“You know damned well that is not what I was asking. Talk, and be quick about it – once we reach the ship, we may not have a moment to ourselves until we get to Morocco.”
“The letter you wrote on Saturday very fortunately reached me on Wednesday. It was a test of my brother’s machinery to get me to Lisbon in twenty-four hours.”
“But, why?”
“Because I was beginning in Sussex, and as you will recall-”
“Holmes, I’ll tip you back over the side!” I hissed. “Why. Are. You. Here?”
“Because of the scar on your pirate king.”
“La Rocha?”
“A man can have many names, but few men could have that wound.”
“Who is he?”
“A pirate. Among other things.”
I looked over my shoulder at the ship. It was close enough now to see by the swinging lamp-light that most of the others had gone back to their bunks – once they knew who had gone over, and saw the skiff beat the dorsal fins to the swimmer, they’d grown bored and returned to their warm cocoons. Still, we only had a few minutes before our voices would be heard by those remaining.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes. Piracy was squashed two hundred years ago.”
“So long as men sail the seas, there will be pirates. La Rocha comes from a Moroccan family with a history of piracy – the accent is not as strong in his cousin.”
“Cousin? You mean Samuel?”
“His name is Selim, and they may be half-brothers instead of cousins, but yes. Although not all of the men share their linguistic history.”
My hands faltered as the Arabic name trickled down and stirred a memory: Selim. Selim the Grim. Who in 1512 became the Ottoman emperor and promptly set about slaughtering his brothers and nephews, lest they become a threat.…
I bent over the oars again: best to think of something else.
“I thought the men were Portuguese.”
“Oh, Russell, surely you-”
“Holmes!” This was no time to scold me for a mistake in accent identification.
“La Rocha took that scar in the second year of the War, when a small boat laden with gold and valuables escaped Turkey ahead of the Allied Forces. Nothing could be proved, no evidence was found. No doubt he is aware that the eyes of many agencies have been upon him for all this time, but to all appearances, he lives in peaceful retirement in his new home.”
“By ‘agencies,’ you mean Mycroft?” Damn: I knew this had something to do with the man.
“Keep rowing,” he ordered. “We don’t want them to wonder what topic two apparent strangers find so engrossing. Bad enough that it was you who came after me.”
“You’d have drowned, waiting for the others to make up their minds. Mycroft?”
“I’d have made it eventually. Yes, no doubt La Rocha is on Mycroft’s long-term list of interests.”
I thought that Mycroft’s interest was more immediate than “long-term,” but prising an admission out of Holmes – since that admission would also mean that Mycroft was ultimately behind my own presence here – might necessitate rowing in circles around Harlequin until the new day dawned, and I wanted my bed. Hammock. I went on as if Holmes had readily confessed an active focus from his brother’s shadowy agency.
“Is this to do with the missing secretary, Lonnie Johns? Has she been found?”
“A shoe very like hers was found at the top of a cliff near Portsmouth. The other was retrieved from a Jack Russell terrier, well chewed. Police theory being that the woman committed suicide, but that her note had been held down by the shoe the dog removed.”
The shadowy boat before me was replaced by images from a screen: pretty young girl; flowered frock that the wind presses against her lithe form; made-up eyes stretched with sadness; a note, tucked under her shoe; with a last woebegone look around her, her figure is replaced by:
I can live no longer, please forgive me!
And then: empty cliff-top; the approach of a small and business-like dog, applying its button nose to the shoe atop the fluttering note … I shook the images from my head. “So what is La Rocha up to?”
“I have no idea.”
“Right.”
“On my honour, Russell, I do not.”
“Then why risk life and limb to race down here? A telegram would have sufficed. Oh, don’t tell me you’re going all protective on me, Holmes?” Granted, our last case had been rather trying, scattering us across half of Europe as we strained to communicate, but still.
“I thought you might be glad of reinforcements.”
We had come into the edges of the light from the ship, just enough that, by leaning forward, I could make out his features. I stared at his expression, then resumed my rowing before he could scold me. “You wanted to get away from Mycroft, too!”
“Shh,” he urged. Pulling the edge of the blanket forward so his face was in shadow, he murmured, “Is there any language you are certain is not spoken by any of those on board?”
“I haven’t tried them all, but I’d guess Hindustani.” And before he could scold me about that as well, I added, “Yes, guessing is deplorable, I know.”
The shadowed face seemed to fold into a brief smile, and then he sat upright into the lamp-light and said in normal tones and a Midlands accent, “I have to thank you again, Miss Russell. Quite ridiculous of me to tumble over like that, ought to make the railings tall enough to hold a man instead of tipping him overboard. What if you hadn’t been there to see me go?”
“There was a man on watch,” I loudly reassured our Major-General Stanley. “He tossed you a life-ring, too.”
“Well, I hope you haven’t spoilt your lady-like hands on the oars, you really should have let me take them.”
“I didn’t want to risk having you over again. Catch that line, would you?”
He caught at it, missed it, nearly fell in again, dropped his blanket in the water, and finally got his fist around the line. By dint of my pushing him from below – a tricky manoeuvre, when braced in a skiff – and others pulling from above, we got the Major-General back on deck.
“Take him to galley,” La Rocha ordered Adam, then to his damp passenger, “Warm there, you be dry in no time.”
The young pirate led him away; I did not think Holmes’ shivers were entirely an act.
The boat was made fast, and La Rocha ordered the sails raised. I wished him a good night and headed below, but his voice stopped me.
“Why you on deck?”
“When he fell, you mean? I was enjoying the quiet – I’m not used to sleeping in a room full of people – and he came up and … Well, I thought he was assaulting me, so I … I’m afraid I shoved him, and he went overboard. That’s why I sort of felt I had to go after him. My fault.”
The pirate king stared at me, then stared at me all over. And he laughed. As if a man making advances on Mary Russell was quite the biggest joke he’d heard in years.
Which was more or less what I’d intended. Still, he didn’t have to agree with quite so much gusto. Feeling very cross, I went down the stairs and, instead of going directly to my bunk, went to the galley instead. I thrust my head inside, to find my husband and partner arranging his wet garments over various chair backs. Adam was with him; both men looked up.
“From now on, you keep your hands to yourself!” I stormed. “Next time I’ll use a belaying pin, and let you drown!”
The young man looked startled, but Holmes’ face ran a quick gamut of surprise, disapproval, and distaste, before he pasted on an expression of sheepishness for the benefit of La Rocha’s man.
I’d had to let him know what explanation I’d given for our little adventure. I dimly recognised that saddling him with a reputation for lechery – a reputation he would find repugnant every time he was forced to uphold it – was a displaced revenge on his brother. However, I will admit that the thought of it was a small warm satisfaction, nestled to me as I drifted off in my canvas sling.