There was no doubt now, he was succeeding in life. The Curacao action would be noticed in England and he had been a principal in the affair. And, of course, with the taking of two significant-sized warships with little damage and three minor there would be useful awards of prize money to look forward to.
And in society – there was no mistaking the gleam in Miss Amelia’s eye and the envious looks of her sister. There had been a casual invitation from her father for an at-home in the near future, whatever that meant …
Yes, things were looking rosy for him, he concluded. As long as this vexing threat hanging over them was dealt with.
The spirited hum of conversation slackened as the cloth was drawn, and blue smoke spiralled up as the brandy came out. Several officers left to ‘ease springs’, leaving their places empty.
Kydd allowed his thoughts to wander agreeably as he relaxed back in his chair.
Suddenly aware that a figure had taken the vacant chair opposite, he refocused and prepared to engage in easy conversation.
It was Tyrell.
‘You! Um, Kydd, isn’t it?’ The man’s voice was thick with drink but it still held a steely hardness.
‘It is.’ He was enjoying the evening too much to have it affected by a bitter and aggrieved sot. He would indulge the man for a few minutes, then make his excuses.
‘Damn it, man! I’ve seen you afore, sir, and I’d like to know where.’
Kydd’s warm feelings drained away.
If this ghost from his past was intent on laying bare those raw memories of his brutish rite of passage into the Navy, he would resist. Yet the feral presence before him of the one whose terrifying figure had most haunted his existence then still had the power to unnerve.
‘If you must, Rufus, it was I who saw you home the night of the levee if you’ll recall.’
‘Not that, y’ fool. Years past, some time in the last war. Long time back. Where did I see you? Answer me, sir!’
Kydd took a breath, then steadied. He replied coolly, ‘Why, the London season, perhaps. Vauxhall Gardens by night is not to be missed and-’
‘Never trifle with such tommyrot! Popinjays prancing up and down like ninnies, gib-faced dandies with fusty tomrig in tow – I’ve forbidden my wife to attend ever, against her fool wishes I’m sorry to say, and I’m surprised you see fit to show your face at such – such folly!’
‘Then I’m at a stand, sir,’ Kydd drawled carefully. Wanting to strike back at the apparition from his past, he forced himself to muse artlessly, ‘In the sea service – were you at the Nile at all? I was a lieutenant in Tenacious, as I recollect, and-’
‘No!’
‘At Trafalgar, then. I was at the time in my present command and had the honour-’
Tyrell’s face reddened. ‘Neither!’ he retorted. ‘I’ve always been disappointed in m’ hopes for a fleet action of merit. No, sir, I’ve a notion it’s to be years before … and somewhere …’
‘Then at the theatre? Do you favour Miss Jordan at all? Much faded now but an actress of fine parts, I’m persuaded.’
Tyrell thumped the table angrily. ‘I never forget a face, sir,’ he grated. ‘As many a deserter who thought to hide can testify. No, Kydd, I’ll have your number and won’t be denied.’
Just south of the Garrison Savannah Renzi had found a small, perfectly formed beach, which, with its arc of offshore reefs, was not favoured by the fisher-folk or, it seemed, by others. His mood was black and he didn’t want company.
He went to a gnarled tree overhanging the glistening white sand and sat in its shade, gazing out over the translucent green seas, waves lazily creaming in at regular intervals. The hot smell of sun on sand was soothing and he felt his mood gradually ease.
He had some thinking to do. It had been a humiliating and embarrassing experience, not only for his standing with the admiral, which was not so important to him, but more for his friendship with Kydd. Did Kydd really believe that he had made up a story about stealing into a secret base to cover the failure of his logical theory? If so, it was difficult to blame him, for there was not a shred of independent evidence that such did in fact exist.
He realised he had now to face a disturbing, frightening possibility. Was it all a species of dream, of ardent wish-fulfilment, generated by a fevered brain to …
To what? As far as he was aware, there was no mental instability in his family, no incidents in his past to lead him to doubt his senses now. Even so, he was no medical man and it had to be considered.
Two possibilities. Either he was mad, deluded and not responsible – or he was not.
Take the first. There was nothing he could do about this and presumably he must wait for the inevitable spiral into madness. So, do nothing.
The other. If he was not, then … it had really happened. And therefore he must find an explanation consistent with the facts as reported by his own perceptions.
Fact: he had heard from the informant directly, one who had without prompting confirmed his theory and told him where to find the base.
Fact: he had acted on this and duly uncovered it. While there, the experience had been entirely what he would have expected, given the circumstances.
Fact: a short time later, at the taking of Curacao, the self-same house had been utterly without any sign that it was his secret base, and the losses had continued. It was beyond reason to imagine that a complex operation conducted there and hastily vacated would have left no traces whatsoever.
He heaved a sigh. It would take a heroic effort of imagination to reconcile these.
After cudgelling his brain for as long as he could bear it, he lay back in the sand, looking up through the gently waving branches to the immense bowl of innocent blue sky, and let his mind wander.
So what would he do if he were the commander of a clandestine naval operation needing to keep its secret secure? Presumably anything: if it were knocked out, so would be the nerve-centre of the planned predation. How would he go about this? It would seem reasonable to take every care to seal tight the headquarters so none could possibly suspect its existence, the consequence of discovery being so catastrophic.
Yet that didn’t fit with what he had seen. That was not how it had been in Curacao: the building was not properly guarded and, in any case, while the Dutch were French allies and vassals, they were proud and independent, and it would be a questionable thing indeed to rely on them allowing a covert operation on their sovereign territory.
But he had overheard with his own ears naval talk, the name Duperre and so on. In complete agreement with what he had heard from his informant. It made no sense at all unless …
A new thought took shape, one that, wildly improbable as it was, brought together these mutually conflicting elements and went on to explain everything.
He sat up, energised. It would of course imply a brilliant mind, one with organisational skills well beyond the ordinary, whose grasp of the shadowy world of undercover operations was nothing short of masterly – for he was considering that the entire business with Curacao had been nothing but a charade, aimed squarely at himself.
This great mind had heard of Renzi’s theory of a fleet controlled and deployed centrally against Britain’s Caribbean trade, probably from some public indiscretion by the dismissive Dacres. He had realised that someone had stumbled on the truth and needed to move instantly before any steps were taken to uncover and neutralise his base.
The move Duperre – if that was his name – had taken was breathtaking, a perfect solution. Comprehensively discredit Renzi and thereby his theory.
The result would be no more talk of searching for a mythical secret base: the Royal Navy would go on to become spread impossibly thin in endless vain patrols.