When the music started up, my husband-cum-suitor swung me onto the impromptu dance floor and continued where we had left off. “Do you know how long Pessoa has used the name ‘Ricardo Reis’?”
“Some years, I should say. Why?”
“There’s a Lisboan embezzler named Artur Reis who’s clever enough to be planning a crime that’s visible only in bits, such as transferring guns from prop cabinets into private hands, or finding a use for a bit of extra cocaine. I wondered perhaps if the name might be a poet’s homage to a criminal.”
“Reis is a common enough name in Portugal.”
“True.”
“It means ‘captain’ in Arabic.”
“And several of the Barbary pirates are called that – Murad Reis, one of the most vicious of the Salé Rovers. He started out as a Dutch merchant marine, named … Jan Jansen, that’s it. He was the one who sailed into St Michael’s Mount and seized a ship-load of captives, then later did the same on the west of Ireland. And Dragul Reis, who served with the Barbarossa brothers towards the end of the Barbary kingdoms – he died in fifteen fifty-something.” Holmes, clearly, had taken the opportunity to raid a book-store before boarding his own steamer. But the mention of Barbarossa reminded me-
“Do you think La Rocha’s new red beard is a bow to the Barbarossa brothers?”
“More likely that than an homage to the Holy Roman Emperor,” he replied. “But to suggest that Pessoa is to Reis as La Rocha is to Barbarossa seems to invite unnecessary convolutions into the matter.”
Since my mind was still struggling to untangle itself from the morning’s terminological convolutions, and since the record would only last another minute or so, I hastened to get him up to date on what I knew about the others as well.
It’s remarkable how much a person can say in two minutes, particularly when speaking to an ear as familiar with nuance as the one that lay inches from my lips. I took care to maintain an expression of courteous disinterest on my face, but by the song’s end, I had managed to convey to Holmes the central points of my past two weeks.
When the music ceased its bawling from the metal trumpet, my husband stood away and, as the Major-General, gave me a slight bow. One of the police constables came to me next, but I claimed fatigue and stood to one side for the next few numbers, looking with care at my companions.
Bibi made a brazen approach to the quarterdeck to venture a flirtatious overture to, of all people, Samuel. The big man cast a sideways and clearly amused glance at La Rocha, then looked back at her and slowly gave a single shake of his head. The young woman voiced an unconcerned laugh, as if to say she had only been playing with him (How long was it since Bibi had been turned down, I wondered?) and flounced down the steps, chewing her gum all the while, to seize Adam away from Annie. Annie glowered as she watched them start the next dance.
Hmm: Annie and Adam.
Mrs Hatley, Edith’s mother and our Ruth-the-incompetent-piratical-nursemaid, was dancing with the police sergeant, although neither seemed particularly taken with the procedure, spending most of their time watching those around them. Daniel Marks was ignoring the glances of the girls currently unclaimed, preferring to stand beside the pirates Benjamin and Jack. Marks and Benjamin were opposite sides of the coin of masculine beauty, one fair and tall, the other dark and lithe. Marks laughed at something Jack said – here was one pirate with enough English to communicate a joke.
Edith had shaken off her mother’s urging towards the younger pirates to form a trio of the younger girls, elbows and heels flapping the air in time to the music. Will Currie had stashed his equipment and film below, since the lack of cohesive costuming here made film pointless. Now he tapped the second-smallest girl, Kate, on the shoulder, and when she turned to see, he bowed and held out a hand. She glanced uncertainly at her chaperone sister (on the sidelines talking to June’s mother) for permission. When it was given, Kate turned her back on Edith and June and began to dance with Will, tentatively at first, then with more confidence as he encouraged her with avuncular dignity.
Then the music changed, to a true waltz. Some of the couples drifted apart, but Bibi dug her fingers into Adam, Will adopted a formal posture with Kate (who came up to his shoulder), and Edith, after a glance towards the waiting pirates, stepped forward and set her hands on June’s waist and shoulder. Why not?
Holmes had been trapped by Isabel’s mother. She was a woman of forty whose stays were well exercised by a figure best described as “lush.” From her coy attitude towards my husband, I saw that she had caught word of the Major-General’s purported lechery and intended to make the most of it.
Holmes’ face was priceless, keen with interest on the surface, alive with apprehension underneath. The crowded shipboard conditions proved a distinct advantage for those desirous of chaperones, but the crowding brought disadvantages as well, making it impossible to get away from a determined female. As they circled about, I took pity on Holmes and made a quick jerk of the chin. His eyes registered a flash of relief, but he continued the dance without interruption.
Moving around the edges of the merry-makers, I glanced upward, and with a cold sensation realised that Samuel was watching me. Had he seen my gesture to Holmes? Would it have betrayed us as being too familiar for the communication between strangers?
I could not risk giving myself away: This was one tight place Holmes would have to get out of on his own.
Before the Major-General could shed his admirer and work himself around to me, I shifted past some bouncing couples to boost myself onto the railings beside the one pirate who seemed perennially shy and retiring, the one who rarely took off his hat even below decks, the one who looked out of place in that crew.
The one who resembled a Swedish accountant.
I swung my legs and nodded to the music and said without looking at him, “Don’t pretend that you don’t speak English.”
It took him a while to decide what to do. Then he said, “Very well.”
“What is your name?”
“Gröhe.”
“Why did you come back, after Mr Fflytte had said he didn’t want you?”
“I … Mr … Captain La Rocha needed me to come to Morocco with them. This was the most easy way.” His English was adequate, the accent beneath it Turkish with a hint of his German heritage below that.
“Why does La Rocha need you?”
“Odd to say, I am his book-keeper.”
I looked at him, eyebrows raised. “So Mr Fflytte wasn’t far off, at that.”
Gröhe smiled wanly. “No.”
“I don’t understand why Mr La Rocha needs a book-keeper in Morocco,” I said, taking care not to come across as an interrogator, merely a curious if sharp-eyed assistant.
But it was a question he clearly did not care to answer, saying weakly, “He often requires a book-keeper.”
“But I thought he was a semi-retired fisherman?”
The pasty face turned even paler; the narrow throat swallowed; the eyes darted around in search of rescue. “I’m … it’s a family matter. I, that is, I couldn’t afford to get to Morocco on my own, but I have family there, and Captain La Rocha said, he thought if I took this job …”
I’d known we would soon be interrupted, but Gröhe didn’t feel Samuel’s approach until a big hand clapped onto his shoulder, at which time he gave a shrill cry remarkably like mine the night before.
Samuel left his hand where it was and leant past the small man, baring his teeth in a grin that contained none of his earlier affection towards his human parrot. “What you asking my friend, here, Miss Russell?”
I raised a face of good-natured innocence. “I recognised this gentleman from the day Mr Fflytte asked him to leave. I wondered why he hadn’t gone.”
I kept the expression raised like a mask, kept my feet casually swinging, although I could feel the rapid beat of my heart and wanted nothing more than to flee from those black eyes. They bore into me, and after a minute, I permitted myself – permitted my character, Miss Russell the assistant – to frown a little. “Is there something wrong?”
“You can tell me that, I think.”
“Well, if you mean am I going to report it to Mr Hale, no, I hadn’t intended to. I mean, what could he do, throw the poor fellow overboard? As far as I can see, there’s little harm done. However, perhaps he shouldn’t collect any more pay packets from Fflytte Films.” I pronounced the last sentence like a chiding schoolteacher. Then I waited, hoping his ears wouldn’t pick up the pounding of my heart over the music.
Samuel’s eyes slid shut in a slow blink, then he was looking at the book-keeper and I was breathing again. He spoke, and Mr Gröhe tugged at his hat and scurried away, below decks. Then Samuel turned back to me.
“You will not tell Mr Fflytte and Mr Hale about this.”
I decided that Miss Russell had taken enough. I tipped my head to the side, frowning. “You know, that sounded suspiciously like a command. I’m going to assume it is a problem with your English and not that you imagine me to be one of your employees. I told you I did not intend to expose your Mr Gröhe. But I’ll admit that if you try to bully me about it, I’ll be tempted.”
His eyes went even darker; the fingers of my left hand crept towards the blade in my boot-top.
And then he smiled. In amusement and appreciation, as if I’d done something just adorable. He stretched out the hand that had dug into Gröhe’s shoulder and patted my cheek, then turned on his heel and passed through the revolving couples to the quarterdeck.
Furious and perplexed, I realised that we’d had an audience for the tail end of our meeting. Annie stood nearby, watching Samuel’s retreat. Behind her I spotted Holmes, alert to the tension and oblivious of the demands of the dance.
“Did you want something?” I snapped at the girl. (Silly, really, to call Annie a girl – she was older than I was, no matter what she claimed.)
“Oh! Sorry. It’s just, well, some of us were just wondering how long we’re going to be at sea, but there’s something rather intimidating about the quarterdeck, isn’t there, even though it’s only a couple of steps above the rest. And when I saw Mr Samuel come down I thought I might ask, only he seemed somewhat … preoccupied.”
I pulled myself together and shot Holmes a glance while summoning a rueful laugh for Annie’s benefit. “He’s a strange one, isn’t he? Touchy.”
“Oh, isn’t he just? At first one thinks Mr La Rocha the more terrifying of the two, but then Samuel will snap at one of the men over something and one feels oneself sneaking off like a scolded kitten.”
Annie had more intelligence in her than those wide blue eyes and ripe-cherry mouth suggested. I turned the talk to the approximate length of journey ahead of us, and from there to supplies, and then to Maurice’s cooking.
But my mind was holding up Samuel’s words to Gröhe, examining them, considering.
Samuel had spoken in Arabic, a language I understood well enough: If you don’t want me to feed you to the fish, he had said, you will disappear until we hit land.
* * *
The party showed all signs of continuing until luncheon, and no doubt after that, Fflytte would claim the deck and all actors for his purposes. If Holmes and I were to finish our conversation, we had to be out of earshot for longer than three minutes at a time.
The only way I could think of required steeling my nerves and donning an additional layer of clothing. And if I found the below-decks deserted, as I expected I would, I could take the opportunity for a bit of snooping.
But as I made my way to the common cabin, I was surprised to hear voices from below – surely everyone was on deck except Mr Gröhe? And Maurice, of course, at work transforming inadequacy into magnificence. But this was a woman’s voice, answered by a child: Aha, Edith and her mother, Mrs Nunnally.
I pressed my ear against the cabin door. What was the woman doing? Edith’s whines of complaint were punctuated by sharp exclamations of discomfort: “Ow! I wasn’t doing anything, I was just dancing like Mrs Grimley taught- Ouch!”
“I told you to take care, that we didn’t have a chance to do this yesterday and that if anyone came too close – stand still!”
Edith’s voice kept whining, until I could not stand it. Yes, the child had made my life a trial, but there was no cause to mistreat her. I lifted the iron latch and stepped inside. I am not sure what I expected to see, but it was not what lay before me.
Mrs Nunnally was bent over Edith’s face, the customary below decks gloom brightened by the light from a small lamp. She whirled, and I looked in confusion at the object in her hands. A pair of tweezers. What …?
She dropped the implement into a pocket and presented me with a wide and utterly artificial smile. “We were just finishing up here, I noticed that my Edith had neglected to keep her eyebrows neat, and there’s nothing Mr Fflytte dislikes more than-”
I looked around her at the child, whose cheeks gave clear evidence that the tweezers-work had not been above the eyes. Many things about my tom-boyish admirer fell into place.
“Perhaps I should call you Eddie?” I asked.