Without a mainsail, we could not move very rapidly despite the brisk wind. So I was not surprised, as cooking smells rose from below, to see the sail-makers go to a small hatch in the bow and begin to haul out an incredible quantity of canvas. When they’d completed this magician’s scarf trick and covered the deck in canvas, they set to work.
As I watched the two men tug and measure, I became aware of the steady tick of the camera, recording the activity despite the setting sun and an absence of sail-makers in Fflytte’s script. Will had told me that he always came away from a movie with hundreds of feet of excess film, some of which was never intended for the subject at hand. And lest I imagine those hours were of stockings being eased down ankles, he revealed a secret passion for nature photography. “Most amazing shots I got one time of porpoises playing. Like ballroom dancing, it was.”
Tonight, the light was too dim for much, so he folded away his equipment and said to me, “We’ve got Maurice cooking, at last.”
“Who’s Maurice?”
“Ah, that’s right, you’re new, and he’s just got in from Paris. Maurice was Mr Hale’s idea. He figures that if you’re asking actors to spend weeks locked at sea or in the desert or what have you, the least you can do is see they’re well fed. Which is a fine theory until you go looking for a cook who doesn’t mind being locked at sea or in the desert. But he finally found Maurice, who’s mad enough to love every minute of it. Swears he hates it, does Maurice. Crashes his pans and curses up a storm – not much in English when there’s girls around – and acts like it’s a personal victory to come up with lovely food under the most appalling conditions. Wait ’til you see.”
This was a long speech from Will, suggesting great affection for the cook and his labours. I hated to disappoint him; however:
“I, er, tend not to eat much on board a ship.”
“I remember. You don’t look too bad at the moment.”
I considered the statement, and said in surprise, “No, I’m feeling all right, so far.”
“How’s the food smell?”
“Delicious, actually.”
“Then you might try it. Maybe you’ve got used to sailing.”
It seemed unlikely, as I’d been ill on every voyage I could remember, but he was right, the odours trickling up onto the deck had my stomach rumbling rather than clenching, which was an entirely new experience. Gingerly, I followed him down the narrow steps, ready to retreat into fresh air at every moment. But the air smelt of nothing but good, and all remained calm as I washed my hands and changed from the trousers I had put on in Cintra the previous morning, then ventured into the galley.
It was set with linen and crystal. The air smelt of honey, from a small forest of beeswax candles that brought with them the odour of home. Laden bowls and platters were carried in, and I found that still, the food smelt gorgeous. It tasted better. I had a glass of wine, and ate everything.
Gazing down at the fruit compote that was dessert, I laughed aloud.
Annie, sitting across from me, looked over with a question. I explained, “It would appear that sail travel agrees with me.”
She smiled, uncertainly, and poured a dollop of thick cream over her plate.
* * *
Later that night, the girls, worn out by fresh air and excitement compounded by a rich meal, turned early to the singular experience of making one’s bed inside a hammock (except for Bibi, who was ensconced into a private cabin so small, her feather bed ran up the walls on three sides). They giggled and wrestled their way into the strange objects, shrieking in merry alarm as the taut canvas cradles flipped them out the other side. Then Annie either analysed the problem or recalled past experience, and loosened the ropes through her hammock’s overhead hooks. Sagging, the object proved less impossible to mount, and the others followed her example. Although a couple of the mothers absolutely refused to submit to the indignity, settling instead onto the hard bunks around the edges, the others were soon bundled triumphantly inside their soft wrappings. Talk and restless adjustments of extremities and blankets quickly gave way before the rocking motion, and soon the hold was nothing but a collection of silent cocoons, swaying in gentle unison.
And me.
After a while, I cautiously descended from my hammock and made my way above decks. I was well accustomed to spending most of a voyage braced in the fresh air, but that night I came up to escape nothing more troubling than the faint odour of fish and the snores of my cabin mates. In fact, I came up because I wanted to enjoy the sensation of a boat that did not make me ill.
The sail-makers had long since bundled their project out of the way. The only persons I could see were a pair of shadowy outlines on the quarterdeck. Adam – who, although by no means the eldest of the crew, was clearly deemed one of the more responsible – was at the wheel; with him was young Jack. I gave them a small wave, but wandered in the other direction towards the bow. There, as far as I could see in the faint lamp-light, I was alone beneath the sails.
I paused halfway up the side, watching the delicate coruscations of the aft lamp dance across the sea, listening to the constant motion of the sails and ropes and all the complex, sophisticated, and nearly anachronistic mechanism of this form of travel. For the first time, I understood why people referred to a hull and its means of propulsion as “she.” Harlequin was alive, our partner in this enterprise. I would have sworn that she was grateful for Randolph Fflytte’s mad, romantic vision, which restored her, even temporarily, to her true self.
I could almost sympathise with his wish for active cannon.
I smiled, and leant over the rail, hoping for a ballet of porpoises, for a-
A hand came down on my shoulder, and I screamed. Like any mindless female who had permitted herself to become oblivious of a world of danger, I squeaked and punched hard at the large, silent, threatening figure who had taken advantage of my idiotic preoccupation with beauty to corner me on the deck.
My arm is strong. Had there been three steps of distance to the bulwarks, my assailant might have recovered. There were but two. The man staggered away, arms outstretched, and the back of his legs hit the side. One hand clawed at the worn wood but his centre of balance was compromised, and over he went. Calling my surname as he fell.
I leapt forward and grabbed the ropes, staring back helplessly at the splashing figure who dropped farther and farther behind us in the featureless sea.
Holmes.
BOOK TWO
THE HARLEQUIN
November 17-27, 1924
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
KATE: Far away from toil and care,
Revelling in fresh sea-air.
Meanwhile, the previous Monday …
ABOUT THE TIME the charabanc full of Major-General Stanley’s thirteen blonde daughters was crawling out of Lisbon’s last hill on Monday, its War-era engine gasping for air much in the way its passengers would do on the hill above Cintra later that day, Teams One and Two arrived at their respective destinations. Within minutes, anger flared.
Team One, composed of Randolph St John Warminster-Fflytte and his piratical highness, La Rocha the First, disembarked from the taxi that Fflytte had judged necessary for the sake of face (even if, as he had to admit, they might have walked there and back in half the time) and presented themselves to the offices of the harbour master.