Subtle Blood

by KJ Charles

  Evidently the Marquess was persuasive, or just told the man to mind his own business. Either way, he went off, the Marquess embarked, and after a while Anton came back to escort Will onto the ship.

  There was a hatch revealing a wooden flight of stairs towards the front. Will descended to find himself in a surprisingly large if low-ceilinged room with wood panels and comfortable-looking chairs. It had a couple of tiny portholes, and electric light. Kim sat, looking sour, with his father next to him. Will joined them as ordered. The three armed men stood.

  “Allow me to explain the situation,” Knowle said. “Lady Waring and Miss Jones are in the ladies’ cabin. We have, naturally, locked the doors. They will remain there unmolested for the duration of the voyage unless you cause trouble. If you do, they will pay the price.” He gave a cold smile. “Anton bears a grudge against Miss Jones. For her sake, Mr. Darling, I suggest you behave.”

  Will fixed his gaze on the opposite side of the cabin. Kim said, “You heard that, Father. Proud of yourself?”

  “There is no need for harm to come to anyone,” the Marquess said. “Just cooperate and nobody will be harmed.”

  “Except the next person who stands in Knowle’s way when you let him go.”

  Knowle gave him an unkind look. “Be quiet. Now, speed is of the essence. Our sailors are the Secretans, so Lord Flitby will be in command of this vessel. He and Lord Arthur will arrange the sails, under Lord Chingford’s supervision. Mr. Darling will stoke the boiler. Anton and I will be on watch for trouble or disobedience. You have caused me immense inconvenience, Lord Arthur, and ruined my plans, and I don’t like you. I suggest you don’t give me an excuse to demonstrate that. Up.”

  Kim rose. Will followed him, since there wasn’t much choice. Three men with guns in a small space wasn’t a fight he wanted to start.

  The engine room was in the middle of the boat. There was a hatch and a ladder made of iron rungs down to a space that was small and already warm from the furnace, with bunkers of coal on either side.

  “Right,” Knowle said. “Lock him in.”

  “Are you insane?” Kim said. “What about ventilation?”

  “I dare say it will be uncomfortable—”

  “Don’t be a fool. If you lock him in there without supervision, he’ll wreck the bloody engine,” Chingford said, which was irritating because that had been Will’s plan.

  Knowle’s face spasmed with annoyance. “Get down there, Anton. Watch him. Let’s go.”

  The next hour or so was not one Will enjoyed. The furnace was a gaping maw that took a lot of coal, and as he shovelled it in and the boiler heated up, so did the engine room to an unpleasant degree. It was sodding noisy too, and he didn’t much enjoy the sense of the yacht moving underfoot: it gave him an unpleasant feeling in his head as well as his stomach. He’d only been on boats a few times in his life, all of them troop carriers, and the sway of the waves had been a lot less pronounced. Did it make a difference that the Aurora was being driven by sail and steam at once? It was plunging and rolling a lot more than seemed safe, and he lost his footing more than once, scattering coal across the floor.

  Anton didn’t seem to be enjoying himself either. At first he watched Will work with a smirk that needed slapping off, but the expression disappeared as the ship ploughed on through the waves, swaying and rocking, and before too long he took a surreptitious hold of the rungs set in the wall.

  He didn’t look any too bright but he still had his gun, seasick or not. Will might be able to wallop him with the shovel before he got a shot off, but Kim was up there with Knowle and Chingford, neither of whom liked him, and ‘might’ wasn’t good enough in the circumstances. So he shovelled coal, resenting every spadeful, hot, sweaty, dusty, and thirsty.

  After what must have been an hour’s labour, the furnace was roaring. Will was covered in coal dust, his once-decent shirt streaked with black, and his shoulders were aching. Anton’s jaw was set, his eyes half closed.

  “Oi,” Will said. “I want a drink.”

  Anton just grunted. Will said, “Did you hear? I’m done. I need a rest.”

  “Shut up.”

  There was a familiar-sounding misery in his voice. “Feeling sick?” Will enquired sympathetically. “It’s the up and down, isn’t it?”

  Anton made a thick noise. Will nodded. “You should have been there when we crossed for France the first time. Storms all the way. Up and down, up and down.” He rocked his hand rhythmically. “There was men all along the rails, puking their guts out. Over the side, into bags, and if they couldn’t find a bag just heaving on the floor so it splashed on your boots.” He did his best imitation of the sound of violent retching. Anton’s eyes widened. He turned, and scrambled up the ladder in a hurry.

  Will grinned to himself and followed a moment later, once he’d put his jacket over his filthy shirt. He stuck his head cautiously out of the hatch, to see Anton vomiting noisily over the side of the yacht, and Lord Chingford glaring at him, gun in hand. “Get back down.”

  “No,” Will said. “If I shovel any more coal the boiler will explode. I need a drink and a rest.”

  “I said, get back down!”

  “Fuck off. What are you going to do if you shoot me, get off your arse and work?”

  Knowle arrived. “What is going on?”

  “I need water, food, rest, and some air,” Will said. “Furnace is fully stoked. And you’ll show me Kim and the girls are all right or I won’t touch another coal.”

  Knowle’s eyes flickered, calculating. Will had done the numbers as well. Knowle’s party had the upper hand, but not by that much, with Anton indisposed, and a boat he couldn’t sail himself, and an urgent need to reach the Continent. He needed to keep the rest of them cooperative till they reached the other side. Or, at least, that was what Will hoped. They’d be in trouble if he was wrong.

  “Come up,” Knowle said at last. “Lord Arthur, over here. You stay together, by the side, and don’t move. Lord Chingford, keep them covered.”

  Will went and stood by the edge of the boat as ordered, legs stiff. It was approaching twilight by now, the sky streaked with deep pink, blue and purple, and the chilly sea wind was a blessed relief on sweaty skin. White sails billowed above him, and the waves didn’t seem quite as drastic from here as they’d felt in the engine room.

  Kim came up to join him. He looked cool and collected, except for the expression in his eyes. “Will.”

  “All right?”

  “A lovely sailing trip with the family. If only Mother and Henry were here. You?”

  “I’ve told them I want to see the girls.”

  Kim nodded. “They’re in the ladies’ cabin. Nobody has troubled them. Until now.”

  Will looked round to see Knowle ushering Phoebe along the deck. She stalked along, generous mouth set tight. Will said, “What’s happening?”

  “He wants her to make sandwiches. They’re for Will, Fee, don’t spit in them,” he added, raising his voice. Phoebe waved in acknowledgement and disappeared down another hatch at the front of the yacht.

  “Galley, or kitchen,” Kim said, answering the unspoken question. “Then, in order from front to back, gentlemen’s stateroom under our feet, engine room, the ladies’ cabin, and the crews’ quarters fitted into the remaining space at the stern.”

  Will noted the layout in case it might be useful. “How are we getting on?”

  “Making a good thirteen knots, I think. If we keep that up, it’ll be a relatively quick trip.”

  “Still overnight. People will need to sleep. Can you sail in the dark?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if they will.”

  Will looked over at Chingford. He was watching them with revolver in hand and a contemptuous expression, but a good twenty feet away. Too far to rush, but also too far to hear. Will dropped his voice low anyway. “Any ideas?”

  “Anton doesn’t seem very well. That puts Knowle in rather a tight position.”

  “He could make it less
tight.”

  “The thought has occurred to me too. But this isn’t a one-man vessel and Father might dig his heels in. If it was down to Knowle and Chingford alone, they’d have to take in the sails and run on steam, which would be significantly slower, and telegrams about fugitive criminals may start flying across the sea at any time. I’m hoping he decides to put up with you and me a little longer for the sake of gaining a few extra hours.”

  Will nodded. “Say he does, and we all get to Flanders. What happens then? Does he kill us there?”

  Kim propped his lean arse on the side of the boat, the picture of an aristocratic lounger. Will stood straight, hands behind his back, like the soldier he’d been. “Good question. Knowle’s main concern will be to get away unnoticed and unpursued, so he won’t want a deserted luxury yacht bobbing outside Vlissingen, still less one full of bodies. That wouldn’t be subtle. I suspect he will run for it with Anton, leaving Chingford to head happily back to England until such time as it dawns on him that he can’t rely on us to keep our silence about this.”

  “There’s a few other things he won’t want you to talk about, come to that.”

  Kim sighed. “I really should have told him he’d get off scot free, shouldn’t I? But I had to stick the knife in. Stupid and vindictive. I do hate it when I see a family resemblance in myself.”

  “You couldn’t predict he’d keep siding with Knowle,” Will said. “Nobody would.”

  “Oh, I could have. Knowle’s played him like a fiddle throughout, and Chingford has never found it easy to accept he made mistakes. Not to mention he’s desperate to keep his damn fool secrets. He’ll want to silence me, and you have severely dented his self-esteem, not to mention his head. If I were him...well, there’s a lot of ocean in which to hide bodies.”

  “What about your father? He might put up with helping Knowle escape but he surely won’t wear that.”

  “I rather think that Chingford is getting impatient waiting to step into his shoes,” Kim said, voice flat. “I think that’s the promise Knowle made him: accelerated inheritance. And, as I say, there’s a lot of ocean out here.”

  Will turned to stare at him. Before he could frame a reply, Phoebe and Knowle emerged from the galley with a pitcher of water and a pile of rather haphazard sandwiches. She gave Kim the plate; Knowle took her off again, saying, “You may see Miss Jones when you’ve finished.”

  Will made himself eat and drink slowly, taking the chance to look around. The yacht was about a hundred feet long, with a teak deck and brass fittings and lots of white paint. Nice and shiny. The sides went up to mid-thigh height and there were no railings. That seemed a bit rash to Will, given the up-and-down and side-to-side way the bloody thing moved, and how close they were to the water. He didn’t think it would be much fun in a storm.

  Chingford was a few yards away, guarding them; he couldn’t see Anton. Lord Flitby was in the little cabin, steering or whatever it was captains did. Knowle was doubtless around somewhere.

  It was deep twilight now, the stars coming visible in a deep purple-tinged blue sky that Will would have appreciated more if he hadn’t been filthy, tired, and seethingly pissed off. There was absolutely nothing around them except sea, endless sea, and the gathering night. No boats. No land. Nothing at all. They were on their own.

  “So he’ll wait till we’re on our way back, right?” he murmured.

  “Maybe,” Kim said. His face was turned into the breeze so it whipped his words away. “But once Knowle leaves, he’ll be seriously outnumbered. I suspect he plans to get rid of you and me before then, no matter what Knowle would prefer, and assumes Father will help him sail back till we’re in sight of land.”

  “Right.”

  “As for tonight, I expect they’ll confine us in the crews’ quarters to sleep. If we’re going to act, it needs to be soon.”

  Otherwise they’d be locked in overnight, and only released once the enemy were fresh and rested. Will nodded, and finished off the final sandwich, washing it down with the last of the water.

  “I want to see Maisie now,” he called to Knowle. “And a proper rest before I do any more shovelling.”

  Knowle glanced at his wristwatch. It had a broad strap: Will wondered if he had a tattoo under there. “You can have half an hour in the ladies’ cabin. It will be guarded.”

  Will walked, wincing and stiff-legged, towards the back of the yacht. There was another hatch behind the cabin, with a spiral stair that led down to a tiny space with a door. Chingford went down first; Knowle stood a safe distance away, providing cover.

  Chingford unlocked the door. “In. Don’t try anything. I’ll be listening.”

  The ladies’ cabin was like the other stateroom, but smaller. It was fancily decorated, but the air was rather close in here, with a sour tang, and the thud of the engines was almost as noisy as in the engine room. Panels on one wall had been pulled back to reveal a pair of bunkbeds. Maisie was lying on the lower one; Phoebe sat on a chair next to her, holding her hand. She leapt up as they came in. “Darlings!”

  “We’re here for a rest,” Kim said. “Will’s been working like a navvy. He’s exhausted.”

  “Knackered,” Will agreed, for the benefit of the eavesdropper, and extracted the reason for his awkward posture from where it was stuffed into the waistband of his trousers. A hefty spanner: he’d seen it on the engine room floor and grabbed it when Anton fled.

  Kim mouthed I love you, held up a finger enjoining silence, and started opening drawers. He seemed to be looking for something. “Phoebe, do help him.”

  Phoebe blinked. “Yes, of course you must sit down at once, how utterly dreadful. Poor Will. Kim, darling, what’s happening?”

  “Are you both all right?”

  “Well, I am,” Phoebe said. “Maisie is foully seasick. She ought to be on deck in the fresh air but that utter pig Knowle wouldn’t let us up. We called out and he came in here and it was rather awful.”

  Kim looked round at that. Will said, “What did he do?”

  “It was horrible,” Maisie said from the bunk. Her voice was thick and a bit raspy. “He was talking about how we were on our own and there was no Lord Waring, or you, to protect us this time. Phoebe told him to get out, and he wouldn’t. He kept saying things.”

  “About my father.” Phoebe sounded a little remote. “Things he’d done, and ordered to be done. I think he hated him, and Johnnie. He certainly hates me on their behalf. He called me a stuck-up bitch again. I’ve never met the man.”

  “Fee—”

  “He was using language. Telling us what he could do if he wanted,” Maisie said. “He took hold of my face. And—oh God.”

  “Don’t think about it,” Phoebe said urgently. “Don’t.”

  Will’s knuckles were white on the spanner. Kim said, “What happened?”

  Phoebe spoke in a barely audible whisper. “She was sick on his shoes.”

  Kim choked. Maisie said, “It’s not funny.”

  “Of course it isn’t, darling,” Phoebe assured her. “Though I’m positive you’ll be glad of it later. Anyway, that put him off his stride rather, and he went away, but we’d prefer not to be on a boat with him, that’s all.”

  “No,” Kim said. “Unfortunately, we’re stuck here for the moment.” He pulled out a paper and pencil from a drawer and went to the small table. “Didn’t you have some story about getting stuck on a yacht, Fee? Something about Bubby Fanshawe?” He started to write, but made a cycling motion with his hand as he spoke: Keep talking.

  “Bubby? Oh, yes,” Phoebe said. “Let me see, how did it start? I think we were in Monte Carlo—”

  Will came over to see what Kim was writing. It was a brief list.

  Flitby—helm. Unlikely to intervene either way

  Anton—sick. Was at stern earlier

  Will put his finger on ‘stern’. Kim crossed it out, and wrote back of boat.

  Knowle—ranging around??

  Chingford outside

  Will lifted t
he spanner meaningfully. Kim nodded. Wait till they let us out?

  Will shook his head and took the pencil. Now. I get Chingford, you take his gun, go up quick.

  “—And it was all Bubby’s fault really, but Adela’s never set foot on a yacht since,” Phoebe concluded. She was staring at the page, then looked at them both with worried eyes. “One can’t blame her. I don’t feel awfully well-disposed to anything nautical at the moment.”

  “Of course not. I hope this won’t put you off forever.” We need to make Chingford come in, Kim wrote.

  Phoebe gave a little hop and raised her hand, startlingly schoolgirlish. Kim tipped his head, then indicated ‘carry on’ with a wave.

  Will took up a position by the door. Phoebe and Kim came close to it, and Maisie raised herself on her elbows, curiosity briefly winning over seasickness.

  “God, I’m wiped out,” Kim said. “Are you asleep, Will? I swear he is.”

  “Dozing, anyway,” Phoebe said, in the piercing tone Will had heard from Bright Young People before. It wasn’t loud, precisely, but there was a cut-glass, if not broken-glass, quality about it that could carry through a crowded nightclub. “Poor lamb. And he really is a lamb, darling, you’re awfully lucky. I love you of course, but you aren’t the easiest to put up with. I hope you tell him you adore him all the time.”

  Will could feel himself going red right to the ears. Kim looked slightly nonplussed. “I have mentioned the matter, yes.”

  “Good. Because really, this business has been terribly unfair on him. At least you’ll never have to worry about inheriting again, so he’ll be spared that.”

  “I won’t?”

  “Of course not— Oh! We haven’t told you! Maisie, we never told him about Chingford! How absurd, when we rushed down precisely to do that. Honestly, darling, you won’t believe it. We went back to talk to Florrie, you see, and she said some things that got us thinking, and to cut a long story short, guess where we were this morning? Is it this morning still? It seems forever ago. Guess where we were, anyway.”