“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“He told me the first time he saw you, you were leaning against a wall at the end of a long line of applicants, with your collar up, looking dark and moody. He said he knew right then and there he’d hire you. He gets keen moments of insight sometimes. He had intended to hire someone larger than you, but when he saw you he suddenly pictured you questioning a witness or following a suspect.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Of course. He says you’re coming along, which is the most one can hope for, coming from Cyrus. He’s not the most effusive of men, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize.”
“Monosyllabic is the word I’d have used.”
“Oh, stop!” she said with a short laugh. “He says you have a devilish tongue and could use an hour a day reading Spurgeon to improve your character, but then that has nothing to do with your employment.”
“It sounds as if he’s told you everything about me.”
“He has,” she admitted. “He’s even mentioned your weakness. One bat from a girl’s eyelashes and you turn to melted butter.”
“That’s not fair!” I cried. “He never tells me anything.”
“Ah, but you’ve only known him for a year and a half, while I’ve known him for far longer. Since China.”
“How did you first meet him?”
“My husband brought him home. James was an engineer on Shameen Island in Canton and needed someone to bring in supplies. There was Cyrus in a mandarin tunic with belled sleeves, talking to James in a Scottish brogue.”
“Frankly, I have trouble picturing that,” I admitted.
“Ah, but you see, he was the son of a missionary. All the missionaries and their families dressed in the Chinese manner. After his parents died when he was eleven, blending in with the Chinese was a matter of survival.”
“How long were you in Canton?”
“For several years. My late husband was full of great plans for China’s future, but he died and left me with business interests to run. One of them was a small shipping company on the Pearl River. Your employer freighted cargo for us sometimes aboard the Osprey.”
“Well, he was a ship’s captain,” I replied.
She’d poured me another cup and was stirring her own. “Is that what he called himself? A ship’s captain?”
I nearly choked on my tea. “What do you mean-that he wasn’t?”
“Oh, no, he was a ship’s captain, I suppose, of sorts.” Here she shrugged and took a dainty sip of tea. “I mean, Blackbeard was a ship’s captain, was he not? Drake and Raleigh were ship’s captains.” She raised an expressive eyebrow, and I wondered if she was toying with me.
“Are you implying that Mr. Barker was a pirate?”
“Oh, the South China Seas can be distinctly unsavory at times. Cyrus and his crew worked in an area bordered roughly by Shanghai, Yokohama, and Sumatra, but his base was Bias Bay, near Canton.”
“And exactly what did he do there?”
“Whatever it took to survive, I suppose. He had mouths to feed and repairs to make on the Osprey. He must have been a good captain for so many of his crew to follow him back from the East.”
“And why did he come to London?” I asked.
“Because I wanted to return home after James was gone. Cyrus made himself invaluable.”
I sat quietly with my cup of tea, trying to take it all in.
“What are you thinking, Thomas?” she asked suddenly.
“I beg your pardon. I was just wondering how the congregation at the Baptist Tabernacle would react if they knew there was a former pirate in their midst.”
“There’s that flippant side Cyrus warned me of,” she said archly. “He wasn’t a pirate, exactly, more of an adventurer. Anyway, the Reverend Spurgeon already knows. I told him myself.”
“Did you really?”
“Yes, I’ve always been an admirer of his published sermons. I was the one who first took Cyrus there and helped him choose the house in Newington.”
Harm came charging into the conservatory in some distress. He leapt into my lap, nearly knocking me out of the basket chair I sat in. A moment later, a tiny white ball of fur appeared at my ankles, hopping up and down. Harm barked at the little creature frantically.
“Is that another Pekingese?” I asked.
“Yes, she’s from the litter Harm sired. Fu Ying gave her to me. Her name is Butterfly.” She scooped up the little dog and kissed her on the top of the head.
That was one more fact than my overtaxed brain could take in. The woman enjoyed shocking me. Barker, a pirate and adventurer. Barker, introduced to Spurgeon by Mrs. Ashleigh. Mrs. Ashleigh, friendly with Bok Fu Ying, my employer’s ward. It was as if I’d fallen down Lewis Carroll’s rabbit hole. Curiouser and curiouser. And it wasn’t over yet.
“I have something important to ask you,” she said, looking at me levelly. “I want you to look after Cyrus for me.”
“Me, look after Mr. Barker? Are you serious?”
“Very serious. Cyrus puts honor above everything, even his own safety. I would say especially his own safety. I want him to live a good long life. Someday … Well, that’s enough about that. Just look after him.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
“Good. Any more questions?”
“Just one. What’s behind those dark lenses the Guv wears?”
“That’s silly,” she said, nuzzling the dog. “Eyes, of course.”
18
Cyrus Barker had returned from his meeting and was waiting in the hall, a trifle impatiently.
“How was your tea?” he asked.
I searched for an appropriate adjective. “Informative.”
The Guv gave me an appraising look, then led me out the door with a wave of his cane. Outside, a man was waiting for us. He had an air of authority about him, in an easygoing, bluff sort of way. He was about forty, tall and thin but muscular, with hair blown by the wind and bleached by the sun. His skin was deeply tanned like leather, and he was without a jacket in the heat, making me itch to remove my own. He wore braces over a white shirt with no collar, and a handkerchief was tied loosely about his neck. By now, I knew the sort of fellow Cyrus Barker would trust and favor, and this was one of them.
“Lad, this is Peter Beauchamp, a former shipmate of mine. Peter, Thomas Llewelyn, my assistant.” The man didn’t speak, but nodded and turned, heading off toward the Channel. We followed him. Every bird in Sussex was in full throat, and rabbits nibbled on the beds of thyme. The sky overhead was nearly cloudless and so deeply blue that a painting of it might have looked unnatural. The only way I’d find out where we were going, I reasoned, was to get there.
The three of us walked into the town of Seaford and through it. Beauchamp was greeted by some of the villagers and murmured a response. When we reached the water’s edge we had a perfect view of the Seven Sisters rising from the town clear up to Beachy Head, the highest point along the entire south coast. The white cliffs were so dazzling they hurt the eyes.
Beauchamp led us to a multicolored group of small dwellings by the Channel’s edge. They were coast guard cottages, or at least they once were. Someone must have purchased them all and knocked out walls higgledy-piggledy, turning the entire place into a single dwelling. I almost wanted to call it a warren, for the yard and beach were full of children running and playing and none of them looked over five years of age.
We were met at the door by a cheery, sturdy girl with loose brown hair and a face full of freckles. This, it turned out, was Mrs. Beauchamp, and the brood disporting on the pebble beach was theirs, all seven of them.
“Brought company,” Beauchamp said offhandedly. His wife, far from seeming offended, welcomed us warmly.
“Are you gents hungry? I could do a good fry up in a few minutes.”