‘The fly,’ breathed Linus.
Great Saltee
Marshall Hugo Bonvilain was uncommonly excited, after all this day was to be a momentous day, not just for him but for every Bonvilain who had ever been forced to toady to an idiot king. Today all their sacrifice would be made righteous. Hundreds of years it had taken to accomplish the task, but finally the Bonvilains were about to supplant the Trudeaus.
And so, when Sultan Arif had arrived in Bonvilain’s office that afternoon, he’d found the marshall almost giddy with anticipation. Bonvilain stood at the office window, clapping his hands rapidly in time to the Strauss waltz being played by a lone violinist in the corner.
Sultan cleared his throat for attention.
‘Ah, Captain, you’ve come,’ said Bonvilain delightedly. ‘What a day, eh? Historic and all that. I love Strauss, don’t you? People take me for a Wagner man, but I say just because my duties are sometimes gloomy it doesn’t mean I have to be. No, Strauss is the man if you’ve had a trying day. I think I shall have an Austrian orchestra brought over for my swearing in as prime minister.’
Sultan was surprised by this lack of discretion, and it showed in his face.
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ said Bonvilain, jerking a thumb at the musician. ‘Poor chap was run over by a horse and carriage a few years ago, left him deaf and blind. He plays from memory. I got him from Kaiser Wilhelm, only arrived this morning. It’s an omen I said to myself. How can anything go wrong today.’
Sultan began to feel nervous. Things always went wrong around the marshall, usually for other people.
‘God willing, all will proceed well.’
‘How can it not?’ asked Bonvilain, stepping in from the balcony. ‘The queen and her loyal supporters will soon be dead. There are no heirs and so I will be sworn in as prime minister. This Broekhart boy, this Airman, will no doubt attempt some form of rescue, and then we will have him too. And even if he does not come, once Isabella is gone he will be nothing more than a disgruntled fugitive.’
The marshall sat at his desk, smoothing the felt surface with one palm. ‘Now, let us talk about poison.’
Sultan Arif placed a corked ink bottle on the desk. It was half-filled with a pale yellow powder.
‘This is wolfsbane from the Alps,’ he explained. ‘A thimble of this can be mixed with a glass of wine or sprinkled over food. Several minutes later the victim will experience a strange tingling in the hands, followed by chest pain, extreme anxiety, accelerated heartbeat, nausea, vomiting and eventually death due to respiratory arrest.’
‘Eventually,’ purred Bonvilain. ‘I like that.’ He picked up the bottle, holding it to the light as if its deadly qualities would become more apparent. ‘Now, Sultan, you know how vital it is that I appear blameless in all of this. I must suffer with the rest, and only my strength shall save me. It cannot be sham. The queen’s own physician must confirm that I am at death’s door.’
‘Then you must only drink half of your glass,’ said Sultan. ‘That is half a thimble of wolfsbane. You will suffer as wretchedly as the others, but without the respiratory arrest.’
Bonvilain poured a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter. ‘Half a thimble you say? Are you certain? You would wager my life on it?’
‘Reluctantly,’ replied Sultan.
‘I have an idea,’ declared Bonvilain, tapping a pinch of powder into his glass. ‘Why not test the measure on the musician.’ He pulled a sad face. ‘But you are so fond of blind men, and I am eager to hear more of his repertoire.’
Sultan felt a bead of sweat run down his back. ‘There is no need to test it, Marshall. We have used this method before.’
‘But not on me. I want you to take it, that would reassure me.’
‘But it will take hours to recover,’ protested Sultan weakly. ‘I am needed today.’
‘You are needed, Captain,’ said Bonvilain, proffering the tumbler. ‘And this is what you are needed for.’
‘But if the Airman arrives?’
‘If the Airboy arrives I will deal with him. I have been on a few campaigns, Sultan. I do know how to swing a sword. I am asking you to drink this, Captain. Will you refuse me again?’
Sultan felt trapped in this opulent cage. The portraits of Bonvilain marshalls though the ages glared down at him, daring him to disobey.
I could kill him, he thought. At least I could try.
But it was a battle of the mind and Sultan had already lost. He had been doing the marshall’s bidding for years now.
I have done worse than this. Much worse.
Sultan Arif thought of the damage he had done in the name of the Saltees, the lives he had ruined. The men who suffered in prison still.
He reached out, took the glass and threw the liquid into the back of his own throat.
‘Bravo,’ cried Bonvilain. ‘Careful with that glass now, it’s crystal.’
Sultan plonked the glass on the table and waited for the poison to take effect. Numbing of the extremities was the first symptom of wolfsbane. When his fingers bean to tingle, Sultan stared at them as though they belonged to a stranger.
‘Numb,’ he said.
‘Capital,’ cried Bonvilain. ‘It begins.’
Sultan was all too aware of the misery the coming hours contained. He would suffer the pain of the damned and if he was lucky live to forget it.
‘Play something doleful,’ Bonvilain called to the violinist, though the man could not hear him. ‘The Captain needs cheering up.’
An hour later, when Sultan was clawing at the carpet, his lungs aflame, each breath like a dagger wound, Bonvilain squatted before him, clicking his fingers for attention.
‘Now, Captain,’ he said genially. ‘The next time I tell you to kill a blind man, you do it. Understood?’
Sultan may have nodded, or he may have lapsed into spasm. Either way, Bonvilain felt certain that the lesson had been learned.
Saint Patrick’s Bridge
The time had come to fly. Sundown and low tide. The shale bridge was as smooth as it could ever be and the engine was primed for take-off. There was nothing to hold Conor back but his own anxieties.
He sat on the flat rocks watching the sky for birds.
‘Do you hear any bats?’ he asked Linus, who reclined beside him, long skinny legs stretching down to the sand.
‘Bats?’
‘Yes. If this is a haunt for bats, they could gum up the propeller.’
Linus was silent for a long moment. ‘No. No bats. But something is lurking on the ridge. I hear shuffling. A lot of shuffling.’
Conor stood, craning his neck backwards for the view. The villagers lined the ridge like teeth in a vast mouth, more arriving every second to fill the gaps. They peered down to catch a squint of the Airman.
‘All of Kilmore is here,’ he groaned.
‘What? Did you expect to give away diamonds, build a heavier-than-air flying machine on the beach and stay a secret? You are the Airman, come to fight Bonvilain. He is not a popular man.’
‘Look, they’re lighting torches now. They have lamps.’
Linus tapped his temple. ‘I can’t look, boy. Blind remember. And, anyway, couldn’t you use a few lights?’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Conor. ‘Of course. Lights would be most helpful.’
‘Well then, invite those good folk to come down. After all, in a few hours none of this will matter. The queen will know the truth, Bonvilain will be banished and you will once again be Sir Conor of the Saltee Islands.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Conor. ‘There is an alternative ending.’
Linus stood, brushing off the seat of his pants. ‘Not tonight, my young friend. The planets are aligned, the runes have been thrown, I found a four-leaf clover in the grass. Tonight, after three years, Conor Broekhart comes back from the dead.’