wall that surrounded the house and swarmed up with Jack at his back. Riley reversed the rope so it dropped to the inside of the wall and they slid down, landing with a soft thump.
'Give it a moment in case somebody saw movement,' Riley's voice was as calm as if he was sitting in his wife's parlour. 'Right sir, keep behind me and move smoothly.' He ducked low and ran toward the house. Jack followed with his breathing nervously harsh as they slammed against the back wall beside the window they had already selected. Riley tested the shutters. 'Closed and bolted,' he said. 'See where it holds? That's where the bolt is.'
'What now?' Jack asked.
'Watch and learn.' Riley flicked the canvas satchel from his back. 'Keep watch, sir.' Removing a well-swaddled bundle, he revealed a brace-and-bit and showed it to Jack. Fitting a large cutting edge, he placed the central point against the wood of the shutters close by the bolt and carved out a circular hole some six inches in diameter. The noise of metal on wood seemed to reverberate around the quiet garden.
'Can't you do that quietly?' Jack asked.
'No. Keep crow- watch - sir, if you please.' Thrusting his arm through the hole, Riley drew the internal bolt and pulled the shutters open. He tested the window, grunted when it refused to open and removed another bundle that contained a small stone. 'This is a glass cutter's stone.' It took him only a few seconds to cut through one of the panes and unhook the catch inside. Placing a piece of dark paper over the circular hole in the shutters, he dragged the window open and climbed inside the house, with Jack at his heels.
Stopping to close the shutters, Riley lit a small bull's eye lantern, adjusted the aperture so that only a pencil-thin sliver of light probed into the dark and moved confidently toward the door.
Jack followed, hoping that Riley had studied the internal plans of the house as thoroughly as he had the outside. The door led to a marble-floored corridor, with the lantern-light picking out the grim faces on a succession of portraits.
There were only a few steps to the door on the opposite side of the corridor. Riley turned the door handle and grunted when he found it locked.
'Can we force it?' Jack pulled his watch from his pocket; he had allowed fifteen minutes before the diversion; five had passed, and they were not yet within the room.
'I've got a betty,' Riley produced a wallet that contained a selection of pick-locks, the mirror of the one Bulloch had handed to Jack. 'Hold this please, sir,' he handed over the lantern. 'Keep the beam on the lock.'
'This lantern's hot,' Windrush took the lantern.
'It gets hotter,' Riley knelt at the lock and fiddled with his pick-locks. After a remarkably short time, there was a slight click, and he pushed the door open and moved inside the room.
Jack followed and closed the door. The room was square, dark with the exterior shutters closed and surprisingly stuffy for its size. Riley remained just within the doorway as he probed with the thin beam of light. 'There's no safe,' he said, 'so anything important must be in the writing bureau.'
They moved toward it, feet silent on a thick carpet. A long-case clock ticked softly in one corner of the room, with the light of the lantern reflecting from a glass-fronted bookcase.
The writing bureau was heavily carved, with a column of locked drawers on either side of the sitting aperture. Riley unlocked each drawer in turn before opening them from the bottom up. He took out a folding ruler, measured the breadth and height, fiddled underneath and shook his head.
'There you are, sir. I've done my bit. There are no secret drawers in this bureau.' He stepped back as Jack sorted through the drawers. He had only a vague idea what Bulloch and Reading may want, so took every piece of paper he could find, sliding them into the black canvas bag he wore. There were some documents that looked official, a number of personal letters that he glanced at but discarded; a few maps and some forms that were partially filled in.
'There's somebody in the corridor, sir,' Riley's voice he urgent. He closed the shutter of his lantern. The sudden intense darkness was stifling.
Jack heard the soft tread outside and tried to make himself as small as possible beneath the bureau. He had not brought a weapon and knew that if the householder caught them here, the British Army would not support him. It was obvious that Riley was an expert cracksman so being in his company would be tantamount to guilt without the necessity of a trial.
There was the murmur of voices speaking in a language that Jack did not recognise but guessed was Swedish. He could neither see nor hear Riley and wondered if he was still there, or had he somehow managed to ease away in the dark. Jack flinched as somebody pushed open the door and walked in.
The flicker of a candle highlighted a strong chin, proud nose and high cheekbones, and then a second man pushed the door wide open. For a second Jack saw him clearly, a tall man with a weather-beaten face disfigured by a black patch over his left eye. A second man joined him, less tall but broad, with short hair so blonde it was nearly albino and a mouth like a man-trap.
'Is there anything amiss?' The tall man's words were in English with a soft, slow-speaking drawl that Jack could not place.
&nbs
p; 'No, sir, the door had not been locked.' The first man stepped inside the room and held the candle high. Jack remained still beneath the desk as the yellow glow pooled around him. He knew Riley would have the sense to keep silent, glanced at the open drawers and prepared to thump anybody who stepped too close. The man with the eye-patch would be a formidable opponent though; he looked as if he had survived about forty tough years of life.
The candlelight flickered and then steadied as the man looked around. 'Nothing amiss, sir,' he said, and both men left the room, closing the door. There was the scrape of a key turning in the lock, a soft click and then silence.
'Give them five minutes,' Riley's voice was soft in the dark, 'in case they linger outside.'
Jack nodded, aware of the thumping of his heart. Although he had organised the diversion, the sudden racket from the opposite side of the house still made him start. There was the sound of raised voices, a loud bang and a rattle as if somebody was rolling a steel drum over a cobbled road, which, Jack thought, was quite likely knowing O'Neill.
'Right, Riley, let's get out of this.'
Riley knelt at the door, picked the lock in seconds and slid into the corridor. Their retreat was much faster than their advance had been as Riley sped out the window, pushed the shutters closed and ran to the surrounding wall. The noise from O'Neill's diversion rose if anything, with loud voices, the blast of a whistle and a high-pitched barking.
'Dogs!' Riley groped for the rope he had left ready for their retreat. 'Get out of here, sir; blasted dogs!' There was genuine fear in his face as he looked along the line of the wall. For the first time that night, Riley hesitated. He stumbled and would have fallen had Jack not supported him and hoisted him upward.
The dogs erupted around the side of the house; three large mastiffs, all teeth and fury and slavering jaws. Jack leapt for the rope an instant too late and swung helplessly for a second. He felt the searing pain as the leading dog clamped its teeth on his ankle. Swearing, Jack kicked out, feeling his flesh rip as the mastiff worried at him. He tried to pull himself up the wall, but the weight of the dog held him back; he kicked again, once, twice, and swore as a second dog barged in to grab at his flailing leg.
Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2) Page 3