Sea Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Does that concern apply to everyone who’s too weak to look after themselves?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Meaning it’s none of my business.” She looked at her watch. “I think that on the whole, and despite your hostility, that was a most successful exercise. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr Rossendale.” I knew she was spending the night with some relatives in Totnes, but I’d somehow hoped she might spend some small part of the day with me. Because, just as Sir Leon was obsessed with my Van Gogh, I was becoming obsessed with his stepdaughter. She was truly beautiful, but just too self-composed. She had become a challenge. Just like the bar at Salcombe.

  “You wouldn’t like some lunch?” I asked as she walked away.

  “No, thank you,” she called over her shoulder, “not today.”

  And up yours, too, I thought, but didn’t say it.

  The hook was well-baited now. Elizabeth knew where I was, and knew I was trying to retrieve the painting. Harry had warned me that from this moment on Garrard and Peel might pay me another visit.

  They would be walking into an ambush. Two plain-clothes policemen were always on duty to watch me. Not quite always; Harry told me that he couldn’t find the manpower or the money to have me guarded throughout England, so my guardians would only be on duty when I was in Dartmouth itself. If I went away from the river, Harry reasoned, Garrard and Peel could not possibly know where I was going, so would have no chance of finding me. “Suppose they follow me?” I had asked him.

  “You’d be dead, Johnny, but don’t worry. The force will send a nice wreath to your funeral.” After which grim jest he told me his men would work in shifts; by day idling with the tourists on the quay above the pontoon, while the night shift would keep watch from a cabin cruiser moored astern of Sunflower.

  I didn’t entirely trust the watchfulness of Harry’s men so, once the pressmen had finally abandoned me, I took my dinghy upstream and found a boatyard that could sell me a couple of pounds of lead and a scrap piece of sheet aluminium.

  I went back to Sunflower, took the head off my new boathook, and drilled a hollow into the top of the wooden shaft. I didn’t have a crucible or furnace so I used an oxyacetylene lamp to melt the lead. I dripped it piece by piece into the hollow space. I worked on Sunflower’s foredeck which I shielded with a sheet of scrap iron. When I’d finished melting the lead I wrapped the aluminium about the hollowed section of shaft to give it strength, then drilled a hole so that the metal hook could be bolted back into place. I used a file to sharpen the back edge of the hook and, when it was done, congratulated myself on a proper job.

  Then, because I might not get a chance to use the hook, I prepared my other weapons. Some, like the rocket alarm flares, were potentially lethal, while others, like the fire-extinguishers, were merely nasty. If Garrard and Peel did appear, then at least I would have a reception for them.

  And I knew I might need all the weapons. Garrard’s reputation was frightening: an officer gone bad, a trained killer, and a man in desperate need of money.

  He did not come that first night. I slept nervously, but undisturbed. In the morning I shaved in Sunflower’s cockpit and watched the yachts motoring towards the sea. It promised to be a warm day. There was no sign of any plain-clothes policemen, but Harry had warned me that they would not be highly visible. “If you can see them,” he had told me, “then so can the nasties.”

  I slung my shaving water overboard, then went below and fried myself a big pan of eggs and bacon. I made a Thermos flask of coffee, then carried the whole breakfast up to the cockpit just in time to see Jennifer Pallavicini walking down the pontoon.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerfully. “Coffee?”

  She ignored the offer, telling me instead that we had both been asked to appear on an early evening television programme. “I’ve said yes for you,” she said.

  “Coffee?” I asked again.

  She looked at her watch. “Thank you,” she said in a rather grudging voice. She stepped down into the cockpit and sat opposite me. She was carrying a heavy bag that she gratefully dropped into the cockpit sole.

  “Bacon and eggs?” I offered her my own plate.

  She shuddered. “No, thank you.”

  I fetched a mug and poured her some coffee. As she drank it she watched me wolf down the bacon and eggs. “Don’t you ever put on weight?” she asked at last.

  “No.”

  “Lucky you.” She flinched as I mopped up the egg yolk and brown sauce with a piece of well-buttered white bread. “Don’t you have any idea about healthy eating?” she was driven to ask.

  “Well fried and lots of it,” I said enthusiastically.

  “You like to shock people, don’t you?”

  “What, me? Never. Tell me about this television programme I don’t want to appear on.”

  “It’s in London.”

  I groaned. “Tell me how I’m supposed to get to London for this television programme I don’t want to appear on?”

  “We’ll arrange transport for you.”

  “How are you getting there?” I asked hopefully.

  “My stepfather’s helicopter,” she answered very distantly, letting me know that, even if politeness forced her to offer me a ride, I should be well-mannered enough to refuse. “I can give you a lift if you like, but I’m leaving very soon. Hans and I have to go to a lunch reception at the Hayward Gallery.”

  “What are they showing this month?” I asked. “Collages of squashed cockroaches? Municipal litter baskets? Finger-painting by the Islington Lesbian Collective?”

  “Late-eighteenth-century English landscapes, if you must know.”

  I gave her a wink. “I’ll give it a miss.”

  “Philistine,” she said, but not angrily. Indeed, it was said almost fondly, and the warm tone seemed to surprise her as much as it did me. We looked at each other. I think we were both taken aback by the affection she had unintentionally expressed. She half smiled, then hurried to cover that tiny moment of truth. “Well, you are!” she protested too hastily. “Only a Philistine would give away a Van Gogh!”

  “I did it so you’d be hugely impressed by my generosity, not to mention my quixotic soul. I have this theory, you see, that women prefer irresponsible rogues to Swiss cheese merchants.”

  “Rogues with twenty million pounds,” she pointed out, “are marginally more attractive than rogues without.”

  I laughed. It was an odd moment. At one instant we had been at each other’s throats and suddenly, for no apparent reason that I could snatch from the air, we were smiling at each other.

  “If you must know,” she said, “I thought you were an idiot to give it away.”

  I nodded. “That’s probably a very fair assessment.”

  “Do you regret doing it?” she asked in genuine interest.

  I pretended to think about it. “If it didn’t impress you then it was clearly a wasted gesture.”

  She smiled, and I thought how beautiful she was. “It impressed me,” she confessed, “but if you regret it, then I promise you my stepfather won’t keep you to it.”

  “I don’t back out of contracts.”

  She didn’t pursue the subject. “Did you see the television news last night?”

  “I don’t have a television.”

  “They gave our press conference a lot of time,” she said, “and they were especially kind to you. They didn’t show you hitting anyone and they didn’t let anyone hear you swearing.”

  “Untruthful bastards, aren’t they?”

  “And here are the morning papers.” She spilt the big bag at my feet. I picked up the papers one by one. The serious papers had given us a fair bit of space, but nothing compared to the tabloids, which had jumped all over the story. There were a lot of pictures of me, most of them in Sunflower, but a fair number also showed me sitting in the hotel with Jennifer Pallavicini. ‘Vagabond Earl Sails Home’, one caption said. “You will notice,” Jennifer said, “that your presence guaranteed us a heavy co
verage.”

  “My presence? Not yours?”

  “I’m not newsworthy,” she said disparagingly. “No, it’s the vagabond earl who caught their fancy.”

  I lifted a tabloid which had printed her picture larger than mine. She looked very sexy in the picture, perhaps because the photographer had been almost under the floorboards to aim his camera up her skirt. I thought again how good she’d look in a bikini. Or out of one.

  “Do you ever go sailing?” I asked her suddenly.

  “Sometimes.” She sounded defensive.

  “With Hans?” I sounded defensive.

  “Hans doesn’t have time for sailing. No, a friend of Mummy’s has a ketch.”

  A friend of Mummy’s would, I thought. “A big ketch?” I asked instead.

  “At least twice the size of Sunflower,” she said airily.

  “You should try small boat sailing,” I said. “It’s wetter, and more intimate. Why don’t you come for a sail in Sunflower?”

  I expected her usual refusal, especially after I’d used the word ‘intimate’, but surprisingly, and after a moment’s hesitation, she gave an abrupt nod. “All right. Maybe. One day.”

  “Only maybe?” I asked.

  She smiled. “A definite maybe.”

  It was worth giving up a Van Gogh for that feeling. It really was. I must have smiled, for she smiled back at me, but then I had to look away because running footsteps were suddenly loud on the pontoon bridge and a voice was shouting for me. “Johnny! You bastard! Johnny!”

  I twisted round, already reaching for the weighted boathook, but my importunate visitor was neither Garrard nor Peel, but Charlie. I noticed one of the plain-clothes policemen running along the quay towards the pontoon’s bridge, but when I stood with a welcoming expression on my face, my guardian angel relaxed. “Charlie!” I shouted.

  “God Almighty!” He ran down the pontoon, leaped on to Sunflower’s counter, then jumped down on to the mass of newspapers in the cockpit. “You bastard!” He was clearly pleased to see me.

  He slapped my back. I introduced him to Jennifer, who nodded very coolly. “Mr Barratt,” she said in acknowledgement of the introduction.

  Charlie looked from Jennifer to me, then back to Jennifer. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

  “No, Mr Barratt, you are not.” All her previous coolness had returned. She retrieved her bag. “I’ll see you this evening, my lord.”

  “Where?”

  “At the studios, of course. A car will pick you up here at one o’clock. You’re supposed to be in London by five-thirty, so that should give you more than enough time. It’s nice to have met you, Mr Barratt.”

  Charlie watched her walk all the way down the pontoon, then sighed. “That is tasty, Johnny. That is very tasty.”

  “And engaged to a Swiss cheese zillionaire.”

  He snapped his fingers suddenly. “She’s the one who was on the telly with you last night?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Hell fire.” He sat down heavily. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

  “Tell you what isn’t true?”

  He was staring up at me with a very worried expression. “You didn’t really give the picture away, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes. “Christ on the cross. I saw you on the telly last night and I couldn’t believe what you were saying! He’s mad, I thought, off his poor little twist! You’re as bad as Georgina!”

  “Come on, Charlie!” His accusation had angered me. “What the hell am I supposed to do with the bloody thing?”

  “Sell it, you bloody fool,” he said, just as angrily.

  I laughed. I couldn’t stay angry with Charlie. I sat opposite him and told him all about Georgina and Elizabeth, and how I’d visited Perilly House and seen the two caravans which I suspected were intended to be Georgina’s new home. I explained how Sir Leon had promised to take care of her future for me, and how that was more important than some damned picture, however glorious that picture might be.

  Charlie leaned his head against the lower guardrail. “Elizabeth was going to shove Georgina into a caravan?”

  “Yes.”

  He uttered a crisp judgment of Elizabeth, then another, less crisp, on me. “But you still gave it away. I don’t believe it!”

  He seemed extraordinarily worried, and it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps he had thought that, should I succeed in finding the picture, I would pay him back for all the thousands he had spent on Sunflower. “If it’s the money, Charlie,” I said, “then don’t worry. Sir Leon will give me enough to pay you. I might have given up the purchase money, but I don’t mind asking for a few thousand as a reward.”

  “Bugger the money! I’m thinking about you!” He helped himself to the mug of coffee Jennifer had abandoned. “I suppose you realise that Elizabeth will probably take you to court and challenge your right to give it away?”

  “Perhaps.” But not, I thought, if she was hiding it.

  Charlie sighed. “You have a rare talent, Johnny, for going up shit-filled creeks and chucking away paddles.” He offered me a lit cigarette, then lit one for himself. “Who’s the copper on this one?”

  “Harry Abbott again.”

  “Jesus wept.” He was truly disgusted. “You’re not bunking up with bloody Harry, are you?” He frowned, evidently thinking of the press conference. “And Harry knows who’s got the painting?”

  I smiled, knowing my next answer would amuse Charlie. “Elizabeth.”

  Charlie stared at me in surprise, then scornfully rejected the idea. “Harry’s off his twist! He reckons Elizabeth stole the painting?”

  “Or someone did it for her.”

  “Bloody hell! But Elizabeth married money, didn’t she?”

  “They’re skint.”

  He thought about it for a few seconds, then tacitly conceded that his initial scornful rejection might have been mistaken. “She always liked money, didn’t she?” He stared at me, and I saw the penny drop. “Johnny! She tried to have you killed?”

  “That’s what Harry thinks.”

  “Which means she’ll try again…” Charlie was smart, very smart, and he twisted on the thwart to stare at the man who had chased him down the bridge on to the pontoon. He snapped his fingers at me. “You’re being guarded, Johnny!”

  “You got it, Charlie. Not all the time, because Harry’s a cheapskate copper, but so long as I’m on the river I’ve got company.”

  “You’re daft,” he said, “plain daft.” He had spoken ruefully. Now he stood up. “I don’t know, Johnny. I thought you’d be halfway to the West Indies by now! Hell, I was going to bring Joanna out there for a fortnight!”

  “There’ll be other fortnights, Charlie.”

  “Maybe.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting up on the M5 extension. It’s a brand new motorway and it’s already crumbling to shreds. Still, I mustn’t complain. It’s all money. Look after yourself, Johnny.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “But if you want my advice,” he said morosely, “I’d bugger off. I wouldn’t trust Harry Abbott, and I certainly wouldn’t trust that Buzzacott mob. They’ve already conned a painting out of you, so what will they take next?” He climbed on to the pontoon. “Maybe I’ll drop by on my way home.”

  “I won’t be here this afternoon, Charlie.”

  “Oh, of course. You’re off to London with your girlfriend.” He paused on the pontoon. “You’re an idiot, Johnny.”

  “Am I?”

  “You’re getting involved.” He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the river, then stared gloomily at me. “Do you know why I like you? Because from the very beginning, right from the beginning, you were always different. You never gave a damn. You didn’t give a monkey’s about a bloody thing. You’d do anything for a dare. But now? Now you’re letting those rich buggers call your tune. You’re joining them, Johnny, and they’ll use you.” He pointed an accusing finger at me. “Go back to sea, Johnny. You’ll
be happier there.”

  “I’ll go back soon.”

  “Go now, before they tame you.”

  I smiled, then watched him walk away. Had Charlie been tamed? I didn’t know. What I did know was that I had let down my friend. I had let him down by throwing in my lot with other people, and I abruptly realised that Charlie was upset because, till now, he had always seen himself as my protector. Now he felt betrayed, and I felt rotten, but I wouldn’t change my course, not yet, for Georgina’s future and my own stupid hopes depended on it. Not hopes of a painting, nor of a reward, but of Jennifer.

  I chained the dinghy to the coachroof so that no thieving creep would steal it, locked Sunflower, told my police guards that I’d be going away and that I’d phone the local station before I returned, then went to London.

  To my chagrin, Hans had accompanied Jennifer Pallavicini to the television studio. The happy couple were waiting for me in the hospitality room where Hans greeted me politely, then stood smiling by as Jennifer and I made small talk. Her friendliness of the morning had dissipated, though she did say that she liked Charlie.

  “You did?” I sounded surprised, for she’d behaved very coolly when she met him.

  “He looks a very capable sort of man.”

  “He’s that, right enough.” I told her tales of our adventures together, and recounted the time when we had nearly died in the Tasman Sea storm, and how Charlie had sung all the way through the ordeal because, he said, he’d be buggered if he went to hell crying. “He’s a good man,” I said warmly.

  “And you define a good man,” she observed icily, “as being someone who can sail small boats in big storms?”

  I reflected that it was a more reliable definition than being a genius with the processed cheese, but managed to avoid saying as much. Instead I was buttonholed by the programme’s presenter who told me what he wanted me to say. It was evident that I’d been cast as the rogue aristocrat; unstable, unreliable, and somewhat mysterious; while Jennifer, I assumed, had been invited in case I proved to be tongue-tied, in which case she could be relied on to keep speaking.

  We did our television programme. The interviewer treated me like a cretin, and I obliged by being suitably arrogant. When I was asked why I’d given away the Van Gogh, I simply replied that I didn’t want it. The audience seemed to like the interview. Jennifer was more loquacious, explaining the importance of the missing painting, then paying a very nice tribute to my generosity. The audience applauded me. The whole thing was quite painless, and all over within twenty minutes. We were shown back to the hospitality room where we were offered warm white wine and stale sandwiches. There was no sign of Hans.