Black Ship

by Carola Dunn

  The Jessup ladies, children, and nanny arrived a few moments later. After greetings and introductions and the despatching of the nursery party upstairs, Daisy poured tea. Elsie passed it around, along with watercress sandwiches (Mrs. Dobson was a genius at cutting bread practically paper-thin) and a variety of homemade biscuits (including Daisy’s favourite macaroons, which she allowed herself only on special occasions).

  Once everyone was served, Daisy dismissed Elsie. Madge and Audrey Jessup, both cheerful, practical women with two-year-old boys, were already getting on like a house on fire. Mel and Mrs. Jessup, on the other hand, were making polite conversation, so Daisy joined in.

  It wasn’t difficult to introduce the subject of foreign travel. The Germonds had taken the whole family to Brittany in the summer. Daisy asked Melanie about the difficulties of travelling with children, and went on to mention quite naturally that Mr. Jessup took his younger son with him on his business trips to the Continent.

  “How old was he the first time he went abroad with your husband?” she asked Mrs. Jessup.

  “Fifteen or sixteen.” Mrs. Jessup did not elaborate.

  “And now he goes by himself,” said Daisy.

  “You must worry about him,” said Mel.

  Since Mrs. Jessup didn’t respond, Daisy pointed out, “Surely if he’s old enough to do business on his own, he’s old enough not to worry about.”

  “Oh Daisy, I don’t think one ever stops worrying about one’s children. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Jessup?”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed with an amused smile. “Even into one’s dotage, I dare say, when the ‘children’ themselves are growing elderly.”

  Daisy thought that behind the calm façade, the smile was forced, stagy even, but perhaps she was influenced by knowing Mrs. Jessup had been an actress. She ventured another probe. “He isn’t in Germany, is he? As far as I can recall, most German wines come from the Rhine and Moselle, and that part of Germany has been pretty unsettled recently, even more so than the rest.”

  “There are some vineyards farther east, but yes, most are in the Rhineland. Maurice doesn’t handle many German wines, though, because there’s still a lot of prejudice against them. But I don’t want to bore you with business talk, Mrs. Germond. Are you an aficionado of the theatre?”

  “I should be happy to go more often than I do.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Fletcher has told you that I was on the stage. It’s an odd world.” She proceeded to entertain them with stories of theatre life. Madge, who was a great playgoer, joined in, while Audrey Jessup prompted her mother-in-law, suggesting particularly interesting incidents. Once again, Daisy envied their easy relationship.

  Mrs. Jessup was very amusing, but when everyone departed, a frustrated Daisy was no wiser about the whereabouts of her younger son.

  Madge was last to leave. “I wish I could stay and talk,” she said. “I must say, they seem like nice people. Not a single ‘your ladyship’ to be heard, thank heaven! Mrs. Aidan has invited me to go and see the Galerie des Glaces one of these days.”

  “Madge! How did you manage it?”

  “I just mentioned that you’d mentioned it,” Madge said airily, “and that it sounded interesting. She told me her father-in-law had it made as a compliment to her mother-in-law, because she was so beautiful, he wanted to see her everywhere he looked. Mr. Jessup must have been quite a romantic, though nowadays apparently he uses it mostly to entertain foreign businessmen and their wives.”

  “And there I’ve been tiptoeing around the subject for weeks!”

  “I even found out that the ladies entertained you in there that first time because the children had been playing in the drawing room earlier and little Percy threw a wooden train through a windowpane.”

  “Well, that’s one little mystery cleared up. I trust they don’t let him play in the Galerie?”

  “Catastrophe! But Mrs. Jessup sounds like a very affectionate, not to say indulgent, grandmother. I can’t believe she’s involved in any dastardly plots. Here’s my taxi, so we’ll have to talk about that another time. Bye, darling.”

  They kissed cheeks, and Daisy waved as Madge stepped into the cab. As it pulled away, her eye was caught by a movement in the garden opposite. Many of the bushes were leafless now, but there was a clump of laurels and rhododendrons. The evergreen leaves were waving in an unnatural manner, even considering the slight breeze that was chasing clouds across the sky.

  Daisy watched. Someone was lurking there.

  She was as certain as certain could be without actually confronting him that it was Lambert. She had glimpsed him once or twice in the streets of Hampstead but had obeyed his instructions to pretend she hadn’t. Could anyone else who made a practice of lurking possibly be so inefficient at it?

  “Alec?”

  “Mmm-hmm?” He looked up from the Daily Chronicle.

  “Do the Irish still go around blowing up policemen?”

  “I can’t promise they’ve given up the practice, love, but at the moment they seem more intent on blowing up one another.”

  “Oh. I suppose that’s a good thing, in its way. Sort of.”

  Alec grinned. “Sort of. They’d probably give it up if they didn’t get endless support, guns and money, from their fellow countrymen who have emigrated to America. But it’s not my problem at the moment, thank heaven.”

  “Leave me the paper, will you, darling? Do you realise I’m going to be old enough to vote soon? I ought to know what’s going on in the world.”

  “You mean you’re not going to vote as your husband directs you?”

  “Alec!”

  “Ah well. As long as you don’t start writing political diatribes.” He folded the newspaper and passed it over. “Here you go. Have fun.”

  Daisy wrinkled her nose at him. “I don’t suppose it’ll actually be fun, but I’m sure it must be my duty to king and country, so I’ll give it a try.”

  He drained his coffee and left for work. Daisy spread the Chronicle on the table in front of her, but instead of reading the headlines, she found herself considering what he had said.

  The bellicose Irish Republicans obtained arms and money from their compatriots in America. So the younger Jessup son—she realised she still didn’t know his name—might be in America raising funds. Why were the Irish fighting among themselves? It was all very muddling. Perhaps something in the newspaper would help her sort it out.

  The first headline that caught her eye informed her that the French were bombing Damascus. Fighting in Ireland was bad enough, she decided; she simply didn’t want to know why the French were bombing Damascus. Thankfully, she remembered that she had to get started on an article about Hampstead Heath, and of course she had to go and see the babies first.

  It was a couple of days later that Daisy came out of the High Street stationer’s with a packet of carbon paper and a heavy sigh. She nearly bumped into Audrey Jessup.

  “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, good morning. Whatever is the matter?”

  “Mrs. Jessup! I beg your pardon. I wasn’t looking where I was going. It’s nothing, just a minor irritation, but … irritating.”

  “I know just what you mean. I expect Mr. Knowles can’t find what you need.”

  “A typewriter ribbon, for the commonest make of machine available, an old one that everyone has. I suppose I’ll just have to go back to the stationer in St. John’s Wood. He always has the right one.”

  “Knowles is the most disorganised person, and if he can’t lay hands on something immediately, he gets flustered and denies the possibility of ever being able to get it. But one just has to be patient and firm.”

  “Is that all? Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go back in and be firm.”

  “He’s probably standing there now with the ribbon in his hands, wondering what to do with it.” Audrey smiled. “If you’re not in a great hurry to get back to work, would you like to meet for coffee after you sort him out? There’s a Kardomah just down the street, opposite the ba
nk.”

  Daisy was only too glad to agree. It was the first opportunity she’d had to talk to Audrey alone. Perhaps, on her own, Mrs. Aidan Jessup would be more forthcoming about her husband’s family.

  Her mother-in-law always evaded talk about the younger son’s whereabouts. Why, if he were simply visiting vineyards in Europe, or even relatives in Ireland? Daisy was practically convinced he was in America. Whether he was rumrunning or gunrunning, she couldn’t be sure, but he must be up to something fishy, or his mother wouldn’t be so worried. Further questions also remained to be answered. Who, for instance, was the angry American? Might he be another agent, unknown to Lambert? After all, no one could expect poor Lambert to actually accomplish anything.

  These reflections were no hindrance to dealing firmly with Mr. Knowles. Daisy reemerged into Hampstead High Street with a typewriter ribbon nestling alongside the carbon paper in her basket.

  As arranged, Audrey had gone into the Kardomah to bag a table before the morning rush hit. When Daisy entered, she was standing next to a table for four, talking to a pair of seated women. Daisy hoped she wouldn’t want to join them.

  Seeing her, Audrey waved. Daisy went over and was introduced as the mother of adorable twins. The two ladies invited her and Audrey to sit down, but Audrey said she had already taken possession of a table for two by the window. They stood for a couple of minutes, chatting about their various offspring. Quite the most annoying thing about having children, Daisy decided, was being forced to listen politely while other people talked about theirs.

  Mrs. Vane’s and Mrs. Darby’s coffees arrived, accompanied by toasted tea cakes. Daisy had resolved to be good, but the spicy, buttery aroma of one of her favourite treats undermined her resolve. She and Audrey repaired to their table, saved by a scarf flung over one chair and a basket on the other.

  “My treat,” said Audrey as they sat down. “You will have something to eat, won’t you? Otherwise, I can’t, and I’m simply starving.” She lowered her voice. “I’m pretty sure we’ll be having an addition to the family in the spring.”

  “Congratulations!” More baby talk, Daisy thought, but perhaps she’d be able to lead it round to Mrs. Jessup’s missing offspring.

  A waitress, neat in black, with a frilly white apron and cap, came to take their order—two coffees, a tea cake, and a Bath bun.

  As she left, Daisy added, “No wonder you’re blooming.”

  Audrey beamed. “I’m so happy. We’re all happy. Not just about the baby. My father-in-law has heard from Patrick at last—my brother-in-law, you know. Mama Moira’s been dreadfully anxious about him. Being an actress, she doesn’t show it, but I always know. Now Patrick’s on his way home, we can all be comfortable again.”

  Before Daisy could think of a polite way to enquire where Patrick was coming home from and what he’d been doing there, the waitress arrived with a tray. And then it was too late. Audrey revealed that she had read Daisy’s latest article in Town and Country, because “Mama Moira said I ought, with you living next door. I’m not much of a reader,” she confessed, laughing. “I just don’t seem to have time. But I really enjoyed your article.”

  She had lots of questions, and Daisy never managed to steer the conversation back to Patrick Jessup. At least she now knew his name!

  HOME SWEET HOME

  Here’s little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl,

  And brandy in a glass;

  And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl

  Proved the stronger man at last.

  And the huntsman he can’t hunt the fox,

  Nor so loudly blow his horn,

  And the tinker he can’t mend kettles or pots

  Without a little of Barleycorn.

  As a child, Patrick had found the long lift ride at Hampstead tube station spooky, though he’d have died rather than admit it to his brother or his friends. Once he was old enough, he preferred to climb the three hundred steps to the surface from the deepest platforms in the whole Underground network. Though the staircase was pretty grim and gloomy, at least he wasn’t shut up in a cage. He used to say it was to keep himself fit for cricket.

  Arriving in London on a rainy afternoon with Mickie Callaghan in tow, he assumed they would take a taxi from the boat train to Constable Circle.

  “Nix,” said Callaghan. “Cabs can be traced. We take the subway, or whatever you ride in in this burg.”

  The implications did not make Patrick happy. He was already unhappy about taking the Irish American home to his family. They had crossed the Atlantic together, Callaghan hiding in their cabin most of the way in a most unsettling manner. Patrick still wasn’t sure what the man was after, but it seemed impossible to get rid of him.

  His father had set up this whole affair. Patrick had carried out his part successfully. His father would have to deal with Callaghan.

  They reached Hampstead station just early enough not to have to stand in line for the lift, but Callaghan took one look at the lift attendant and said, “We take the stairs.”

  “He takes thousands of people up and down every day. He won’t remember you.”

  “We take the stairs.”

  Maliciously, Patrick failed to inform him that they were not much less than two hundred feet below ground level. Callaghan, silent in his rubber-soled shoes, set off at a fast pace that would have taken him quickly to the top of a four-story building. Patrick didn’t attempt to keep up. He was not at all surprised when he caught up with Callaghan plodding upward, looking disgruntled. Knowing from experience that taking the climb too slowly was as exhausting as attempting to take it too fast, Patrick kept going, giving the disgruntled American a wave as he passed.

  “See you at the top.”

  Callaghan scowled.

  The last step behind him, Patrick was pleased to find that he was less out of shape than he had feared. He was breathing hard but by no means winded. Leaning against a poster advertising The Lost World, starring Bessie Love, he waited for Callaghan, who appeared at last, after a considerable interval. He came up the final flight breathing easily. Patrick was sure he had stopped to rest on the last landing. If he had learnt anything about Mickie Callaghan, it was that he’d go to considerable trouble to avoid being caught at a disadvantage.

  As always, it was a relief to exit into the open air. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds hung overhead, bringing an early twilight. Patrick turned left and left again, into Flask Walk. Callaghan, silent and morose, kept pace with him along the narrow paved lane, past the Flask public house. It was just opening.

  “Let’s stop in for a pint,” Patrick suggested, trying to postpone the moment when he’d have to introduce his companion to the family.

  “Nix. I bet you’re known in there. They’d remember me.”

  The two-story workmen’s cottages opening directly onto the pavement gave way to larger houses and big trees as they crossed into Well Walk. At the old Chalybeate Well monument, they left the street and took a passage uphill between two large redbrick houses. They came out on the south side of Constable Circle.

  “We’ll cut across the garden,” said Patrick, turning his head to speak to Callaghan, who had fallen a step or two behind.

  “Nice place. Which is your house?”

  “To the left of the one at the top.” He pointed. Someone was coming down the steps. “I think that’s my brother.” In the dusk, he couldn’t be sure.

  The man crossed the street and started down the path. It was Aidan. Good old Aidan! Patrick had never in his life been so glad to see the old sobersides. He waved. Aidan waved back and they both walked faster. Callaghan fell behind Patrick.

  A man stepped out of the bushes and accosted Aidan. He spoke too softly for Patrick to hear at that distance, but his gestures were forceful. Aidan brushed him off and kept going. The man persisted, striding along at Aidan’s side, gesticulating. He seemed to be angry.

  They all converged on the fountain.

  The stranger’s rant cut off abruptly, as if he ha
d suddenly noticed he and Aidan were not alone. He stared towards Patrick.

  “You!” he exclaimed, his tone venomous. Thrusting his hand inside his coat, he took a couple of quick paces forward. His hand reappeared gripping a pistol.

  SIX

  “Madam!” Elsie burst into the dining room in a manner most unlike her usual parlour-maidenly propriety. “Oh madam!”

  “What’s the matter?” Daisy sloshed tea over the Chronicle as she jumped up in alarm. “Not the twins—?”

  “Oh no, ’m, not the babies.”

  Flooded with relief, Daisy took a closer look at the maid. “You’re white as a sheet, Elsie. Here, sit down. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the little dog, ’m. I let her out same as usual to go over to the garden—”

  “Don’t tell me she’s been run over!”

  “Oh no, madam. Nothing drives that fast round the Circle. But usually she’s that good about coming right away when I call her, and this morning I called and called and she didn’t come—”

  “She’s run away?” Daisy asked incredulously.

  “Oh no, ’m. I went up the area steps to the pavement to look if I could see her, and there she was in the garden, over by them bushes, the evergreen ones? And she was barking and whining fit to bust, and she just wouldn’t come away, so I went to fetch her. And I grabbed her collar and she kept on whining and I was scolding her like anything when I saw it.” The maid fell silent, her eyes and mouth round with remembered shock.

  Daisy mustered all her patience. “What did you see, Elsie?”

  “A glove, madam. Someone dropped it, I thought, and I went to pick it up—a good leather glove, someone’d be looking for it—but it had a hand in it, and I thought, ‘Oh it’s one of them nasty drunkards. What cheek sleeping in our garden!’ And I moved the branches, like, to give him a piece of my mind, but he wasn’t drunk, madam. He’s dead! As a doornail.”

  “Good gracious! Oh dear, I suppose he must have died of exposure. It was cold and wet last night.”