Malarkey laughed outright. ‘Oh aye, little Boney was a great one for the reason. Just ask anyone that was at Waterloo.’
‘The point is that we have seven bags now, where we had none before. Seven bags. A tidy fortune.’
‘It might as well be seven bags of clay,’ scoffed Malarkey. ‘Until your plan succeeds. I don’t know how you’re going to do it. Even the guards have not managed to smuggle diamonds from Little Saltee. A man would need wings.’
Conor glanced sharply at Malarkey. Could he know something? No, he thought. Just a turn of phrase.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A man would indeed need wings.’
Billtoe was waiting for them at the shoreline, up to his ankles in water just in case another guard would beat him to the search.
‘Right you two lemon-sucking scurvy dodgers. Stand away from each other and raise your arms.’
Conor fought the urge to strike this pathetic grafter. To assault Billtoe would surely satisfy him briefly, but it would just as surely lead to a beating that would leave him near dead and incapacitated. He could not afford to be incapacitated now, not when things were going so well with the design. Not with the coronation so close.
Billtoe began his search, making a great show of being thorough.
‘You’ll get nothing past me, Finn. Not so much as a bubble of seaweed. No, sir. Arthur Billtoe knows all your tricks.’
The man was as good as advertising his intentions. Protesting too much.
Presently, he happened across the small stone in the leg of Conor’s much repaired army breeches. Without a word, he flicked the diamond up his own sleeve. This was his payment for a lax search.
‘Any news?’ Conor asked, while Billtoe moved on to Malarkey.
Billtoe laughed. ‘You Salts are devils for news, aren’t you? The most mud-boring happening is like a golden nugget to you.’
‘More like a diamond,’ said Conor.
Billtoe’s hands froze on Malarkey’s shoulders. ‘Is that insolence, soldier boy? Did I hear insolence?’
Conor hung his head. ‘No, sir, Mister Billtoe. I was trying to be humorous. Friendly, like. I misjudged the moment, I think now.’
‘I think that too,’ said Billtoe, frowning, but his expression improved when he came across the stone in Otto’s shirt pocket. ‘Then again, nothing wrong with a bit of humour. We’re all men after all. Wouldn’t want you to think that we guards didn’t have hearts in our chests.’
‘Yes, Mister Billtoe. I will work on my delivery, perhaps.’
‘You do that,’ said Billtoe. ‘Now let me deliver some news.’ He paused. ‘Did you see that? You said delivery then I repeated it in my sentence. Now that’s delivery. Pay attention, Finn, you could learn something.’
Only in prison, thought Conor, could such a bore be tolerated.
‘I shall keep my ears open and my mouth closed, Mister Billtoe.’
‘Good man, Finn. You’re learning, if slowly.’
A year ago, Billtoe would have punctuated this lesson with a dig from his rifle butt, but he hesitated these days before striking Finn. It did not do to unnecessarily antagonize the Battering Rams, and Conor Finn himself was not a young man you wanted snapping on you. He cut a fearsome figure, except for the beard, which could do with some foliage.
‘Anyway. My nugget of news. Queen Victoria of Great Britain has declared a wish to attend Princess Isabella’s coronation. She will not come on the fourteenth, because she believes the number to be unlucky, having lost a grandson on that date. So the coronation has been moved forward two weeks to the first of the month, though Isabella will be still sixteen. We will see your balloons then. Or should I say, my balloon.’
Conor’s practised composure almost slipped away from him, to reveal internal turmoil.
The first. He was not ready. Everything was not in place.
‘The first?’ he blurted. ‘The first you say, Mister Billtoe.’
Billtoe cackled and spat. ‘Yes, the first, Finn. Did you not receive your invitation? I keep mine with me at all times, tucked into my velvet cummerbund.’
Billtoe’s tasteless chuckles died in his throat as he noticed Conor’s expression. Fearsome was the best word to describe it. And while the prisoner made no aggressive move, Billtoe decided that it was best not to prod him any more. He made a silent decision that Conor Finn would have to spend a few days in his cell alone, to learn some humility, Ram or no Ram.
The guard relieved Conor and Malarkey of their diamond nets, ushering them towards the ladder. He thrust his fingers among the dozen or so wet stones in each net. The rough diamonds were like glazed eyes, slipping and clanking. Billtoe could tell it was mostly dross. The best was in his sleeve.
‘Traps shut now, both of you. Climb on out and thank God that I didn’t decide to shoot you for no good reason. You are alive today because of Billtoe, never forget that.’
Malarkey rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Mister Billtoe. We thank God for it.’
They climbed from the pit and into the pantry. The entire room was in constant vibration from tidal shock, and scores of water jets spurted and drooped with each pulse of water. Every day for the past two years, it had seemed to Conor as though the subterranean mine must surely collapse. Every day he had longed to work above sea level with the so-called normal inmates, but his requests were refused.
Orders from the palace, Billtoe had told him. If Bonvilain wants you underground, then that’s where you stay.
In all his time on the island, Conor had only been allowed outside once to supervise the planting of the salsa garden. On that day, the salt-blasted surface of Little Saltee had seemed like a paradise.
Conor winked a farewell to Otto Malarkey as Pike took the Battering Ram to his cell. Billtoe led him away from the main building to the mad wing’s main door. As with all the wings, there were no keys to this door, just a heavy vertical bolt which was winched from the next floor up. Billtoe rang the bell, then doffed his hat and showed his face to the guard above.
‘The right place for you, Billtoe,’ called the guard, though the spy hole, then hoisted the bolt.
‘Every day,’ muttered Billtoe, flinging the door wide. ‘Every blooming day, the same comment.’
Conor waited until they were deep into the mad wing’s slowly collapsing corridor, before speaking. His arrangements with Billtoe must be kept secret.
‘Have my sheets arrived?’
This cheered Billtoe immediately. He had forgotten the sheets.
‘Ah, yes. His majesty’s extra sheets. Today or tomorrow, I am not sure. What’s your hurry?’
Conor strove to look shamefaced. ‘I cannot sleep, Mister Billtoe. My mind has convinced my body that if I had sheets, as though I were a boy in my mother’s house, then maybe a day’s rest would be mine.’
Billtoe nodded at one of the chimney flues dotting the wall. ‘Maybe we should stuff you up the chimney. The ghosts could sing you a lullaby.’
The flues ran in complicated routes behind the prison walls, once a network of hot air, now sealed tight by stone and mortar, but still Salts scrambled up, given the chance, only to lose themselves in the twists and turns, one stone corner looking much like another.
‘Anyway, sheets is against regulations,’ Billtoe said, holding out his empty hand, though he had already been paid.
Conor clasped the hand, passing on the rough diamond he had been keeping for himself. ‘I know, Mister Billtoe. You’re a saint. With a few hours’ sleep behind me I will work doubly hard for you.’
Billtoe squinted craftily. ‘More than double. Treble.’
Conor bowed his head. ‘Treble, then.’
‘And I need more ideas,’ pressed Billtoe. ‘Like the salsa and the balloons.’