‘And the others?’
‘I’m afraid that’s it.’
‘Dear God!’
Killigrew opened the outer door a couple of inches and looked out. Gog and Magog were pushing another truckload of lumber to the sawmill. ‘As soon as those two are out of sight, make your way round the back of the mill and head for the coast. Now… go!’ He opened the door and gave the artist a shove in the back.
Greeley took a few lumbering steps across the open space between the offices and the sawmill. He stumbled and for a moment it looked as though he might fall. He righted himself, and to Killigrew’s chagrin he stopped and looked around stupidly. Then he remembered where he was going and covered the last few yards to the shadows behind the sawmill.
Killigrew slipped out after him. He made his way into the dark alley behind the try-works, which formed a dogleg where it met the side of the adjoining godown. The far end of the alley opened out on the square. There was more light there, and he would be exposed as soon as he stepped out of the alley, but there was no one in sight. He cast a glance at the house; there was no sign of Molineaux or Mrs Cafferty. He wondered if the seaman had succeeded in getting her. He was tempted to go to help, but knew he had to put his trust in Molineaux; the seaman would be putting his trust in him, and was doubtless waiting for him to start the diversion that would enable him and Mrs Cafferty to get away from Thorpetown.
Gripping the shotgun tightly, Killigrew edged down the side of the godown and peered around the corner. Pushing a truckload of sawn sandalwood towards the jetty, Gog and Magog had been intercepted by five spouters Killigrew did not recognise; men from the Acushnet, presumably, since they did not wear the white uniforms of the Wanderer’s crew. The seven of them argued over whose turn it was to use the truck. For a moment it looked as though a fight might break out. Killigrew’s money was on the twins, but then Quested arrived and ordered Gog and Magog to let the spouters take the truck as soon as they unloaded the sandalwood on the jetty, and then load the wood into the hold of the Acushnet.
The twins pushed the truck on to the jetty and unloaded the timber, allowing the men from the Acushnet to load the truck with the last blanket pieces of blubber from the whales they had caught. They pushed it up the ramp into the half-loft of the try-works, and as soon as they were out of sight Killigrew took his chance and broke cover, dashing across twenty yards of open ground to duck down behind a stack of barrels on the wharf.
He peered over the barrels. He could see no one looking in his direction, so he pulled one of the barrels at the back of the stack on its side and broached it, the sound of the steam-engine in the sawmill covering the noise of the planks breaking. As the liquid within splashed across the ground, he stepped back quickly. He tucked the shotgun under his arm, took the box of matches from his pocket, struck one, and tossed it into the puddle.
The match went out as soon as it landed in the liquid.
Someone touched him behind the ear with the muzzle of a pistol. ‘Brine,’ Jarrett explained smoothly. The barrels containing whale oil are stacked in the godown.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Killigrew said ruefully, slipping the box of matches into his pocket.
‘Hands above your head,’ said Jarrett. ‘Now turn and face me. Nice and slowly, if you please. No sudden moves.’
Killigrew did as he was bidden. The shotgun fell from under his arm. He turned, and Jarrett promptly smashed the grip of his pistol against his forehead. Lightning flashed inside Killigrew’s skull and his legs crumpled beneath him.
Jarrett stood over him. ‘I owed you that one.’ He plucked the revolver from Killigrew’s belt and tucked his own pistol in his belt before picking up the shotgun. ‘Now, on your feet. I expect Captain Quested would like a word with you.’
* * *
Mrs Cafferty could feel herself blacking out as Mangal pulled the garrotte ever tighter about her throat. Clawing at the strip of cloth, she struggled desperately to cling on to consciousness. There was no point hoping for a rescue at the eleventh hour: the only person who could save her now was herself.
Through the red mist that swam before her eyes, she could just make out the bottles on the bedside cabinet. She reached out for them, but her fingers came just a few inches too short. She tried clawing at the bedclothes to drag herself nearer, but they only came untucked from beneath the mattress.
Mangal pulled tighter, his knee pressing hard against her throat. With a supreme effort, she managed to lift both him and herself a couple of inches off the mattress. Then she slumped forwards. She reached out again, but her fingers only brushed against the bottle of kalydor and knocked it over.
It started to roll towards the edge of the cabinet, and dropped off. She managed to catch it on the way down. She smashed the neck against the edge of the cabinet, and dashed the contents over her shoulder into Mangal’s face.
He screamed in agony.
She pushed him off and rolled off the bed. Wiping his streaming eyes with his sleeve, he leaped off the bed and blocked her path to the door before she could reach it. He drew a dagger from his belt and held it out towards her, slashing at her throat.
She dodged back behind the bed. He started to follow her round, then realised she was going to try to climb over the bed to get to the door. He doubled back and jumped on the bed, advancing. She snatched the oil-lamp from the bedside cabinet and hurled it at his head. He dashed it aside with a grunt of annoyance, and the lamp smashed against the wall to the right of the door.
For a moment they were plunged into darkness. Mangal lunged at her with the knife, leaping from the bed, but she had already moved. The pool of oil abruptly burst aflame, setting ablaze the carpet and the drapes on the bed. In its eerie, flickering light, she saw Mangal silhouetted with his back to the flames, advancing again. She backed away until she bumped into something: the chair in front of the desk. She snatched it up and held it before her, thrusting its legs at his face. He backed away, less sure of himself now, realising that for once one of his victims would be no easy kill.
She tried to squeeze past him to the door, but he moved to block her. He thrust again with the knife. She swung the chair and caught him a glancing blow on the arm which dashed the knife from his hand. As he went to retrieve it, she dropped the chair and made a dash for the door. But now that corner of the room was an inferno, the heat of the flames driving her back.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Mangal had got his knife again. She turned to face him and snatched up the chair once more. The room was beginning to fill with smoke that stung her eyes and clawed at her throat. Realising she had to act fast, she charged. Mangal was caught between the legs of the chair and smashed back against the wardrobe. The doors broke under his weight and he became entangled in the splintered planks, his fat body wedged inside the wardrobe.
She looked around frantically while he tried to break free. There was no way past the fire to the door; that only left the windows. She threw up the sash of the nearest and thrust her head out. The flagstone terrace at the side of the house was about ten feet below her. She tried to tell herself she could make it, but that was neither here nor there. She had no choice but to try.
She squeezed out. It was awkward – the window was narrow – but she managed to twist and by gripping on to the stone coping she was able to pull herself up and get her feet on the window ledge. She took a deep breath, bracing herself to jump…
Mangal grabbed her by the ankles and tried to pull her back inside. She overbalanced and pitched forwards. The world spun around her, and in her mind’s eye she saw herself hitting those flagstones headfirst, splitting her skull.
* * *
Molineaux reached the rear of the big house and tried the back door. It was locked. He suspected it would only take a minute or two to pick the lock, but some time had already passed since he had seen Jarrett bring Mrs Cafferty to the house; more than enough time to kill her. Fearing he was already too late, he backed away from the house and looked
for a swifter means of entry. The door at the front was too exposed. He tried one of the windows, but it was locked. If one was locked, they would all be locked.
On the ground floor, at any rate.
He made his way around the side of the house. A drainpipe ran down from the gutter to a rain barrel. It passed tolerably close to a window on the first floor behind which a light flickered, like a log fire in a hearth. He would be able to look through the window to see if anyone was waiting for him inside, while all they would be able to see was their own reflection against the black night sky.
He tested the pipe: it felt more than strong enough. He braced his feet against the stonework behind it and shinned up as nimbly as a monkey. When he was level with the window he stretched out an arm to see if he could reach it, when someone threw up the sash from within.
He froze. A head was thrust out, and a moment later a figure started to climb out. To his astonishment he recognised it as Mrs Cafferty. She had not noticed him clinging to the drainpipe only a couple of feet to her left, and he wondered how best to draw her attention to his presence without startling her into losing her footing.
A moment later a pair of hands reached out from the window behind her and grabbed her ankles. She toppled forwards.
Molineaux grabbed for her instinctively and caught her by the arm. She cried out in shock, and as the hands holding her ankles let go, the seaman’s arm was almost wrenched from its socket as it bore her full weight. Then he lost his grip on the drainpipe, and the two of them fell.
Molineaux landed heavily on his side and lay there for a moment, the wind knocked out of him. He felt someone drag the rifle from his shoulder and rolled on his back to see Mrs Cafferty standing over him, levelling the rifle at his head.
‘Don’t shoot, ma’am!’ he hissed. ‘I ain’t one of them!’
‘You’re that black seaman from the Tisiphone, aren’t you?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘Able Seaman Wes Molineaux, at your service.’
She lowered the rifle and reached out a hand to help him to his feet. ‘What the devil were you doing, clinging to the side of the house like that?’
‘Mr Killigrew sent me to rescue you—’
‘Help!’ screamed a voice above them.
They looked up. Mangal Griddha had tried to climb out of the window after her, but his fat body had got wedged in the narrow frame. Now he could neither climb out nor climb back into the blazing room behind him.
‘I’m burning!’ he screamed. ‘Help! Help! I’m burning! Oh, Kali! The fire! It burns.’ Sobbing, he started to jabber away in Hindi.
‘Oh, dear God!’ gasped Mrs Cafferty. ‘Can’t you do something, Mr Molineaux?’
‘Only put him out of his misery,’ Molineaux said grimly. ‘And I ain’t sure he deserves—’
‘Then do it, for heaven’s sake!’
The seaman glanced down the steps towards the wharf below. ‘The sound of the shot…’
‘Don’t you think he’s making quite enough noise as it is?’ she asked. Mangal was shrieking in agony now.
Molineaux sighed, raised the stock of the rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and fired. Mangal’s body jerked as a black hole appeared in the centre of his forehead, and he slumped.
She gazed down to the lagoon. ‘Where’s the Tisiphone?’
‘Not here. Come on, ma’am. We’ve got a cutter waiting off the south coast.’ Taking her right hand in his left, he set off down the steps.
The spouters from the Acushnet had seen the fire now, and were crossing the plaza. As Molineaux and Mrs Cafferty headed for the alley behind the godown adjoining the try-works, the spouters tried to cut them off. Molineaux pulled the revolver from the waistband of his trousers and discouraged them with a couple of shots. As they scattered, Mrs Cafferty caught him by the arm and dragged him into the dark alley behind the godown adjoining the try-works.
They were running down the alley when a huge, dark shape stepped out from the far side of the try-works and crashed into Molineaux. Still holding the seaman’s hand, Mrs Cafferty was jerked off her feet and the three of them tumbled in the shadows. Molineaux lost his grip on the revolver and heard it skitter across the ground, but could not see where it fell. He grappled with the dark figure – from the sheer weight of him, it could only be one of the Lawless twins. Molineaux was no match for his gigantic opponent, and the spouter rolled on top, pummelling the seaman’s face with his massive fists.
Then Mrs Cafferty rose to her feet and kicked the twin in the head. It was enough to enable Molineaux to crawl out from under the dazed spouter, but the twin was on his feet again in an instant. Molineaux stood up and interposed himself between the spouter and Mrs Cafferty.
‘Keep on going until you get to the far end of the lagoon, then make your way around it and head south until you come to the coast,’ the seaman said to her. ‘You’ll be able to see our ship from there: there are friends aboard, they’ll look after you.’
‘What about you?’
‘Don’t worry about me: I can handle this bastard. Whatever happens, just keep going!’
She looked hesitant.
‘Go!’ he hissed.
She turned and ran. Before she had gone a few yards, however, Jemmy Fingers stepped out in front of her, grabbed her and slammed her against the wall at the back of the try-works. Pinioning her to the weatherboards, he leered. ‘Alone at last.’
‘Get your greasy hands off her!’ roared Molineaux.
Gog caught him from behind and dragged him to the ground. Molineaux tried to get up and saw Fingers drag Mrs Cafferty out of sight round the back of the building behind the try-works. Gog stood up and Molineaux tried to crawl after her, but the giant caught him by the belt, hauled him to his feet, and threw him against the side of the building.
Molineaux picked himself up and turned to face Gog. For a moment he thought he was facing both Lawless Twins; then he realised he was seeing double. He shook his head muzzily to clear it.
Gog hit him again. Molineaux was hurled against one of the barrels stacked against the rear wall of the try-works, and it splintered under the impact. The twin tried to stamp on his head, but he rolled out of the way.
Something hard and cold was digging into his back. He reached behind him and his fingers closed on the revolver. He pushed himself to his feet and levelled the revolver at Gog. ‘Hold it!’
The twin froze.
‘No, you hold it, amigo!’
Molineaux twisted and saw Forgan standing in the mouth of the alley. He had some kind of harpoon gun cradled in his arms, levelled at Molineaux. Gog moved away from the seaman quickly.
‘Know what this is?’ demanded Forgan.
‘A harpoon gun?’
‘An Allen bomb-gun, amigo. If it can kill a whale, imagine what it’s going to do to you. So drop the pistol pronto, unless you want me to blow your stinking black hide clean back to Africa.’
Molineaux threw the revolver away. ‘I’m from Seven Dials, actually.’
‘Whatever.’ Forgan gestured with the bomb-gun. ‘Get the pistol, Gog.’ He gestured with the bomb-gun. ‘Start walking, amigo.’
* * *
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I haven’t just killed you out of hand,’ Quested told Killigrew, leaning back against the rear handrail of the platform over the try-pots.
‘I dare say you’ll get around to it sooner or later,’ gasped Killigrew, dripping with sweat. Although I must confess, the suspense is killing me.’
He dangled over one of the simmering try-pots, the cord that bound his wrists looped over the hook of a chain-hoist that hung from an overhead beam. Jarrett stood next to Quested on the platform, while Wyatt sat on the edge of the half-loft, grinning. Magog stood with his hands on the chain that controlled the pulley, and Utumate sat on a barrel, calmly sharpening the blade of his tomahawk with a whetstone.
Quested chuckled drily. ‘Trying to hide your fear behind bad jokes, Mr Killigrew? Punning won’t save your life.’
/> ‘If you’re going to kill me, why the devil don’t you get on with it?’
‘You really are in a hurry to die, aren’t you? Patience, patience! All in good time. You see, a couple of pulls on that chain Magog’s holding, and you get lowered, inch by inch, into the try-pot. How far do you think you’ll get before your heart gives out from the excruciating agony? Crotch deep? Chest deep? Maybe we’ll get you all the way up to your face, and you’ll burn and drown at the same time as the boiling blubber fills your mouth and nostrils and chokes you.’
‘Yes, I think I get the point.’
Quested drew his revolver from its holster. ‘Alternatively, I could just shoot you in the head. A relatively quick and painless way to die. All you have to do is tell me how you got here.’
‘I already told you. I made a pair of wings, like Daedalus, and flew here.’
Quested nodded to Magog, who ran the chain through his hands, lowering Killigrew down towards the bubbling blubber beneath him. The heat was terrific, the stench almost overpowering.
When Killigrew’s feet were only a couple of inches above the try-pot, Quested signalled for Magog to stop lowering him.
‘We’re wasting our time,’ snarled Wyatt. ‘He won’t talk. Let’s just croak him and get out of here.’
Quested rounded on him. ‘And find the Tisiphone waiting to blow us out of the water as soon as we sail out of the lagoon? I’m damned if I’ll take that chance. The only way he could have gotten away from Erromanga and got here is on a ship. Maybe the Tisiphone. Whichever ship she was, he didn’t sail her here on his own. I want to know who came with him. All it needs is for a friend of his to see us disguising the Lucy Ann, and all the work that Mr Irwin’s men are doing will be for nothing.’
The door to the try-works opened, and Molineaux staggered through the door, propelled by a shove from Gog behind him. They were followed in by Forgan, carrying a bomb-gun. ‘Look at what we found, amigos!’
Killigrew and the Incorrigibles Page 42