It was Holmes’ turn to ponder, a juncture at which, had we not been in a young gale and surrounded by tar-soaked rope and dry canvas, he might have brought out his pipe. I shifted, to keep my backside from going numb against the wood, and allowed my gaze to go down. The sails beneath me were pregnant with wind, a vista of living cloth. It would have been quite beautiful, had I been able to see past the terror. Holmes finally said, “It is a poor fit. Sixteen pay packets is petty crime, for those two.”
“Portugal doesn’t have a lot of ready cash lying around, just at the moment. And – wait.” A thought was tapping at the back of my mind, a faint thought, pressing to get through. What …
He was still talking. “However, if this is but the tip of an iceberg, if what we are seeing is the Moroccan equivalent of the Italian criminal syndicate currently taking such a firm hold in America, thanks to their Prohibition – the Brotherhood of the Jolie Rouge, shall we say, along the lines of the Red Circle-”
And then I had it. I broke into his monologue, smiling for the first time since laying my hand on the ratline. “The paint! Holmes, when I first saw her, I noticed that Harlequin’s name was the only relatively intact paint in sight. One could even see the ghost of a former name. Which I think was ‘Henry Morgan.’ ”
“The privateer.”
“What if this ship actually belonged to La Rocha all along? What if it’s a nice simple swindle: La Rocha finds a rich victim, sells him a ship under another name so it doesn’t look suspicious when La Rocha takes charge of fixing the old tub up, tricking his mark into spending money right and left to refit her? I was impressed by how fast they laid their hands on sails that fit, used riggings that were precisely what was needed. Even the oars.”
“Sweeps,” he corrected me absently, chewing on his lip.
I leant forward, an angle that would have been impossible five minutes earlier. “I know you’d prefer to find that La Rocha has woven an elaborate tapestry of crime, but isn’t it more likely he’s just grabbing at passing opportunities? Nine years ago, with the Turkish gold: Did he actually plan the theft? Or did he simply catch its scent and reach for it?”
“Your theory being that there is nothing to the sale of guns and drugs? That Lestrade has a bee in his bonnet? That the death of Lonnie Johns – the apparent death – was the suicide it appears?”
“Not necessarily. I’m merely suggesting that the one has nothing to do with the other.”
“Coincidence?” He pronounced the word with distaste.
“Co-existence, say. A man with a history of felonies would readily seize the chance to commit another.”
“Which brings us back around to the question: Which man?”
“I do not know. But I believe we will have at least a couple of weeks to figure it out: Hale doesn’t distribute the final paycheques until the picture is in the can.”
He said nothing, thoughtfully, just looked downwards. “Perhaps we ought to descend, and continue our investigations.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
He ignored me, and instead wondered aloud, “How are we to explain our prolonged conversation up here, before they come to see?”
I put my head beside his, looking down the long stretch of mast to the deck below. Annie and Edith were peering up the mast in curiosity; any moment now, one or both would scramble up like a monkey. I peeled a hand recklessly from its iron grip and waved to the pair of faces, letting them know I was coming down. Then I forced my feet to inch towards the access hole.
“I came up for the curiosity,” I told Holmes. “You followed to flirt with me. However, from this height, I think I should not risk another hard slap.”
“I would appreciate that,” he answered.
CHAPTER THIRTY
KATE: Let us compromise (Our hearts are not of leather):
Let us shut our eyes, And talk about the weather.
AFTER THE MORNING’S larking about, the afternoon was all work. Lunch was a brisk affair, although tasty. Once the plates were cleared, the pirates were all carried off by Fflytte and set before the critical eye and deft brush of Maude, the make-up woman.
One might have imagined she wanted to dress them in lace and silk stockings.
They would not have it – or rather, those who initially had no objection to paint were brought to task by those who ridiculed and refused. Had Maude, a no-nonsense Yorkshirewoman, been a man, our pirates might well have broken her fingers.
She protested. Fflytte protested. Will pointed at the sun and protested. Samuel and La Rocha had a long and inaudible argument on the quarterdeck, at the end of which Samuel descended to deck level and planted his reshined boots in front of Maude. She had to clamber on top of the sky-light to reach, but – brave woman – she applied her brushes to his stormy face without hesitation. The pirate crew looked on in appalled silence.
Kohl and rouge installed on that fierce countenance, Samuel stood back, and raised one eyebrow at his men, daring them to smirk.
They dared not.
After that, one by one, the pirates submitted to Maude’s attentions, gathering self-consciously to chuckle at each other’s outlined eyes and rouged lips. When she was finished, Maude looked up at La Rocha – and packed away her paints.
The Pirates of Penzance takes place entirely on land. Initially, Fflytte’s Pirate King had been designed with minor variations on that theme, with a few shipboard scenes to link together those in Portugal (which appeared to be standing in for the original’s Penzance) and in Morocco (which had no place whatsoever in the minds of Gilbert or Sullivan).
However, that plan went out the port-hole the instant Randolph Fflytte fell under Harlequin’s spell. Instead, Lisbon and Rabat would act as book-ends for the substance of the tale in the middle – which would draw heavily on Fflytte Films’ reputation (“Fflyttes of the Faraway!”) for sea-going authenticity. Will had already shot two reels of shipboard life, from the meaty hands of the sail-makers to Rosie on the yard-arm. Now we had three hours of strong daylight left in which to record some of the actual story.
Hale had put me in charge of ensuring that the clothing and appearance of the girls and Daniel Marks matched how they had looked at the Moorish Castle’s “pond,” since this shipboard portion would follow immediately on the heels of that bucolic and flower-bedecked scene, and the Major-General’s thirteen daughters would have had no chance to return home and pack their bags before being gently abducted by the appreciative bachelor (and, being orphans, lonely) pirates.
I went through the girls with my notes, confiscating various brooches and hair-pins, exchanging two pairs of shoes to their correct feet, plucking one feather out of Ruth’s hat (which only had five in Cintra) and collecting seven bracelets, three necklaces, five colourful sashes, and one pair of spectacles. Ten of the girls I had scrub kohl from their eyes; six of them I ordered to spit wads of chewing gum over the side.
When the pirates were painted and the girls restored, Fflytte clambered onto the sky-light with his megaphone.
And the first hitch came up.
La Rocha was an essential part of the story, and hence of the filming process. But he stuck fast to his position: Unless we were to furl all the sails and reduce the rigging to bare yards and empty lines (which would leave us insufficiently photogenic) we required a person of authority on the quarterdeck.
Samuel went to talk to him, and another ten minutes went by. The previous bonhomie between captain and lieutenant seemed to be wearing thin, although Samuel made no overt sign of rebellion or even disrespect. I caught Holmes’ eye, and knew that he, too, was wishing their conversation could be overheard by someone more sensible than the parrot. Eventually, it was decided that our spare pirate (no sign of Gröhe) with Maurice and the two sail-makers to back him up (heaven forbid we should make use of the seven surplus women on board) might be installed at the wheel, the four men between them being judged capable of keeping us from sinking or sailing off the edge of the world. Fflytte put the megaphone to his lips. Will bent to the camera. Rosie dove out of the rigging to attack the plumage on Ruth’s hat.