Black Ship

by Carola Dunn

  With a thud, he dropped safely to the deck. A waiting seaman disentangled him from the sling and tugged twice on the rope. As Patrick waved good-bye at the darkness above, the idling engines of both vessels took on a more urgent note and they began to move apart.

  He hadn’t paid much attention to the captain’s warning. His father had been doing business with the same people—at least, the top man—since before Prohibition. A Boston Irishman whose father owned a bar, he had a ready market for good stuff, the best wines and Champagnes and, in particular, Haig & Haig and Gordon’s gin, both for some reason especially popular with the smart set.

  In view of all the tales of piracy on Rum Row, they had arranged a code between them, so that no cash need change hands at sea. In a belt pouch sewn by Patrick’s mother were the playing cards, torn in half, used as identification by the inshore boats as they arrived at the Iphigenia to pick up their loads. Now matched with the halves Patrick had brought with him, they would prove to the agent ashore that business had been properly transacted as planned. No cash to be seized by pirates, Coast Guard, or Treasury men—the agent would transfer payment to a New York bank to be transmitted to the firm’s London account.

  But first, Patrick must reach the Irishman’s agent. Iffie’s bo’sun had warned him that the Coast Guard, rather than merely firing warning shots at suspected boats, had actually killed several seamen.

  He had chosen adventure, yet he watched Iffie’s shadowy shape disappear into the night with a shiver of apprehension. Behind her spread her wake, pointing at her as plainly as a white arrow painted on tarmac.

  THREE

  The day after Lambert’s arrival, having gone into town with Alec in the morning, he turned up in St. John’s Wood again in the middle of the afternoon. When Mrs. Dobson showed him into the small office Daisy shared with Alec, he stood before her desk, more sheepish than ever.

  “Mr. Fletcher told me to come back,” he mumbled miserably.

  “Still no money for a hotel?” Daisy enquired with resignation, lowering her hands from the typewriter.

  “No, ma’am. The guy at the embassy took the chief inspector’s word that I’m Absalom Lambert, but—”

  “You are?” Trying to hide her incredulity, she wondered what sort of person could saddle a child with such a name. It was tempting Fate to kill him by way of a nasty accident. Of course, he wore his hair cut too short to get entangled in a tree, but still … “I don’t believe I ever heard your Christian name before.”

  Lambert blushed. “I guess you never asked me to show my credentials back home, but I did show Mr. Fletcher in New York. So today he told them I used to be a federal agent, but he couldn’t vouch that I still am, though with a different department. They wired Washington.”

  “With any luck, then, they’ll hear back tomorrow.”

  “Gee whiz, don’t I wish! The trouble is, the embassy wants a photograph, so it’ll take at least a week, maybe more.”

  “Good gracious! I’d have thought they’d be more cooperative, more helpful to a citizen in distress.”

  “I expect they are, normally. See, they don’t like the Prohibition Division. No one—well, hardly anyone—does. They don’t understand over here how bad things are getting in the big cities, what with the bootleggers, like I was telling you. They’ll have to help, though, soon as they get my credentials.”

  “In a week or so. Did Alec invite you to stay here in the meantime?” Daisy enquired dangerously, ready to be furious.

  “Oh no, Mrs. Fletcher! He said it’s entirely up to you.”

  Pipped at the post. With Lambert standing in front of her, unhappily studying the toes of his shoes, how could she not offer to put him up?

  “I suppose I’d better drive you to the station to retrieve your bags from left luggage,” she said with a sigh. “Or was your luggage ticket pinched, too?”

  Lambert perked up. “No, I stuck it in my hat band. It got soaked, but Mrs. Dobson kindly dried it out for me, and I think it’s OK. Here,” he said, handing it to her, “don’t you?”

  The man at left luggage gave Lambert an extremely dubious look. He examined both sides of the wrinkled scrap of cardboard carefully, while Daisy held her breath. But a glance at Daisy, who was wearing her most respectable coat, reassured him and he handed over Lambert’s belongings.

  Lambert fitted himself into the household with remarkable ease. He had a good appetite, which endeared him to Mrs. Dobson. The helpless quality, which sometimes made Daisy want to scream, appealed to Nurse Gilpin. He was always welcome in the nursery, where he soon made himself popular with the twins. Daisy would feel quite jealous when she went upstairs and found Miranda sitting on his lap, studying a picture book, or Oliver shrieking with laughter as he climbed over the American’s recumbent form.

  Not that there was much room to recline, what with all the babies’ stuff as well as Mrs. Gilpin’s bed and chest of drawers. The Hampstead nursery was going to be a great improvement.

  Daisy’s pangs of jealousy abated when Miranda held out her chubby arms to her mama to be picked up for a kiss and Oliver raced across the floor with his spiderlike crawl to pull himself up by her leg to a wobbly standing position. Daisy’s stockings might suffer, but she reaffirmed her determination to be a modern mother, not the sort who left her children’s upbringing to a nurse, however capable. Besides, the older the babies grew, the more fun they were.

  Lambert was popular with the dog, too. He was always ready to take Nana for a walk, whatever the weather. What was more, on returning, he washed her down if she was muddy and dried her off when she was wet.

  In fact, such were his domestic virtues that Daisy thought it a great pity he was so determined to make a go of it in the cloak-and-dagger world. He ought to go home to a safe if dull job in his father’s business—insurance, she recalled him mentioning—marry a nice girl, and have a family.

  Whatever his failings as an agent of the law, however, he was an excellent guest. It was just as well. Ten days passed and still the American embassy had not received any response to their wire.

  “Perhaps they never will,” Alec said morosely at bedtime, wrenching off his tie. “Is one evening alone, just the two of us, too much to ask?”

  “I could give him money for the cinema,” Daisy proposed, “though it seems a bit inhospitable when he’s so helpful during the day. Darling, you don’t think he actually did make up the whole story, do you?”

  “Not really. Why would he choose to foist himself indefinitely on us?”

  “I expect it’s just that his department has lost his photo. On purpose, I shouldn’t be surprised. Or they haven’t got one. Oh dear, I hope they don’t have to get in touch with his family to ask for one. Goodness knows how long that might take.”

  “More likely they’re happy to have lost him and hope he’ll disappear for good.”

  Daisy giggled as she helped him undo his collar stud. Though they didn’t usually change for dinner, he’d had a meeting that afternoon with the Assistant Commissioner (Crime), who didn’t approve of soft collars.

  “Now that we are alone,” she said, “don’t let’s waste time talking about Lambert.”

  So they didn’t.

  The very next day, Tommy Pearson telephoned to say the Fletchers could move into the Hampstead house as soon as they wanted. Daisy was startled. With memories of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, she had anticipated a Bleak House-like sluggishness in the windings of the law. Certainly she hadn’t expected to be able to leave St. John’s Wood before the new year.

  “Did you just say what I think you said?”

  “What do you think I said?” Tommy asked patiently.

  “I can start putting the Hampstead house in order?”

  “That’s not precisely what I said, but that’s what it amounts to. There are a few i’s to be dotted and t’s to be crossed, and Alec’ll have to sign more papers. However, I’ve managed to convince Irwin that given Walsall’s explicit instructions, the sooner you take possessi
on, the less likely the will is to be contested.”

  “He really doesn’t want us there, does he.”

  “So it would appear,” said Tommy with lawyerly caution. “At least, he’s unenthusiastic. I dare say he was had up for pinching a bobby’s helmet in his salad days and has developed an inhibition about the police.”

  “A complex, I think, not an inhibition. Is one allowed to become a lawyer after pinching a bobby’s helmet?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh Tommy, you, too? What is the fascination of bobbies’ helmets for young men?”

  “Daisy, I do have other clients—”

  “Sorry, but you raised the subject. To return to Mr. Irwin, complex or no, he could have refused the Jessup ladies’ request to introduce me to them, or vice versa, but he didn’t. They were friendly and welcoming. I should think they’ll be good neighbours, and the house is perfect, except for a lot of cleaning and a lick of paint. I wonder whether we’ll be able to move in before Bel comes home for half term.”

  “Is that odd Yankee still hanging about? Have him give you a hand with packing up and so on. He must be good for something. Tell Alec to give me a ring, will you?”

  “Right-oh.”

  “Speaking of which, you’ll want to get the house wired for telephone service. The old man electrified, but he didn’t believe in the infernal apparatus.”

  “Oh bother! Thanks, Tommy. Love to Madge and Robin.” Daisy rang off.

  Lambert came down the stairs and found her sitting in the hall, feeling rather stunned.

  “Gee whiz, Mrs. Fletcher, are you OK? I hope you haven’t had bad news?”

  “No, good news. At least, it’s what I was hoping for. The trouble is, I just don’t know where to start!”

  Alec was called away to the outer reaches of the kingdom, whether by good (from his point of view) luck or good management. Lambert, still without papers or money, offered to accompany Daisy to the new house to go over it thoroughly and see what needed to be done before the Fletchers could move in.

  After touring the house in increasing consternation, they stood in a sitting room at the rear, peering out into the dusk—made duskier by the grimy French windows—over the paved terrace and the weed-grown terraced garden to the leafless trees at the top. Though Mr. Irwin had had the furniture uncovered and dusted, Daisy was dismayed anew by how dismally dingy the old man had let his home become.

  “It’s a nice room,” Lambert said doubtfully.

  “It could be. Before, I was concentrating on the size and number of the rooms,” she explained. “But after a proper cleaning, the whole place is going to have to be painted and wallpapered from top to bottom. Bother! Choosing colours and patterns could take ages, and then Alec might not like my choices. I wish he hadn’t gone away just now. I’d hoped to have it ready for Belinda’s half-term holiday.”

  His ears turned red. “It looks like Miss Belinda will need her old room. Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll find somewhere to stay.”

  “I wasn’t exactly worrying.” Daisy couldn’t keep a note of asperity from her voice, and his flush deepened. “All the same, I would have liked to move before she comes home.”

  “How about you just paint everything white? That way, it’d look nice and fresh, and it wouldn’t be too hard to paint or paper over if you wanted to change.”

  “Light and bright.” Perhaps even a judicious use of looking glasses here and there at strategic points, avoiding the excesses of the house next door! “Yes, that might work. I’ll think about it. Thank heaven Mr. Walsall preferred good-quality, comfortable furniture rather than the latest fashion. Much of it is perfectly all right.”

  “And so little used, it’s hardly worn.”

  “The cleaners are going to be here for the next couple of days and I can’t—Isn’t that the doorbell? Someone at the front door? Who on earth …?”

  “Must be a Fuller Brush man.”

  “A what?”

  “Don’t you have them here? A door-to-door salesman. Shall I get rid of him?”

  “Yes, please.”

  As he went out, Daisy turned away from the window. The room was larger than their only sitting room in St. John’s Wood, and there was the drawing room at the front, as well. The furniture really wasn’t bad, though she might use the St. John’s Wood stuff in here. White paint and new curtains—yes, she could see the possibilities. Once the electricity was turned on, and the boiler stoked and lighted to run the radiators—

  “It’s a maid from next door, Mrs. Fletcher,” Lambert announced buoyantly. “We’re invited for cocktails.”

  “Oh dear! I can’t possibly go. I’m covered in dust and cobwebs.”

  The maid had followed him in. “It don’t show, ma’am,” she said.

  “That’s because I wore brown tweed, on purpose.”

  “I’ll fetch you a clothes brush.”

  “Thank you. But no amount of brushing will transform a coat and skirt into a cocktail dress.”

  “Not to worry, ’m. It’ll just be family. Mrs. Jessup said to tell you it’s just so’s the master can meet the new neighbours, seeing he came home yesterday from foreign parts. Mr. Aidan’s back from the shop, too.”

  As usual with Daisy, curiosity overcame any reluctance to appear incorrectly dressed. With the gentlemen present, perhaps she’d get the answers to some of her questions about the Jessups.

  A few minutes later, the maid preceded them into a large drawing room at the front of the Jessups’ house. It was furnished—to Daisy’s disappointment—in a thoroughly conventional manner.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, madam,” the maid announced.

  “Who, me?” bleated Lambert, at his most inane.

  “Oh, this gentleman isn’t my husband,” Daisy said at the same time. “This is Mr. Lambert. He’s visiting from America.”

  Mrs. Jessup, rising to greet them, sank back into her chair as if her legs had suddenly lost their strength. Already on their feet, the two men froze. After a moment, they exchanged a silent glance of consternation.

  Audrey Jessup stepped into the breach. “How do you do, Mr. Lambert? Mrs. Fletcher, Father says you’ve definitely decided to move in. I’m thrilled!”

  By the time she had made all necessary introductions, the others had recovered their sangfroid. Her husband made no mention of his previous meeting with Daisy in the garden, so she followed his lead, despite wondering about the reason for his reticence.

  His father, Maurice Jessup, a portly man, was wearing a well-cut suit designed to disguise that fact. His jowls hung over the knot of his tie, and his forehead was receding towards the crown of his head. His present worried frown looked out of place on a face that seemed essentially genial. He offered drinks: “Anything you fancy,” he said, gesturing at a cabinet standing open to display bottles of every conceivable shape, size, and colour. “Aidan, you do the honours, will you?”

  While his son poured and mixed, he turned to Lambert and asked warily, “Are you over here on business?”

  “Not really, sir. Well, kind of.”

  This response—to Daisy’s ears, typical of Lambert’s vagueness—appeared to hold some sinister significance to the Jessups. She was tempted to tell them he was on government business, just to see what their reactions would be. She resisted temptation, remembering how chary he’d been of revealing his “business” to the Pearsons. It was quite conceivable that he was being obfuscatory on purpose.

  “Which part of America are you from?” asked Audrey, the only one not disturbed by Lambert’s presence.

  “Arizona, ma’am.”

  “Is that in the South?”

  “Southwest. It’s mostly desert and mountains, no real big cities. The population of the whole state’s not much above three hundred thousand. My father owns the biggest insurance company in the state. Both our senators are customers. That’s how he got me a job in … er, hmm, on the East Coast.”

  Daisy came to the rescue. “We met i
n New York a couple of years ago. I was over there on a writing assignment.”

  “Oh yes, Father mentioned that you’re a writer. How marvellous!” Audrey exclaimed. “What do you write? Do you use a pen name?”

  “Magazine articles, under my maiden name, Daisy Dalrymple.”

  “In Town and Country?” asked Mrs. Jessup. “I’ve read several. You always have such fascinating snippets of the history of the places you write about.”

  Everyone seized on this new topic and worried it to death. Then they moved on to the house next door and Daisy’s plans for it.

  Mr. Jessup was given to colourful notions, such as enclosing the front porch and turning it into a conservatory for hothouse orchids. Recalling his Continental travels, Daisy decided the miniature Galerie des Glaces must be blamed on him rather than on his wife. She, in contrast, made several helpful suggestions about the kitchens and servants’ rooms. Aidan took after his mother in practicality, offering the name of a housepainter whose work and charges they had found satisfactory. His wife seconded everyone’s proposals with enthusiasm, but her chief interest was in the nursery, which she was longing to see.

  “As soon as it’s been cleaned and painted,” Daisy promised. “I’m sure you’ll be able to give me some ideas.”

  When Daisy started making “time we were getting home” noises, Mr. Jessup said, “If by any chance you’re thinking of having a housewarming party, I’ll be glad to let you have any wines and spirits you want at wholesale.”

  Daisy must have looked as blank as she felt, because Aidan added, “We’re in the business, you know, Mrs. Fletcher. Jessup and Sons of New Bond Street, since 1837.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realise.” That would explain Mr. Jessup’s travels, visiting wine growers, no doubt. About to comment, she recalled just in time that she had been eavesdropping when she overheard Mrs. Jessup’s mention of his whereabouts. “That’s awfully kind of you.”