by Carla Kelly
“It seems unlikely he would want a keepsake drawing of his miserable life there,” Able said. “I’m within my rights to ask to examine his sketchpad.”
“Not yet. Here they are!”
Meridee watched two dark figures materialize out of the gloom, Nick and Smitty, one short, the other tall. Before they advanced, Smitty called out in a gruff voice that lacked very little to be considered intimidating. “The password, please.”
“I have no idea,” Able said. “I doubt it is Sine, Cosine and Tangent.”
The watchman became a boy again. “Master Six! We…well, I…thought a password would be a good idea. You know, perhaps detect a French accent.”
“I applaud your good sense,” Able said, and Meridee heard not a quaver in his voice. “Do you set a password at the beginning of the watch?”
They were close enough to see now. Nick flashed his charming smile, reminding Meridee, if she needed reminding, how young they were. “Aye, Master.” Nick glanced at Smitty. “Should we tell them?”
The older boy nodded. “They’re not the enemy, Nick. Go ahead, since you picked the password tonight.”
“Spotted Dick, because I like Spotted Dick,” Nick said.
“Mine would have been Polenta,” Able replied, again in utter seriousness. “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary tonight?”
“Just you two,” Nick replied, which made Meridee laugh softly. “It’s usually cats and dogs and a drunk now and then. Maybe a couple up to mischief. Pardon me, Mam.”
“Tedious work, isn’t it?” Able commented.
“Aye, sir,” Smitty replied. “But we might see something unusual, mightn’t we? That’s why we stand the watch.”
“As you were, men, and good thinking.”
The Gunwharf Rats walked past them, taking turn to train their telescope on the harbor, wait a moment, then walk on, taking turns.
It was a pleasant stroll past the stone basin, which Meridee looked at with more fondness than trepidation now. Only last Tuesday night she had swum across the basin, accompanied by her husband’s applause. Able made certain that the watch stayed away for the little-enough time he was teaching her to swim. The Rats walked along the edge of land past the row of houses next to St. Brendan’s, until swimming lessons ended.
“Do we need to keep practicing?” she asked. “I can swim now.”
“I recommend it. In summer, I’ll take you out alone in the yacht to the Isle of Wight. You can practice in deep water there,” he informed her.
“I’ll agree to anything, because it’s hard enough getting a spare minute alone with you,” she joked.
“You obviously have no plans to take me for granted.”
“Heavens, no!”
Why she suddenly remembered an occurrence more than a month ago, Meridee couldn’t have said. Perhaps the sky was this dark. Maybe the moon shone just the way it did now.
“Able, I need to tell you something I probably should have mentioned weeks back,” she began, wondering if this was a silly notion.
He was still in a teasing mood. “Should I worry?”
When she remained silent, he looked closer at her. The moon was only half full. Able took hold of her chin and gently turned her face toward the faint light. “Your expression tells me yes.”
She nodded. “Able, if I told you I saw blinking lights coming from one of the hulks, what would you think?”
— Chapter Thirty-one —
I would think we had better sit down,” he said, his voice urgent. “Right here at the basin. Up you get.”
He lifted her up to the lip of the stone basin, and sat beside her, their legs dangling. “What did you see? When was it?”
“If I were you, I could tell you exactly when it was, what time, and precisely, well, everything,” she said with some vexation. “I wish I could.”
“Don’t ever envy me, Meri,” he said seriously. “It’s more curse than blessing. Tell me what you recall. That’s enough. Just…take your time.”
She took her time, lulled by the gentle way he stroked her arm. She watched the moon, sending her mind back three weeks, then four weeks. “I suppose I am remembering right now is because the moon was precisely as it is now, or close.”
“That would make it on or about March 16. A Thursday,” he said.
“How do you do that?”
He shrugged.
“Ben had some wind on his stomach that night,” she said, after rolling her eyes at him and knowing he couldn’t see them in the dark. Or maybe he could. She had no idea. “I didn’t want him to wake you, so I walked across the hall with him into the empty bedchamber where Smitty and Jean Hubert are now lodged.”
“Which overlooks the harbor.”
“Yes. I saw flashes of light coming from one of the hulks.”
“Do you know, can you recall, watching from port to starboard in the line, which one?”
“The first, I think.”
“The Captivity. Go on. Do you remember the flash pattern?”
“I…I’m not certain,” she told him. “I wish I could….”
“Do this: Think of everything about that time with Ben – what he smelled like, how you felt, anything. Relax your mind.”
She closed her eyes and visualized out loud the totally unremarkable evening: She had eaten something with onions, and they did not agree with Ben Six, who cried and scrunched his legs close to his belly. No more onions, baby, I promise, she remembered saying to him as she walked across the hall.
“What else? What else? Relax. You walked around the room, consoling your son, apologizing to him. You looked out the window.”
“I saw two flashes – little pinpoints – a pause, two more flashes, a pause, and then one. That was all.”
“Two pause two pause one.”
“Yes. What was it?”
“I don’t know, except that it was likely the end of a message,” Able said. “I wonder who it was intended for? That was a month ago.” He shook his head. “On a Thursday. Did you stay at the window?”
“Yes. I rubbed Ben’s back. He finally let go with a monumental explosion worthy of you, well my goodness, after you eat onions. No more onions for either of us!”
He laughed, got off the rim of the stone basin, and helped her down. “Other than that, Meridee Six, do you remember anything else?”
“No, sir! That was all Ben needed. He fell asleep in my arms and I returned him to his crib.”
“Master Six.”
Able grabbed Meridee and put her behind him as a caped figure came out of the gloom. “No closer,” he said.
The figure held up both hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Master Six. It’s me, Walter Cornwall.”
Behind Able, Meridee sighed with relief and leaned against his back. All the talk of spies and looming trouble had her nerves on edge. Someone should admonish the constable against startling honest folk. She reconsidered. He was probably doing his job, and seriously, how many honest folk could one expect to see so close to midnight on a Portsmouth dock?
He came closer, all cape and tall hat, his walk purposeful. He patted a cudgel in his hand.
“I’ll admit you startled me, Walter. Is this part of your beat, too, even on nights when you’re not scheduled for our Gunwharf Rat watch?”
Walter removed his hat, which eliminated some of the intimidation. Even with his hat off, the constable was still a man to be reckoned with, unless Meridee reminded herself of the times she had seen him eating hot bread in Mrs. Perry’s kitchen while Betsy hovered by to refill his mug with cider. Or that time she had hurried home from an overlong visit with Grace Croker and found Walter patiently walking up and down with noisy Ben, who was demanding a meal.
Before she had thanked him and whisked her baby away to the solitu
de of her own room, Meridee had asked Walter where he acquired his skill with babies, since she knew he was a single man.
“I have a daughter,” he told her. “Right now she is in the care of a draper’s wife on my street. My wife is dead.”
He had said nothing more, only quietly left. A glance at Betsy’s expression had been Meridee’s first inkling that something was happening in the Six kitchen that went beyond meal preparation and cajoling small lodgers to wash dishes and dry them. She hadn’t mentioned the matter to Able, who had more on his prodigious mind than an acquaintance possibly turning into something sweeter.
“Walter, you must burn the candle at both ends,” Able said, as the constable fell into step beside them.
“I sleep fast,” he replied, which made Meridee chuckle. He gestured toward the harbor with his cudgel, a wicked-looking weapon that probably knocked heads and separated fights in Portsmouth’s infamous grog shops and gaming hells. “Them ships. I don’t trust’um, especially not after what happened to you, miss.”
She shivered. Able tightened his arm about her. “Did you watch the hulks before we started our own Rat watch?”
“Aye, sir.”
“See any flashing lights?”
“Now and then, but they seemed to be signaling ‘tween ships, so I paid it no mind,” he replied. “Should I have?”
“I don’t know.”
The constable patted his cudgel. “As for tonight, I was scaring off a couple up to no good, down in the trees once, so my attention was elsewhere. Sorry, mum, but that’s the business here.”
“A couple, eh?” Able said. “The Rats mentioned that once or twice. The same couple, do you think?”
“Able, really,” Meridee murmured.
“Aye, really,” he replied, with a touch of asperity. “How close did you get to them? Close enough for a look?”
My goodness, Able, she thought. You’re embarrassing me. You’re no voyeur.
“A man and a women, or two men? What do you remember?”
I’m going to sink into the ground with mortification, Meridee thought, aghast at her husband.
When she felt brave enough to look up, Able and Walter were regarding each other thoughtfully.
They had almost circled the stone basin. Meridee could see their house now. “Would…would you like to come inside, Constable Cornwall?” she asked, at a loss over this midnight social situation. There were times when Durable Six was too blunt. Maybe she needed a cudgel.
The constable laughed at that. “Aw, mum, it’s too late for a visit.” He looked into the distance. “Now that I think of it, there was something odd about the matter.”
“Which was…”
“The couple. It was dark, of course – the moon was a bit like this one – but they looked older to me than the usual randy sprites I run into at the docks.”
“How could you tell? You said there was only a moon like this one.”
They stood on the curb facing their home. In sudden alarm, Meridee looked at the second story windows, and sighed with relief to see no lights of any kind. Everyone slept.
Walter Cornwall stood facing the other way, looking toward the harbor. As much as she could see his face, he seemed to be remembering, much as she had remembered only a short time ago, herself.
“They moved slow, like older people,” Walter said, then shook his head. “That’s all I remember.” He was silent a moment. “Come to think of it, this happened twice. The second time, there was a third man. Or person. I’m beginning to wonder what I saw at all.”
“Take your time. Was there a discernible pattern?”
The constable took his time, much as she had carefully considered the midnight she had walked up and down in the empty room crooning to a baby with a complaint.
“That month – well, last month – it was one night, then nothing, and then the next night,” he said finally. “Aye, that was it.”
“While you were scaring them off, did you think to look at the hulks?”
“No. Sorry, sir.” Walter Cornwall was not slow. Meridee watched him nod slowly, his mind obviously engaged. “Were they waiting for a signal?”
“I wish I knew.”
Walter walked them to their front steps. “When are you usually on duty at Landport Gate?” Able asked, his hand on the doorknob.
“Lately it’s mornings to nightfall, six days a week,” he said.
“So you do this walkabout on your free time, when you should be sleeping?” Able asked.
“Guilty as charged,” Walter said. “I don’t take my job lightly, sir, and besides, I care about the Gunwharf Rats and you gentry morts and coves.”
“That’s hardly me,” Able replied, amused.
Who else do you care about? Meridee wanted to ask, but she had a good idea.
Able opened the door, ready to usher Meridee inside. “Oh, no,” she said. “I want to hear this.”
Her husband closed the door. “You probably should. Walter, if I were to talk to Headmaster Croker and Sir B, and we chatted with your magistrate at Landport and he approved, would you object to focusing all your attention here for now? You know, not just that Morning Watch you share with the Bartlebys and Mrs. Perry?”
Meridee could see the humor in the constable’s eyes. “I’m reet fond of Mrs. Perry. I’d miss her in that Morning Watch.”
They all laughed quietly, hopeful the ever-watchful housekeeper wasn’t standing somewhere in the hall.
“In particular, would you watch that copse all night next Tuesday and Thursday? We have a waning moon and I have a theory.”
— Chapter Thirty-two —
Some theory. Able knew it was a sieve he was trying to fill with seawater, a drop out for each drop in. Instead of coming to bed, he stayed downstairs in the sitting room and thought, never an easy process, because there was always so much to think about. He sometimes wished it were possible to get the geniuses who traipsed so blithely through his mind into a big argument and take their quarrel elsewhere, leaving him alone.
From Newton to Copernicus, everyone always wanted something. Perhaps when Ben was a toddler in leading strings and confident that yes, he did rule the house, Able would have developed the patience attributed to Job, since he had to placate the sometimes-childish minds in his head.
“Gentlemen, unless you have a solution for me, let me be,” he said finally, after looking around to assure himself that Meri was asleep upstairs, and the formidable Mrs. Perry ditto.
What he hadn’t been prepared for was the super-silent opening of the front door. Just as quietly he rose from his chair and walked into the hall. To his amazement, he confronted Jean Hubert, shoes in hand.
Neither man said a word. I will stare you down, Able thought.
Jean looked away finally, a muscle working in his cheek, his eyes dark with disappointment.
“You have broken your parole,” Able said, feeling no triumph, no disgust, only sorrow, because he liked the affable Frenchman. “I must return you to the prison hulk. Jean Hubert, why?”
Jean said not a word. Slowly he sank to his knees and pressed his forehead against the rug. “Please, no,” he said in a voice far removed from his usual cheerful one. “I will die there. You don’t know.”
This was no time to even think of leniency, but as he watched Jean prostrate himself on the floor, Able wavered. He knew that no matter what excuse the man offered, he dared never truly trust Jean Hubert again. How could he? Why should he? He also knew this humiliating scene was another of the millions of bits of information to replay over and over in his head, one more messy development to further cloud his decidedly odd path through life. He couldn’t explain it to anyone, maybe not even Meri. Certainly not to this man.
“Why did you leave my house? Give me the truth, if it is in you,” he said finally
and sat down again. “And for God’s sake, get off the floor. I am no Turkish potentate. Sit in Meri’s chair.”
Jean did as ordered, sagging into the other wingback chair pulled close to his own, her mending in a basket between them. “It’s not the first time,” he said, then rested his head in his hands.
Able sniffed the air between them, smelling tobacco and grog. He sniffed again, breathing in the faint odor of newsprint. He also noticed that the Frenchman wore the clothes he had been found nearly drowning in, the shirt and trousers supposedly given to him by the wife of Captain Faulke, so their daughter would not see him in prison garb. Able wondered if that story was true. He wondered about everything now.
“You’ve been in a grog shop,” he accused. “Meeting someone we might like to know about?”
“No.”
“That’s it? No?”
“Do you wish me to invent someone, perhaps a spy, possibly that servant of Sir B’s, the one who gives me the chills? You want a story?” he said, his voice rising. To Able’s ears, Jean Hubert sounded exasperated and weary.
“Stop it. Mostly I don’t want you to wake up anyone. What were you doing?”
“You won’t believe me,” Jean said, with more than a touch of petulance.
“Probably not, but do enlighten me, Lieutenant Hubert.”
“Have you ever been a prisoner?”
“Aye, in one of your prisons. What a horrible place, but I learned French.”
“No one ever dangled a parole in front of you?”
“Me? Certainly not. A bastard and not even a sailing master then? I’m no gentleman officer. I escaped when I could, down a sewer drain and into the ocean.” Able considered the matter. “If you have been coming and going, why do you keep coming back here?”
“Because I gave my parole and I meant it,” Jean said. He held up his hand and chopped down suddenly. “I did! I am an officer and a gentleman.” He leaned forward. “Here’s what else I am: I am a man who liked to leave a house, walk down a street, and into a grog shop, where I order ale, even though nothing on this damp island approximates the wine shops I know in La Havre and Cherbourg. I sit in the back and watch not particularly sober men play darts, which makes me laugh. I read a newspaper and then I walk back here.”
