The piano stopped, the women’s voices dribbled into silence, as we waited, hearts in throats – but there were no gunshots, no cries of pain, it was merely that the guards wanted their supper.
Being a more civilised household, we took afternoon tea instead, but the meal that followed soon afterwards was not spurned as being too early. A day of excitement and fresh air took its toll on the younger girls and on their mothers, and to my relief, Holmes’ added words to his rapid-fire recitation had been forgotten.
Except by Annie.
When the tagine had been polished off (chicken this time, with pistachios) and the mint tea drunk, when conversation had lagged, lamps had been shut down, and everyone had retreated to their beds with a selection (carefully vetted by the mothers) from the book-shelves, a faint tapping came at my door, and Annie stepped inside.
Her eyes went to the window, although she had to look closely to see how I had removed and replaced the mortar. She sat down on the stool and gathered her hands in her lap.
“The words in that song were for you?” she asked.
“Various code-words and references, yes. Which, being Holmes, means I’ve probably missed half of them and got the meaning wrong of others, but the general gist of it seems to be that Hale may not be in league with La Rocha and Samuel, that La Rocha is delivering the ransom demand this evening, that I need to be ready, and that I’m not to stir from my room tonight.”
“You got all that from a few words?”
“And the way they were sung. There’s a mathematical- Ooh, never mind, it would sound like lunacy, and probably what he meant to tell me was that they’re all hale and hearty, that they’re eating raisins, and do I have a pen he can borrow?”
“The communication of true minds, I see.”
“I take it you’ve never been married? If the ransom demand has been delivered, I shouldn’t imagine it will be long before the government’s machinery gets under way.”
And indeed, the government’s machinery presented itself in our drawing room – or the Moorish equivalent, the courtyard – bright and early the next morning, in the form of two diplomats in their full battle regalia of high collars and chest-medals.
Any plans we might have laid went over the edge seven minutes after they were shown in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MABEL: Young Frederic was to have led you to death and glory.
POLICE: That is not a pleasant way of putting it.
“YOU’VE WHAT?” I cried in horror.
“Oh, good!” exclaimed the others, along with “Too right!” “That shows him!” “God save the King!” (for some reason), and even “Alan and Bert will rescue us!” (from one of the more excitable girls, momentarily forgetting that our police constables were fictional).
The two diplomatic persons had disturbed us at our breakfast, with half of us still in our dressing-gowns and the other half wearing various of the exotic dressing-up garments from the day before. However, such was the urgency of their mission, they merely cast their eyes away from our state of déshabillé and spoke in the direction of the lemon trees.
Clearly, the two had concluded their negotiations over who would speak first before they came here, because once the introductions had been concluded, the French gentleman cleared his throat (this being, after all, a country governed by France) and informed us that ransom had been asked for our safe return to the English community, and M. Dédain and Sir Morgan Brent-Williams had been dispatched (hastily, to judge by Sir Morgan’s poorly shaved chin) so as to bear witness that we were well. (In other words, that we hadn’t already been tipped into the sea.) This was the first inkling the majority of the women present had that our prolonged presence within these four walls was not merely a side-effect of Randolph Fflytte’s inefficiency. Mrs Hatley set down her tea-cup with a clatter and said sharply, “Young man, don’t be absurd. We’re not being held here. We are-” but her admonishment was drowned in the voices of the others, shocked and eager and in the end acknowledging that, indeed, we had not been permitted to leave. I kept a close eye on young Edith, lest she blurt out that one of us anyway had gone a-wandring, but she had her lips mashed together so tightly, the words stayed in.
Sir Morgan then cleared his throat to request silence. His own speech repeated much of what M. Dédain had said, which suggested that his frown during M. Dédain’s monologue was not due to disagreement, but because he was hard of hearing. His audience was beginning to grow restless in its desire for originality when he drew a piece of paper from one breast pocket, a pair of reading spectacles from another, and began to read off our names, pausing after each to locate the respondent. The last name was Graziella Mazzo, and it took a while to convince him that she had left the crew under her own authority back in Lisbon. The news caused some consternation and shaking of heads, but it was finally admitted that neither English nor French citizens could expect to have any control over an Italian danseuse.
At the end, satisfied that we were all (with the regrettable exception of La Graziella) alive and present, he folded away his page and said, “I understand that the men of your party are being kept in separate quarters. We shall go there next. But rest assured, ladies, that we shall soon have you away from this foul and dreadful place.” The songbird in the tree chose that moment to launch into a gentle ripple of notes, rather belying the keenness of our suffering, but the King’s representative went on, undeterred (or perhaps unhearing). “These rascals imagine that they can play fast and loose with British citizens, but we shall show them otherwise! We have already taken their chief into custody – a rough-looking type with a scar, can’t imagine how you ladies stood having him near.” “You’ve what?” I cried in horror.
“Oh, good!” exclaimed the others, and our contrary opinions filled the courtyard. I stepped over the chorus of dissenting opinion to seize the man’s arm. “You mustn’t do that. If you arrest him, it will make the problem far, far worse!” His stout expression wavered as his eyes drifted to his companion, and I was not surprised when he said, “Madam, I might have agreed with you, had it been my decision, but as M. Dédain explained to me, the French have their own way of dealing with such things.” It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that “their own way of dealing with such things” might well duplicate the bloody Fez uprising of 1912, but voicing my apprehension risked plunging the gathering into the tedium of hysteria. Instead, I permitted him to go on with his little speech, his awkward enquiry as to whether we had any … particular needs (to his patent relief, the needs expressed were no more intimate than fresh cow’s milk and a packet of English biscuits), and his promise to convey any letters we might wish to send home with utmost dispatch, ending with a heartfelt declaration that His Majesty’s Government – and that of France, but perhaps not that of Italy – would not rest until we were safely in the bosoms of our families again. And that he would be back on the morrow.
The women, naturally, erupted with questions.
“How much ransom are they demanding?”
“The picture will still go ahead, won’t it?”
“Will we be paid for our time here?”
“Mr Fflytte wants-”
“Mr Hale said-”
“My agent won’t-”
“My family will-”