Dead Man's Island: A Lieutenant Oliver Anson Thriller

by David McDine

  ‘A limp’s one thing, but a wooden leg’s another.’

  Fagg registered astonishment. ‘Are you tellin’ me George’s only got one leg?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Didn’t you notice when he volunteered?’

  Fagg thought for a moment. ‘I met ’im in the Mermaid and ’e put ’imself across as a right good seaman, but, come to think on it, ’e did keep ’is feet under the table …’

  ‘Well, in his case, his foot.’

  Fagg pulled a face. ‘The cheeky beggar, puttin’ one over on me like that! Any’ow, what was wrong wiv the other two?’

  ‘Wright, despite the facial hair, has other physical attributes that indicate he – she – is a female.’

  ‘A female? You mean a woman? Now ’ow did he, er, she, pull the wool over me eyes, eh? I reckoned I could tell the difference – even on a dark night down a back alley …’

  Shrubb pushed aside the dark alley image. ‘I have come across this sort of thing in the navy during the American war. Some disguised themselves so as not to be parted from their sweethearts – others for patriotic reasons. I have some sympathy with her. Why shouldn’t women be allowed to serve King and country? Perhaps one day, but for the present I fear it rules her out.’

  ‘But ’ow about Gladwish? You ain’t goin’ to tell me ’e’s only got one leg or tits!’

  ‘Oh, no. His case is quite dissimilar. He’s perfectly physically fit, has retained all his body parts and is definitely male, but—’

  ‘So what is wrong wiv ’im?’

  ‘I am very much afraid he believes he is King George the Third in person and that the man sitting on the throne is an impostor. He cannot be persuaded otherwise and if you take him on I fear he will disrupt the detachment and refuse to take orders from anyone but himself – as King, you see?’

  Fagg grimaced but, remembering that Shrubb was a man of God, muttered under his breath so as not to be heard: ‘Jesus Christ!’

  But Shrubb had heard and countered: ‘No, King George …’

  12

  An Unwelcome Guest

  Hurel was jerked awake as Tom Marsh turned the pony and trap off the road into the rectory’s tree-lined drive.

  ‘Nous sommes ici?’

  ‘Yes, but English now, please.’

  ‘D’accord!’ Hurel tapped his nose to signify complicity before pulling an anguished face as he realised his faux pas. ‘Excusez moi … I mean yes!’

  Anson smiled indulgently. It was going to be nigh impossible to stop the Frenchman giving himself away at every twist and turn.

  Ahead, young Jemmy Beer, the butler’s son, appeared, waiting to take the pony in hand.

  ‘Good day to you, Jemmy. This is Tom Marsh, one of my Sea Fencibles, and this is his trap. Be good enough to take care of him and his pony – and Ebony of course.’

  The diminutive groom put his hand to his forehead. ‘Right-ho, Master Anson.’

  Anson grabbed his kit, jumped down, and beckoned Hurel to join him.

  The Frenchman stretched himself and took stock of the immaculate rectory grounds dotted with rose beds and shrubs, announcing sotto voce, ‘Very beautiful – and very English.’

  Anson gestured to the iron-studded door and together they mounted the wide steps just as it swung open to reveal the butler.

  ‘Good day t’you sir, sirs,’ George Beer welcomed them. ‘If you’ll be staying I’ll take your bags to your room, Master Anson, and how about this gennelman?’

  ‘We will indeed be staying Mister Beer, and will need a room for my guest.’

  Hurel grinned inanely, but said nothing. Anson’s insistence that he must not tell his life story to the world and his wife had shut him up – for the present at least.

  ‘Are my parents at home?’

  ‘They are, Master Oliver, and your brother is here, too.’

  ‘Gussie?’

  ‘Mister Augustine, sir?’ Beer smirked at Anson’s use of the nickname his unpopular brother hated so. ‘Yes, come to talk about ’is weddin’ I believe, to that harchdeacon’s daughter.’

  Anson grimaced. He regarded Gussie, recently appointed minor canon at Canterbury Cathedral, as a pompous, self-seeking prig. But in front of a servant – and a guest – he held his tongue.

  Hurel was shown to a guest room and Anson sought out his parents, taking tea in the library.

  ‘I apologise for springing my friend upon you father, mother, but there are reasons.’

  ‘Reasons?’

  ‘He is on, what shall I say, a sensitive mission and must not allow himself to become the subject of gossip.’

  His mother protested: ‘Gossip? I never gossip!’

  ‘But in a house like this, mother, what with my sisters and the servants, why, just as in a warship I doubt anything remains private for long.’

  While his wife was spluttering her way to an appropriate response the rector asked: ‘Who is this mysterious friend?’

  ‘He is an officer, a foreign officer, but prepared to help us fight the French republicans, and most certainly a gentleman of good family, but I cannot elucidate further …’

  Augustine Anson entered, clearly having heard the last exchange. ‘Foreign? Heaven forfend. He’s not a papist, is he? Don’t tell me he’s a papist!’

  Anson considered for a moment. ‘Now you come to mention it he may well be, but it’s not a topic uppermost in my mind when I meet someone, especially an ally. I prefer not to give them ridiculous religious labels, but rate them on their personal merits or otherwise.’

  ‘So he is a papist! Well, clearly he cannot be allowed to stay under this roof. Why, how would I explain to the archdeacon that my own parents were harbouring a papist?’

  Anson laughed. ‘Didn’t some biblical cove say something about “judge not, that ye be not judged?” What if God is a Roman Catholic, or even a Baptist?’

  His brother was apoplectic. ‘Blasphemy! How dare you say such things in our father’s rectory of all places – a bastion of the Anglican Church!’

  ‘Anyway, wasn’t that cathedral of yours originally Roman Catholic until Henry the Eighth wanted a divorce? And aren’t you named after a papist?’

  Gussie was indeed named after the saint who brought Christianity to England from Rome. But, intensely proud as he was of his appointment as a minor canon, this was too much for him and he left the room in a huff, grumbling: ‘I will not stay here to be insulted by this … this …’ he groped for a non-Anglo Saxon word to describe what he thought of his younger brother but could not find one that would not offend his mother’s sensitivities.

  At the door he turned to hiss at his parents: ‘I sincerely trust that you will have the good sense not to give shelter to someone who is most likely an enemy alien – and a left-footer at that!’

  *

  Alone again with his parents, Anson apologised. ‘I did not wish to cause trouble, but Gussie is so bigoted. He has a habit of getting under my skin.’

  His father shook his head. ‘It takes two, I fear, and it seems at times that you deliberately set out to provoke him. The quotation about judging comes from Mark, by the way. You would do well to remember that it continues: “And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but consider not the beam that is in thine own eye.”’

  Shrugging, Anson offered: ‘If it is going to embarrass you, my friend and I will go elsewhere. He is a Frenchman, but a royalist who, as I said, is going to aid us in the war against the republicans. I just thought a country rectory would be the perfect place to harbour up for a while.’

  To his surprise it was his mother who came to his support. ‘If this friend of yours is an ally and a gentleman, well, as it appears that Augustine will not now be staying to dinner, I have no objection to your staying for a few days at least.’

  The rector waved his hands in mock surrender. ‘Gussie, I mean Augustine, will not thank me for it, but I agree. I must say that I am most intrigued by our mystery guest and hope for stimulating conversation while he is
at our table …’

  ‘Thank you both. However it will be necessary to swear all the family – and the servants – to strict silence about Hurel outside the rectory. He may dine with the family and walk in the gardens, but talk of his stay here must be kept under wraps. It is a matter of life and death – and of the greatest importance to the national interest. And that is no idle claim.’

  His father nodded: ‘Very well, I will talk to your sisters and the servants. And I look forward to meeting our mysterious guest at dinner.’

  *

  Anson was confronted by his sisters. ‘We hear you have brought a guest. Is he a brother officer? When can we meet him?’

  ‘Well yes, he is an officer.’

  ‘So, is he a soldier?’

  ‘I’m afraid he does not wear a red jacket, and at the present, being on, er, leave, he wears plain clothes.’

  ‘Is he, then, a fellow sea officer?’

  ‘He is not in our navy, but I can tell you no more.’

  ‘Not an army officer and not in our navy, then what?’

  ‘Please don’t ask. You will meet him at dinner when we will reveal as much as we can – as long as you keep everything you learn strictly to yourselves.’

  ‘How thrilling! Will he speak to us?’

  Anson recalled what the sergeant of the guard had said of the French prisoners in the hulks and repeated: ‘The trick is to stop the, er, French talking …’ He reasoned his sisters would find out Hurel’s nationality as soon as they met him, so they might as well know now.

  ‘So he’s French? Brother, how very exciting!’

  *

  When Anson took Hurel down to meet the family, Augustine was hovering in the hallway, leather bag in hand preparing to leave.

  Despite the earlier clash, Anson attempted to introduce him, but his brother interrupted rudely: ‘Our apologies monsieur, but I’m afraid we are fresh out of frogs’ legs for your dinner. However, I daresay cook could rustle up some snails from the garden.’

  Hurel frowned, puzzled over the remark for a moment and then laughed. ‘Ah, I see it now! You are making an English joke about French food. Very amusing, Father, but for myself I do not like the frogs legs or the snails. But at this moment I am so ’ungry that I could surely devour a ’orse!

  Gussie recoiled at being addressed as if he were a Catholic priest and retorted: ‘Canon Anson is my preferred title, monsieur, and we will notify you when one of our horses dies, but until then we shall continue to ride them rather than eat them.’

  Anson held up his hands. ‘Come now Gussie. That’s no way to welcome a guest—’

  But his brother spun on him angrily. ‘I don’t know what you were thinking, bringing an enemy alien into our midst. Have you no sense of social proprieties at all? This is the last you’ll see of me while he is here!’

  Without waiting for an answer he flounced out, turning at the door to hiss: ‘And you can stop calling me by that childish nickname!’

  Anson laughed and shouted after him, ‘Of course, Gussie, whatever you say, Gussie!’

  Alone again with Hurel, he asked the Frenchman: ‘I hope my brother’s ill manners have not offended you?’

  ‘Not at all, mon ami. I take it this is what in England is known as brotherly love?’

  ‘Touché! And now I believe supper awaits us. Will beefsteaks suit you?’

  Hurel smiled. ‘After the ’ulks, beefsteaks will suit me very well!’

  As if on cue the dinner gong sounded and Anson and Hurel made their way through to the dining room where his parents and sisters were waiting with glasses of sherry in their hands and only partially restrained expectancy.

  ‘Mother, father, sisters, may I introduce my good friend and ally Lieutenant Hurel, or perhaps I should say, Gérard, Baron Hurel de Pisseleu-aux-Bois.’

  His parents and sisters were open-mouthed and Hurel bowed low. ‘Enchanté, and my ’eartfelt thanks for your ’ospitality in allowing me to stay in your lovely ’ome.’

  The rector returned his bow. ‘We are delighted to welcome you, Baron … delighted! May I present my wife and our daughters Anne and Elizabeth?’

  Hurel bobbed his head and kissed the hands of each in turn. ‘Doubly enchanted, Madame Anson, Mademoiselle Anne, Mademoiselle Elizabeth …’

  Both girls were still open-mouthed and staring. Clearly the thought of being in the company of a real live titled gentleman had impressed them beyond measure. At this moment the fact that he was from an enemy nation mattered to them not one jot.

  Anson warned him. ‘Beware, mon ami, both my sisters are actively seeking husbands.’

  They pretended shock and Anne rebuked him: ‘Really, Oliver, your attempts at humour are pathetic. It comes no doubt from mixing with common sailors.’

  During the meal Hurel dominated the conversation, regaling his hosts with stories of his upbringing in the family chateau – before the revolution – and flirted openly with the awe-struck Anson sisters.

  They were so engrossed that only Anson noticed the crunch of hooves and iron-shod wheels on gravel as his brother Gussie made his departure.

  Anson left it to his parents to quiz the Frenchman on everything from The Terror to his prospects of regaining his lost estate when the war was won.

  His sisters were desperate to ask about the latest Paris fashions, surely a futile exercise considering that their guest had spent the past year or more at sea or in the hulks. But to hear Hurel’s views on the matter you would have thought he had spent that time in the salons and drawing rooms of France’s new élite.

  It all went far better than Anson had expected, but the more he heard le Baron burbling on the more concerned he grew at the man’s garrulity. The family and the staff could be sworn to secrecy, but if Hurel wore his heart on his sleeve and told his life story to all-comers there would be little prospect of keeping their coming mission under wraps.

  It was a relief when his father broke up the post-dinner port session on the pretext of having to deal with some parochial business in the morning, and the Frenchman was at last persuaded to retire for the night.

  13

  Down the Swale

  The horse and cart had disappeared by the time Bardet and his companions awoke, but someone else had entered the barn.

  The man was framed in the doorway, the early-morning light silhouetting him. He looked like a fisherman – heavily bearded and wearing a canvas smock and trousers tucked into muddy sea boots, with an old sou’wester hat hanging behind his head from a length of cord. He was carrying a half-filled sack over his shoulder but appeared to be unarmed.

  The escapers were hidden in the hay and at first the newcomer could not see them.

  Quietly Bardet reached for the pitchfork he had found when they arrived. He pulled it to him and rose suddenly from his covering of hay brandishing it like Neptune emerging from the waves.

  The newcomer near jumped out of his skin. ‘Gor’blimey! You near frightened the shit outta me! Put that thing down for Gawd’s sake. If you’re the Frenchies, I’m your guide, friend, ami, orlright?’

  The escapers remained on the alert and staring at him.

  ‘Look, the password I was told to give yer is “fraternity”, orlright? Now d’you believe I’m on yer side?’

  Bardet lowered his weapon.

  ‘You mean fraternité …’

  ‘That’s what I said, didn’t I? Whatever, I don’t do Frog-speak meself. Anyway, you got to follow me now, across the marshes, see? I’m to take yer to where I’ve got a boat hid up and row yer down the Swale.’

  Bardet knew something of the geography, learnt from the hulk guard he had bribed to communicate with the escape route organisers ashore. The Swale estuary was the waterway that cut the Isle of Sheppey off from mainland Kent. To the north it led into the Medway, south and east to the open sea.

  ‘We are ready. But we are ’ungry. Do you ’ave food? Water?’

  ‘Better’n that mate. I got bread and cheese, but I got wine too. That’s
what you Frenchies drink, ain’t it?’

  They fell on the food as if half-starved, which they were.

  Their watching guide reassured them: ‘There’s more vittles in the boat, mates, but we got to leave now, afore there’s anyone about.’

  They set off in single file behind him down a narrow path that led off into the marshes.

  Bardet was used to the bleak and depressing view of the shoreline from the hulks, but this was something else. The desolate coastal marshes were everywhere intersected by dykes and stretched for miles, the only notable feature being the rising ground of the Isle of Sheppey, now to their north.

  It was as dismal a sight as you could find, but the escapers were far from downcast. They were en route to freedom – and home.

  They saw no other human beings and only a few sheep grazing the higher land, but a flock of plovers rose at their approach and there were a great many waders – curlews, redshanks and oystercatchers – probing the marshier mud. And as they neared the water they disturbed pintail, widgeon and teal.

  The guide motioned the escapers to crouch down while he went forward alone to check that all was well with his boat and that there was no-one else around.

  Satisfied, he beckoned them on and they waded the last few yards to where it was hidden among the reeds.

  They climbed aboard and made themselves as comfortable as they could while he unshipped the oars, fitted them into the rowlocks and pulled away.

  Bardet found the other promised sack of victuals and they set to as the guide rowed slowly but strongly out into the estuary.

  As they progressed Bardet took the opportunity to quiz their new guide, asking who had sent him to their aid.

  ‘I don’t know ’cos I don’t need to know. What you don’t know yer can’t tell. I just got a message to pick yer up and take you to the next stop, like. Them as fixes all this is clever. They ain’t bin caught yet and if we all keep our gobs closed and do just what we’re told they won’t ever get caught, right?’

  Bardet shrugged. The man was right, bien sȗr.