by Carola Dunn
The approach of force majeure was announced just a few minutes later.
“Cutter on the starboard bow.” The man relaying the sighting from Jed on the wheelhouse roof stayed by the open door.
Patrick stared through the windscreen, or whatever it was called on a boat. He couldn’t see the cutter, but what had been a shadow on the horizon was now unmistakably land, green and grey and growing clearer by the moment.
“He’s spotted us. Changing course to intercept, and there’s another on the port bow.”
The skipper’s mouth took on a grimmer set, but he held steady on their course.
“Jed reckons they’ll fall astern afore they’re in range.”
That sounded like good news to Patrick. However, this time he paused before voicing his relief. The cutters would be behind Barleycorn, but within firing range nonetheless. One on each side, they could rake the launch from stem to stern if she refused to stop—or they could hold their fire, follow her to her landing place, and make their arrests on shore.
Now there were low headlands on either side as Barleycorn entered a bay.
A Klaxon horn blared, followed by a loud-hailer: “U.S. Coast Guard. Barleycorn, stand by to be boarded.”
The skipper’s response was to shout to the man at the door, “Get Jed off the roof, and all of you lie flat!”
“But skipper—”
“Get your heads down!”
The man disappeared.
Another hail was followed by a warning shot screaming overhead. A fountain of water and mud arose where it landed in the shallows. The Barleycorn veered left, then right, then left again. Patrick assumed they were dodging further shots, until he realised the banks were closing in as they sped up a narrowing, winding inlet.
And ahead loomed a low drawbridge—a very low bridge.
“Skipper—”
“Duck!”
Patrick flung himself to the floor, arms covering his head. Above him, the roof splintered and disappeared, the smokestack crumpled, and windows shattered as they struck the bridge.
The skipper bobbed up and resumed steering, his gaze fixed on the river ahead. His cap had been knocked off and shards of glass glittered in his hair and whiskers. He spared a quick glance back at Patrick, prone amid the wreckage, and a manic grin bared his teeth.
“Too shallow for the cutters,” he explained, “and they can’t fire in case there’s people around.”
“Geez, skipper!” came a choking protest from the deck to the rear.
Half-hidden by smoke billowing from the truncated smokestack, three wobbly figures were picking themselves up from the backswept rubble of the roof. Barleycorn was now moving too slowly in the narrow channel to disperse the pungent fumes. Coughing, the men stumbled forward, one of them dabbing at a trickle of blood running down his cheek.
“Geez, skipper, there ain’t much of that drawbridge left. The township’s not gonna be too happy.”
“We’ll tell ’em a Coast Guard shell demolished it. They can try for compensation. Jed, get forward and watch for shoals. The rest of you, watch for the shore signal.”
Patrick said hesitantly, “There’s a chap over there who seems to be trying to attract our attention.” He pointed at a couple of men on the wooded bank, one waving both arms, the other launching a dory.
Throttling back, the skipper kept just enough way on the launch to hold her in place against the current in the middle of the stream. The dory pulled alongside and the oarsman hung on to a fender. On his face, a naturally dour expression seemed to be warring with inward amusement.
“You’re to unload in town,” he said laconically.
“In town?” Turning his head, the skipper stared at him.
“Ayup.”
“What’s going on?” Patrick asked uneasily in a low voice. “Has something gone wrong?”
“Looks that way.”
“Is it safe to go into the town? Won’t the police be waiting for us?”
“We’ll find out.”
“You trust the man who told us—?”
“My brother.”
Patrick didn’t like to point out that history was full of brothers betraying brothers, starting with Cain and Abel. After all, he trusted his own brother, the old stick-in-the-mud!
Meantime, the oarsman had briefly conferred with his passenger. He hoicked a thumb at Patrick and asked his brother, “That the fella you picked up out there?” The thumb hoicked seaward.
“Ayup.”
The thumb indicated his companion. “This fella’s come to pick him up.”
In contrast to the overall-clad boatman, the other was wearing a yellowish brown suit, of a colour and cut that would have raised eyebrows in London—but Patrick had no way of knowing whether it was proper business dress in America. The passenger started to stand up, subsiding abruptly as the dory rocked but raising his brown fedora enough to show reddish hair and bright blue eyes in a pale face scattered with pale, blotchy freckles.
An Irishman, if ever Patrick had seen one.
“Now?” asked the skipper.
“Ayup.”
Patrick retrieved his kit bag from under a heap of debris and clambered out of the remains of the wheelhouse. He turned to thank the skipper, receiving a silent nod in response. With a wave to the deckhands, he went over the side and landed nimbly enough in the dory to preserve his self-respect. His natural inclination was to introduce himself, but he recalled the ban on naming names and refrained, uttering merely, “How do you do?”
“Uh, howdy.”
“What went wrong, sir?” Patrick asked the local man as he rowed them towards the riverbank. “Why is the Barleycorn going into the town?”
“Farmer called the feds.”
“After taking our money for the use of his barn!” the Irishman exclaimed. He sounded more American than Irish, and very angry.
“Changed his mind,” the skipper’s brother said mildly. “It’s a free country. Man’s allowed to change his mind.”
“Not after taking our money. He’s going to regret it, I can tell you.”
“Not too badly, if you want folks hereabouts to cooperate in future.”
“He called the feds.”
“And his boy called us. So what happens? The feds rope in the local cops and every last one of ’em heads out to the farm to set an ambush. So ‘stead of a dozen men tramping to and fro through the mud from river to farm with their arms full, Barleycorn sails into town and unloads at the dock, straight onto the trucks. Sounds like a good deal to me.”
He shipped his oars as the dory nosed into the bank. Patrick jumped ashore with a painter. He tied up securely to a stake he found there, then turned to take the oars and boat hook from the boatman.
“Thanks.” The man joined him, handed him his kit bag, and took the oars.
“Thank you, for ferrying me from Barleycorn.”
Patrick used the boat hook to bring the dory close and then gave the Irishman a hand up onto the bank. The air was so thick with animosity, he felt a nervous desire to chatter but managed to keep his mouth shut. The local man led the way into the woods, along a barely visible path. Birds fell silent as they passed.
In the rear, the city man, wearing utterly inappropriate shoes, picked his way with care through the damp leaf mould. Patrick paused to let him catch up.
“Where are we going?” he ventured to ask.
“To see a man. You don’t need to know his name, but he works for the Eyetie who works for the big boss, your customer. That is, you are Patrick Jessup, I presume?”
“Yes. And you?”
The man considered a moment. “I guess you’ll have to know sooner or later, seeing I’m going to England with you.”
“You are?” Patrick exclaimed.
“Yeah, so they tell me. Someone’s gotta make sure our competitors don’t get at you. But don’t let’s talk about that here. It’s none of the hick’s business.” He nodded towards the man trudging ahead. In a low voice he added, “You c
an call me Mickie Callaghan. Pleased to meetcha.”
“Callaghan! That’s my mother’s maiden name.”
“No kidding. Well, is that a coincidence or what?”
The local man was waiting for them beside an unpaved road. He had stowed the oars in a farm cart pulled off onto the verge. The cart horse was looking back at him with patient hope.
A little farther along, a large Packard was parked; half-concealed by bushes, it faced in the opposite direction from the cart. Callaghan pointed. “That’s us.” He looked Patrick up and down. “Mary Mother of God, you’re a mess altogether. You brush yourself down before you get into my auto. I guess I better pay this guy off, or he’ll be calling the feds on us.”
Patrick handed the boat hook to the boatman and went on to the car. As he took off his jacket and shook the wood and glass debris out of it, he watched Callaghan hand over a wad of banknotes. Both he and the recipient looked grim.
Patrick was glad he was not the object of their anger. His energy was beginning to flag. He hoped he wouldn’t be expected to crank the Packard. When Callaghan came over and curtly gestured to him to get in, he realised with relief that the car had a self-starter. Callaghan climbed in behind the wheel.
He stuck his hand inside his jacket, pulled out a pistol from a shoulder holster, and chucked it onto the backseat.
The Packard failed to start on the first attempt. Before Callaghan could press the button again, the local man came up from behind. Boat hook in hand, he loomed over Callaghan.
“I’m telling you,” he said, and his voice carried no less conviction for being calm and quiet, “you and your buddies better not be seen in these parts ever again if any harm comes to that family.”
The motor caught and they spurted away in a cloud of dust. Like it or not, Patrick was committed to travelling with the aggressive, vengeful, and armed Irishman.
FIVE
Daisy wanted to reciprocate for the Jessups’ drinks party, but with Alec’s schedule so erratic, a similar evening do was impossible. Besides, the Fletchers simply could not compete in variety or quality with the wine merchant’s vast selection. Worse, she’d have to choose between inviting the Bennetts, who would ruin the affair, or offending them by not asking them.
She decided afternoon tea for the Jessup ladies would be the proper response, especially if she included an invitation to the children for nursery tea. Her St. John’s Wood friends, Melanie and Sakari, would round out the party.
Sakari couldn’t come because of a prior engagement at India House, where her husband was something important. Daisy rang up Madge.
“The people with the Versailles room? Darling, I’d love to meet them.”
“Here, not at their house.”
“Of course. Just watch me wangle an invitation. Will Lucy be there?”
“Lucy? Gosh no. Afternoon tea in suburbia is definitely not Lucy’s … well, cup of tea.”
Madge laughed. “True. I’m not so choosy. I’ll be there. Shall I be Lady Margaret, do you think? Are they that sort of people?”
“I don’t think so,” Daisy said doubtfully. “I suspect they’d be less likely to invite you. But I don’t know them very well yet.”
“Then Mrs. Pearson it is.”
“Bring Robin, too, if you like. There’s to be nursery tea, as well.”
“Heavens, darling, you are becoming positively domesticated.”
“It’s all right, we don’t have to watch feeding time at the zoo. There will be nurses aplenty to scrub their jammy faces. But the little Jessup girl adores the twins, and Mrs. Jessup—Mrs. Aidan Jessup—is very motherly, so I thought it would please her.”
“You want to please Mrs. Aidan Jessup? What are you up to, Daisy?”
“Nothing!”
“Aidan? Isn’t that Irish?”
“I believe so. The elder Mrs. Jessup was Moira Callaghan when she was on the stage.”
“A chorus girl?” Madge sounded amused.
“Shakespearean,” Daisy said severely.
“And Irish. Have you moved in next door to a nest of Republicans?”
“Not at all! Aidan is frightfully English, in spite of his name. So is his father, in spite of all his travels on the Continent. It’s the younger son … Irish Republican—I hadn’t even considered that possibility. I think he’s in America, not Ireland.”
“I’ll come early and you can tell me all about it.”
“Right-oh. Yes, I’d better ring off now or Alec’s going to be asking nasty questions about the telephone bill. Cheerio, darling.”
Hanging up, Daisy went down to the kitchen to discuss the tea party with Mrs. Dobson. The cook-housekeeper was delighted at the prospect of showing off her baking skills. Daisy left her to make out a shopping list, and went up to the nursery to tell Oliver and Miranda about their coming treat—and to warn Nurse Gilpin.
Oh dear, she thought, realising she ought to have consulted Nurse first. Mrs. Gilpin would be offended, but then, she was offended with Daisy most of the time anyway.
The new nursery was light and bright, with plenty of room for two cribs, dressers, toy chests, a rocking horse, and all the other necessary accoutrements. The walls were hung with paintings by Belinda of bunnies, kittens, squirrels, and puppies, some more recognisable than others. A small room connected to it was Mrs. Gilpin’s bedroom, so that she had some privacy but, with the door open, could hear the slightest sound from the babies at night. She had grudgingly approved the arrangement. It meant Alec could go into the nursery with good-night kisses even when he got home very late.
Nana, the subject of one of Belinda’s paintings, lay sprawled on the floor. She had been allowed into the nursery occasionally on sufferance for several months. Then Daisy thought to mention to Mrs. Gilpin that, during her own childhood, a couple of dogs were always to be found in the nurseries at Fairacres. After that, Nana was made welcome. Oliver and Miranda crawled over her, cooing with delight, the way they had over Lambert.
Watching them, Daisy found it impossible to believe in a nest of Irish Republicans next door. Did they still go around blowing up English policemen, now that they had their own country? She hadn’t heard of any such incidents recently, but she’d never been much of a newspaper reader.
When she was growing up, any young lady taking an interest in politics was assumed to be a suffragette—horror of horrors! Men still had a tendency to go into a female-excluding huddle when the subject arose. But the suffragettes had won, and there were already several women MPs. Daisy was twenty-eight years old. In two years, she’d be thirty (more horrors!) and able to vote in national elections, and she hadn’t the foggiest what it was all about. She decided she had better start reading Alec’s morning paper.
In the meantime, with Miranda crawling towards her crying “Ma-ma”—indubitably “Ma-ma”!—Daisy couldn’t put off much longer broaching the delicate subject of nursery tea.
Oliver raced after his sister, shouting “Ga-ga-gak.”
Daisy sat down and the babies climbed onto her lap. Inhaling the sweet milk and talcum smell of them, she gave each a kiss and said over their heads, “I’ve invited the children next door to tea, Mrs. Gilpin.”
“Indeed, madam!” said Nurse with a sniff. “I hardly think Master Oliver and Miss Miranda are old enough to entertain guests.”
“Their nanny will come, too, of course.”
“Indeed, madam.”
“Besides, I expect Miss Marilyn will entertain the twins. You know how she dotes on them when they meet in the gardens. And there will be another two-year-old to play with Percy Jessup—Mrs. Pearson’s Robin.”
“Lady … Mrs. Pearson’s little boy? How nice for our little ones to make his acquaintance.”
What a change of tune! Daisy assumed Mrs. Dobson must have told her that Madge was Lady Margaret. If Nurse knew, then the nursery maid surely knew, and what Bertha knew the parlour maid knew, and what Elsie knew, her sister next door was bound to know. So no doubt the Jessups would also find
out within a short time. It would be interesting to see whether they were more impressed by someone with the genuine title of “Lady” than by someone with a mere “Honourable” before her name.
Alec came home early for once. He had obtained tickets for that night’s concert at Queen’s Hall, a rare occasion, given his erratic schedule. Daisy didn’t want to spoil the evening, so she postponed asking him whether the Irish Republicans were still in the habit of blowing up policemen. Perhaps she’d learn enough about the Jessups at the tea party not to have to ask him at all.
It was quite late when they got home. As it was drizzling, Alec stopped the Austin right in front of the house to let Daisy out, then went to put the car in the garage in the alley. As Daisy started up the steps, the Jessups’ front door opened, silhouetting a man against the lighted hall. Then the door slammed shut and the figure hurried down the next-door steps. Daisy couldn’t see his face, but something about the way he moved seemed familiar.
She was in the house and taking off her coat before she made the connection: Surely he was the American visitor who had so upset Mrs. Jessup. Judging by his hasty retreat, his reception hadn’t been any better today.
When Alec came in, rain dripping from his hat, Daisy almost told him. But he had other plans for what was left of the evening.
“Time for bed,” he said firmly, and with his arm snug about her waist, she wasn’t going to argue.
The next afternoon, Madge arrived in good time for a chat, as she had promised. They went straight up to the nursery, however, and by the time Robin, Oliver, and Miranda had been introduced and induced to play more or less nicely with one another, it was too late for Daisy to tell Madge any details of the mysteries surrounding the Jessups. She did warn her, though, that her title was no secret.
When they went downstairs, Elsie was just opening the door to Melanie. Madge had met Mel a couple of times but didn’t know her at all well. Besides, Melanie, the very proper wife of a bank manager, was rendered acutely uncomfortable by gossip that involved speaking ill of anyone. Though Daisy had no intention of maligning the Jessups, discussing the possible involvement of one or more members with the Irish Republicans was bound to distress Mel.
