Unlikely Spy Catchers (St. Brendan Book 2)

by Carla Kelly

  “That’s all?”

  Jean spread his hands in that Gallic way. “That’s all. I do it because I’m free for an evening. I’m not begging anyone’s permission to go here or there, and no one tells me what to do or denies me. So simple. I hate this life.”

  “In our defense, we treat you well at St. Brendan’s,” Able said. “And how is it that Smitty doesn’t hear you leave? I had thought…”

  “Able, as fierce as he looks, he’s a child,” Jean reminded him. “He sleeps soundly and I am never gone long.”

  Able sat back. You need this man, a genius in his brain told him. Well, hell, it was Rene Descartes, another Frenchman. And wouldn’t you know it, here was another Frog, handsome, well-dressed and looking slightly bewildered. Mon Dieu, it was poor, newly arrived Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier, his head atop his neck again, the brilliant chemist who ran afoul of the Reign of Terror. Oh, and this tears it! Blaise Pascale, you too? And there he was, clamoring and speaking loud French with the other two, all the while waving about his Treatise of the Arithmetical Triangle, so Lavoisier had to duck. Damn you, Blaise, but I love that treatise, Able thought with dismay. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the Frenchmen in his brain.

  “Jean, I can’t trust you now,” he said quietly, once his inter-cranial Frenchmen bowed and left the stage, triumphant and probably heading toward champagne. “I need you here in the school. If…if you want to leave for a drink, just…” He looked away in frustration.

  “I won’t do it again.”

  Able nodded and rested his chin on his hand, staring into the distance. Jean rose and went to the door. Able stopped him.

  “Tell me one thing,” he insisted. “I don’t know if it will be the truth, but I have to try.”

  There was no overlooking the unease on Jean’s face. He nodded.

  “If there comes a time when you have information you know I need, would you tell me?”

  Silence, and then a slight nod from Lieutenant Hubert. He left the room. Able didn’t even hear him on the stairs. God, but the man was silent. In his own ill humor, he wondered if Jean had learned to pad about so quietly to escape from his liaisons with other men’s wives. He was, after all, French, with his own reputation. Or maybe he was merely cautious. War can do that to a person.

  Able slept badly the rest of the night, tossing and turning until Meri actually growled at him, which made him laugh and hold her close until they found something to do that relieved part of his distress. He was tired in the morning, but at least consoled. He knew he would never tell Meri what had happened in the sitting room when he was trying to think.

  The other matter called for an immediate convocation of all the Gunwharf Rats, and so he told Headmaster Croker. “Sir B, as well?” he asked.

  “Yes, please, but no Gervaise. Send Smitty for Walter Cornwall, too. They can pick up Sir B. And not Jean Hubert this time,” Able told him. “He is to remain in his classroom.” I cannot trust him, he thought, but I daren’t tell the headmaster.

  The headmaster gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing. “A summons in one hour?” was all he asked. “No Frenchmen.”

  “Aye, sir. That’s how it is. I’ll ask Meri if she can convince the Bartlebys and Mrs. Perry to join us, while she stays in the bakery.”

  They met in the cellar, crowded together, everyone intent and alert. Speaking as quickly as he could, Able told them his suspicions about the hulks and advanced his puny theory.

  “This may be folly on my part, but I’ll take the risk. Constable Cornwall has run across a couple in that little copse by the stone basin, waiting for something or someone. He and some of you rats commented that it must be an amorous tryst. I’m not convinced. There may have been another man there, too. We are not certain.”

  He had everyone’s attention, but the doubts circled in his brain like sharks eyeing a starving man on a life raft. He took a deep breath. “These people, whoever they are, seem to be waiting for some sort of person or sign, on or about the middle of each of the past two months. I wish I could tell you more, but we must be vigilant next Tuesday and Thursday nights in particular.”

  It was vague; he knew it was vague; he knew he could do nothing about the vagueness. “That’s all.” He gestured to Sir B. “Sir, were you able to make arrangements for Constable Cornwall’s service?”

  “Done and done,” Sir B said cheerfully. “Headmaster Croker, may he have suitable lodging here at St. Brendan’s?”

  “It can easily be arranged. Thank you, Constable,” the headmaster said.

  As he listened and chafed, the last piece slid into place in Able’s mind. How strange he hadn’t considered it sooner. He raised his hand like a schoolboy. “Headmaster?”

  “Master Six?”

  “Our little Pierre was part of an escape. We know that. He has told us with no hesitation that his fellow escapee in the water kegs was a gunner named Remillard, but that Remillard got away. Left Pierre alone, in fact.”

  He took a deep breath because he still didn’t like to think about Meri’s brush with death on the wharf where the water kegs were stored, and the murder – what else could he call it? – of two more would-be escapees.

  “We know there was a failed escape attempt in the water kegs. I know the constables and Royal Marines have been watching carefully and seen nothing else. We Rats alone witnessed Jean Hubert’s escape.” Another deep breath. “I suspect that Jean’s escape was entirely spontaneous and had nothing to do with the others.” Pray God I am right, he thought. “I think there will be another attempt before next week, perhaps on Tuesday or Thursday. Something is being planned right here under our noses. We daren’t overlook the fact that the man who came with Pierre was a gunner, used to working with explosives.”

  Able let that sink in, hoping at least some of it was true. He, Master Durable Six, who knew everything, didn’t know what was going to happen.

  “Preserve your silence on this, Rats,” he said quietly. “As you were. Return to class.”

  — Chapter Thirty-three —

  Sir B remained in the cellar with Walter Cornwall, his expression grim. Able felt discomfort settle on him like a soggy blanket as he remembered last night’s unhappy parting from the man he valued and revered above all others. I have to clear the air, he told himself, but how? As much as I value you, Walter Cornwall, please leave.

  Possibly Able wasn’t the only penitent seeking redemption. He had witnessed Captain St. Anthony heaping coals of indignation on other offenders in the fleet. Which was it this time? Did the captain want to apologize as much as Able did, or was he planning to push back harder?

  Sir B cleared his throat. “Walter, will you help our headmaster up the stairs? He may argue that he is strong enough, but I would differ, eh, Thaddeus?”

  “Damn you, Belvedere,” the headmaster said with perfect equanimity, which made the constable stare from one man to the other. “No fears, Walter. I know this rascal very well.” His expression become more philosophical. “As it happens, confound him, Sir B is right. I could use an arm to lean on. Besides that, I need to show you to your room here at St. Brendan’s. We’re a bit Spartan, but the mattresses give in all the right places.”

  “Aye, Headmaster. And you, Sir B?” Walter asked. “Should I return for you?”

  “I will be fine.” Sir B. gave a languid wave of his hand that took in Able, the damp stones and the beams overhead. “Able will see to me. If he needs help, he can collar a student.”

  “Sir B, thank’ee for your confidence in me,” Walter said, “and the increase in pay. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Take it from me, lad: We often don’t expect what we sometimes deserve.”

  That cuts in many directions, Able thought, as he tried not to wince. Better stand here and take the coming rebuke like a man. God knows he had endured enough of those in his life. At
least Meri loved him.

  The cellar door closed behind the headmaster and the constable as they made their way slowly up the narrow stairs. Able sat beside his mentor - hopefully still his friend - and waited for him to speak.

  He didn’t wait long. Sir B, a dignified man who seldom touched others, grasped Able’s arm. “Look me in the eyes, Able,” he commanded. “I’m not upset with you. Well, not now,” he said. “I would ask you the same question that drove you out of my house, but in a kinder tone, because your question has merit: ‘What am I supposed to do about it?’”

  “Talk to Grace, tell her you’ve finally realized that you love her, and ask her to marry you,” Able said quickly. “Talk to her.”

  He braced himself, but Captain St. Anthony said nothing. Wordless, Sir B pulled back the elegant woven blanket of Turkish design that covered him and set it on the cellar’s dirt floor. He looked down at himself. “You see before you two legs. One is quite fine and works well. The other one is gone far above mid-thigh. Now and then it hurts billy-be-damned awful, even the part that isn’t there anymore. Your wife, I am certain, has told you about the time she helped me with that pain. What a woman she is, Able.”

  “I know,” Able replied, finding his voice.

  “If I were to remove my trousers, well, if I even could by myself – it isn’t easy without Gervaise to assist – you would see a real mess of a scar, all puckered and wrinkled.”

  “I’ve seen amputations, sir.”

  “You’ve even performed a few, because your blinding knowledge was needed at critical times and you had no choice,” Sir B said. “Ugly, aren’t they?”

  “Aye, sir. They are.”

  “Would you want Meridee to see you helpless and with such a scar?” Sir B asked, his voice toneless. He looked away and swallowed. “Would you want her to struggle to figure out how to make love to you, to decide which position works best? Would you? Would you?”

  For once, Able’s brain was completely silent, as if his busybody celestial mentors were hanging on his every word. They offered no advice for a change, and no one argued. The novelty of a silent brain beguiled Able almost more than the anguish of Sir B’s question.

  “It’s a simple question,” Sir B said, the relentless tone back in his voice. “Would you want her to stare in disgust or horror at your manly organ and the grotesque fact that it is now longer than one of your legs? No longer do you have proper proportion. You can’t even stand up without help. You’re a freak show worthy of Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre. Would Meridee recoil in disgust and demand separate bedrooms?”

  Able sat back and considered the question. This was no time for platitudes. He understood the society he currently inhabited, a more genteel one where people never discussed what they were discussing right now. He thought about Meri and her happy appreciation of his manly organ, and couldn’t help smiling.

  “How dare you smile.”

  “It’s easy enough,” Able said, deeply aware of his mentor’s pain. Just a light touch here, or a humorous one? How about a little of both? “I’ve never seen your manly organ. What do you think? Mine is reasonably impressive.” He couldn’t help smiling again. “Meri, no expert, told me early in our marriage that it compares favorably to the bare naked Greek statues in one of her father’s books. How about yours?”

  Obviously Sir B hadn’t expected a breezy comment. “Well, I…” He reached for the blanket and covered his legs. “Damn you, Able, is it not possible to have a serious conversation?”

  “This is a serious conversation, Sir B. Pay attention to me.” Good Lord, he had never spoken like this to his captain. “If my right leg, like yours, were torn off tomorrow, Meri would take care of me however I needed her help. She would cry, but she would adjust. She would let me heal, and then she would go right back to loving me. Of this I am certain.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” Sir B burst out.

  “She loves me,” Able said simply. “If something like that happened to her, I would do precisely the same thing, because we are lovers. I can’t spell it out any plainer, Sir B.”

  “I suppose you cannot,” the captain said reluctantly. “But I lack a leg!”

  It was Able’s turn to put his hand on his captain’s arm. He gave it a little shake. “I’ll tell you what you lack, Sir B. You lack courage.”

  There wasn’t anything more to say. The men both sat back and looked at each other. Able watched a single tear roll down Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony’s cheek. It was followed by another one, and another. Able did the only thing he knew to do. He took out his handkerchief and calmly wiped his captain’s face. He kissed Sir B on the forehead, then went to the door.

  “In fifteen minutes, I’ll send down two of my students to help you up the stairs,” he said. “Is your carriage out front?”

  The captain nodded, unable to speak.

  “They’ll help you in, and Gervaise will take care of you when you’re back in Jasper Street.”

  “And if I am not brave enough, Able?” Sir B said, his voice ragged with emotion.

  “You will probably die, sir. That is the plain and simple of it. Plants need sunlight and water. Humans need love.” He said it as kindly as he could; he knew he was right.

  “What a thing to say,” worked itself into his brain and made itself at home that afternoon. He decided he was a far better actor than he knew. As he taught with his usual panache, and led the afternoon’s all-purpose class in climbing up and down the ratlines on the rigging and mast set up beside the stone basin, he heard his calm voice and his humor as if from a distance, even though his brain whirled.

  High on the rigging himself, he saw faithful Smitty escorting John Mark and little Pierre from the inlet by the water hoys. He couldn’t see Building Twelve, located as it was behind an identical brick structure that was an office building of some sort, considering all the ink-stained clerks and men with leather cases who regularly came and went. He knew what was going on in Twelve because of John’s eagerness to describe each moving part of the block pulley factory, until Nick took him aside one night before bed. As Meri and Able tried not to howl with laughter, Nick informed his fellow Gunwharf Rat that not everyone was as excited about block pulleys as he was.

  The memory of that carefully worded caution – for an eleven-year-old – still made him smile. If Nick did not find a place in the maritime world, the diplomatists at Foreign Office would welcome him.

  His heart torn in so many ways at the moment, Able watched the two boys stop at Bartleby’s Bakery and come out with a bag of some promised pastry that Meri had commissioned, or that Ezekiel and now Emily too had decided the Rats needed.

  The smile left his face as he watched Jean Hubert leave St. Brendan’s, cross the street and enter his own house, head down and melancholy about something, probably chafing that he had promised not to leave the house late at night. How sad that someone thought of the Six household as a prison, when it was the kindest, sweetest place in all England.

  He thought of his own confinement for a year in a French prison, one with no parole and food so dreadful that the mere thought of eating was almost as unnerving as the food itself. In no way did it compare with Jean’s treatment in the Six household except in one way: he was not free to leave, and neither was Jean Hubert. Stone walls or mere pledges given – who could say which was more irksome?

  Meri knew he was agitated about something, but she carried on that evening with her usually calm competence, seeing that Smitty, Nick, John, and little shadow Pierre were busy with school work brought home, or reading, or in Pierre’s case, sitting quietly and listening. His English was still rudimentary, but improving.

  When Ben was fed and slumbering, the lodgers tucked in, and the last kitchen duties either finished or assigned for the morrow, he hurried Meri upstairs and babbled out what he had said to Sir B. She took it ca
lmly, her eyes filled with sympathy for him, of all people, when it was Sir B who needed the help.

  “You were plain spoken,” she said after she returned from the washroom and put on her nightgown.

  “Was I cruel?” he asked in anguish. “Was this something I should not have said? He looked positively stricken.”

  “Lie down, Able,” Meri said, and patted the space beside her.

  Muscles taut, tense and uncertain as never before, he did as she said. She held him close, humming, much as he had watched her croon to Ben when he was fretful. I’m not an infant, he wanted to tell her, but he couldn’t, because he felt himself relax. His eyes grew heavy. She smelled sweetly of lavender, too.

  “You said what needed to be said, my love,” Meri told him as his eyes closed. “I can’t imagine a harder conversation, but you did it.”

  She was rubbing his temples now and he could have groaned with pleasure. “Was I right, Meri?” he asked, eyes still closed.

  “Completely. If you were wounded as grievously as Sir B, I would love you just as truly. Silly! Don’t you know that? Well, of course you do, because you told Sir B as much.”

  He opened his eyes and regarded her. “What will you say if Grace Croker asks you?”

  “I already did, dearest,” she told him. “We both cried.”

  She moved closer and he opened his arms to pull her against his chest. “Oh, better. A tense and unhappy Able Six is not much of a cuddly husband, is he?”

  He couldn’t help laughing. “You’re speaking to me as if I were a four-year-old,” he protested, but not strenuously, because her touch and serenity had mellowed him. Her hand massaging his thigh didn’t hurt, either.

  “Here’s the way I see it, Able,” she said twenty minutes later, all business once more, after she had found her nightgown and before the cacophony in his brain resumed the usual chatter. “We have given both of them unwanted but necessary advice: Two proud people in love with each other, facing daunting challenges.”