by Peter Greene
“I’d better check all the jolly boats, Sergeant Hudson,” Jonathan said as he reached the deck.
“And why is that?” asked the marine.
“Just to make sure Miss Dowdeswell does not succeed in a repeat performance of her last adventure,” Jonathan answered.
“Aye!” said Hudson as they laughed together.
In his cabin, Commander Harrison reread the orders uneasily. Even Alexander found them bizarre. Quinn agreed that the change was also an uncomfortable one to swallow. After a brief discussion, Harrison dismissed the lieutenants and sat to concentrate on and digest the papers by himself.
They instructed him to proceed to Telašćica, a fishing village on Dugi Otok, off the Dalmatian coast, then head north to find an inlet marked by two pine trees, one with a dangling rope. He was also to enter the inlet, bow first—insane, he thought—and wait for contact to deliver the packet containing the Treaty of Akbar.
“Acceptable code phrases will accompany any contact,” Harrison said as he continued reading aloud. “One has only one shoe for both feet. Preposterous! Who speaks in such a manner? Tis Señor Mosca? Ridiculous! Master Garvino and references to holiday in Madrid.”
He put the orders down and rubbed his head.
“I thought command was going to be joyous,” he said softly.
A gentle rap came to the door.
“Enter,” said Harrison, now standing.
“We are ready to cast off, sir,” said Alexander as he peeked into the room.
Within minutes, the Paladin was unmoored and towed out to the open channel by two jolly boats. Once away from the pier, sails were finally let down, and as the wind filled the vast expanse of canvas, the ship smoothly gained speed. Commander Harrison ordered all remaining sail let down, all lines tightened, and that the crew attend to his every command for more speed.
“I want to put as much distance between us and the shore in the shortest amount of time!” he called to all within earshot. “One more delay, Mister Alexander, and I would have simply exploded!”
8
Two Plots
O’Sullivan’s Cock and Bull was a whiskey pub in London’s East End, famous for two characteristics. One was the hard-edged crowd it catered to. There were very few actual gentlemen who paid visit to the establishment—and even fewer ladies. Many patrons were suspected criminals, and a vast majority of the others were more than suspect. There were often disagreements that ended with fists and sometimes knives. Even the entertainers—the piano players, fiddlers, and O’Sullivan himself—were of a more salty nature.
The other trait of the Cock and Bull was unknown to almost all who attended. The pub was the preferred meeting place for the English spy network of London, and the man who presided over this network was Marine Captain Thomas Gorman, always incognito. This cool and rainy night, he was in attendance, dressed as a typical common man, a few extra tears in his worn coat, a few extra surprises under his belt than most were wearing. He normally carried only a pistol, though when in this pub, he had a few tricks up his sleeves, literally.
Gorman sat at a small table in the darkest corner of the room. In front of him was a candle, lit, that would have cast some light upon his face but for his action of placing a tall bottle of vinegar just so as to block the flame’s illumination. With the cast shadow hiding his features, he could see rather well, and he noticed two men sitting at the bar, whispering. They were often stealing glances at him, before turning about to delve deep into their own conversation. After twenty minutes, they both rose and walked with purpose to the dark alcove where Gorman sat.
“Particularly nasty weather, ain’t it, gov’na?” said the first man, addressing Gorman.
“I assume a man the likes o’ you would know,” commented the second man.
“I would know as I have been in the rain enough,” answered Gorman.
This deceptively absurd conversation served two purposes. It was not necessarily code to identify any of the three spies; they all knew each other well and had decided and arranged to meet here at this exact time and place. The code was used to explain that, one, they had information of a sensitive nature to discuss. If there was no need to meet, they would have said “Do you have pence for a needy man?” and Gorman would have responded, “No. I am poor myself.” All would have left the pub within a few moments, going in separate directions. However, there was important information to discuss.
The second purpose of the code was to determine if they should discuss the information now, here, or leave. The comment on rain, and being in the rain enough, meant for them to stay within the pub and conduct business. Had Gorman said he had been out in the rain, it was well they should leave to discuss their secret topics.
The men then sat down with Gorman, at first chatting about nothing in particular. Shortly thereafter, the barmaid appeared, a woman who looked as if she had seen a worker’s life and had benefited little. She took their whiskey orders and returned to the bar.
Gorman leaned into the middle of the table and blew out the candle, casting them all mostly into darkness.
“Frey. Fairchild,” he said. “Good to see you each in one piece.”
“Aye, Cap’n Gorman. It ’as been a month since we saw you,” said Frey. “It was right after we nabbed that Russian operator, Aggar.”
“Odd one ’e is,” said Fairchild. “Not much for spying, but ’e sure associates with ’em.”
“He was easy to catch,” added Frey. “We watched ’em and eventually, we followed ’em to HMS Syrinx, that ol’ eighteen-gun sloop.”
“He was all alone,” said Fairchild. “Simply looking at the ship, its rigging and such. ’E had nothing on him but the clothes on his back.”
“After we arrested ’em,” continued Frey, “I ’erd news that the Russian ambassador didn’t even file a complaint! Ha! One of their citizens, jailed in a foreign country! A criminal, they called ’im, and good riddance, they said.”
The barmaid returned and placed three whiskeys on the table. She noticed the unlit candle and reached for a match within her apron.
“We are fine,” said Gorman, causing her to shrug and depart.
“Caught Aggar easy as pie,” continued Fairchild.
“A little too easy,” said Gorman. “However, he is off our hands now. In a prison hulk off of Portsmouth—the Verde Bay, I believe.”
“And ’ere’s to that,” said Frey as he lifted his glass. The others copied his example and took a long swallow.
“What have you seen lately?” asked Gorman, setting down his half-empty glass.
“I was followin’ my other assignment, that strange bloke with the funny accent,” continued Fairchild. “’E turns out to be Lupien, remember ’im?”
“Lupien,” said Gorman, thinking for a moment, trying to recollect the man.
“Thin, not too tall, dresses plain, like we do? Dark eyes?” offered Fairchild.
“Yes, yes. Sharp features,” said Gorman. “Came into town aboard a clipper from America.”
“That’s the one,” said Fairchild. “But don’t let that ’merican part fool ya. He’s no colonial. I been into ’is place he keeps on Ayliff Street. ’e lives with a few other degenerates and the like. Found some letters in a strange language, I did. Couldn’t copy ’em, though. No time. Funny that one so common gets around as ’e does. And mostly at night.”
“Where does he go?” asked Gorman.
“’E meets with the same bloke all the time,” said Fairchild, “and usually somewhere on Pall Mall or south of there. I followed ’em three times this month to the statue at Queen Anne’s Gate. And I ’erd ’em talkin’ ’bout a treaty—but they laughed about it, like it wasn’t normal.”
“Did you get a look at the other man?” asked Gorman.
“I did,” said Frey. “Fairchild ’ere suggested I follow one night, just ta get a tail on the other bloke. Good thing I did. ’e’s older, taller, stouter, has a beard, well dressed.”
“’E’s a spy, I�
�m sure of it,” added Fairchild.
“Name?” asked Gorman.
“Lupien called him Mister O,” said Fairchild.
“By the saints,” said Gorman. “There are so many spies in town we ought to have them registered and licensed!”
Frey and Fairchild laughed.
“I followed this Mister O fer a good while,” said Frey. ’E tried to give me the slip, but I stayed with ’im until ’e lost me at Borough Road.”
“We need to find out who this ‘O’ is,” said Gorman. “There is no treaty talk coming out of the Admiralty or Windsor Castle, I can assure you of that.”
“’Ow can ya be sure?” asked Frey. “Not meaning any disrespect.”
“I can never be one hundred percent sure, so I will check again,” said Gorman, smiling, though it was dark, and Frey and Fairchild probably couldn’t see his grin. He respected these two men. They had a particular talent and an extensive network of reliable informants. Some of Gorman’s minions went overseas to spy in other countries. Frey and Fairchild specialized on the shores of England and in particular, London itself. They knew their way around and were both thorough in the plying of their trade. Though dressed in rags, each had accumulated a modest fortune, being employed and paid by Gorman for services rendered over the past few decades. He trusted their information and their advice.
“Continue tailing them,” Gorman said. “One will lead to the other. We must find out who this Mister O is—and what the treaty is about.”
The men finished their drinks, each giving them a little extra protection, or so they thought, from the mild spring chill outside. They got up, one at a time with five minutes between them, and went home, none of them directly. They assumed, as always, that they were being followed.
The following day, London warmed to the ways of early spring, and the morning grew bright and pleasant. A small group of ladies enjoyed the groomed horse paths within the area known as Van Patten Wood. The slow and peaceful ride was not without its concerns for one of them.
“How can anyone sit like this?” demanded Delain, as she uncomfortably adjusted herself upon Lilliput, her all-black filly.
“Aside? This is how a lady sits,” answered Miss Barbara Thompson. “So the answer is: like a lady.”
“It’s impractical,” said Delain.
“It’s polite and dignified,” retorted Barbara playfully.
“I will fall off,” continued Delain. “I have ridden astride before in the Bahamas, sitting as a man would. The comfort and feeling of balance was superior. I think men make us sit like this because they know we can ride faster than they.”
“A handicap?” asked Barbara, smiling.
“Indeed,” agreed Delain. “But to please you, I will attempt it.”
The ladies rode on in silence for a few minutes, just the clip-clop of their horse’s hooves disturbing the sweet songs of the birds and the occasional fluttering of some passing insect. The panting of Daisy and Daffodil, the two hunting dogs that would not be denied the trip, also joined in the soft sounds of the day. The Airedales, cute and curly blonde-haired, were always playful unless engaged in hunting the many otters by the water’s edge, where they became not only ruthless and efficient, but extremely dirty. Delain simply could not say no to them as she set out on horseback with Miss Thompson. Both dogs sat politely, coal-black eyes sadly watching, button noses in the air, sniffing as their tails wagged in anticipation of being invited, which, of course, they were.
The sunny day was muted by the beautiful shade cast from the many trees that thickly populated the forest. Van Patten Wood stretched for miles through the Hampstead area north of the city and was made of over forty private parcels of land, approximately ten acres apiece. Each property had a mansion sitting on its street edge, and behind each mansion was a substantial rear yard. Arranged as such, the center area, made up of all the rear yards of all the owners, created an expansive private preserve, where fox, grouse, deer, and the occasional otter lived in a tranquil setting—at least, until there was an organized hunt.
Within this preserve were groomed paths between all the various stables attached to almost every mansion. The Bracknells, as well as the other human inhabitants, used these to not only exercise their horses, but to visit each other on occasion. The dense woods and the several streams that crossed the trails made for a beautiful and relaxing ride.
Today, Miss Delain Dowdeswell and Miss Barbara Thompson had decided that a ride would be most welcome. It was Delain’s idea. She had sent a note to Barbara via courier to ask for some time to discuss her perceptions and adjustments to a life in London.
“And so? How are your lessons?” asked Barbara. She was happy to have time with the young girl, as they had grown close since the Delain’s arrival in London. Barbara admired Delain: so young and intelligent, poised and mannered when she wanted to impress. Yet, there was a somewhat uncertain air about her, as if at any instant, Delain might simply jump up and perform some exciting yet inappropriate stunt that would embarrass everyone nearby. At least in this area of the wood, there was no one to care besides the two of them. Barbara felt safe.
“All my classes and teachers are extremely dreary and tedious, I must say, Miss Thompson, with the exception of Master Franklin. He teaches history. I think he used to be a thespian, as he seems to perform his lectures, more than recite them.”
Barbara smiled. “I was a student of Master Franklin as well. He was a highlight in an otherwise dim year. However, we can’t be entertained all the time.”
“And that is what I take issue with, Miss Thompson,” said Delain. “In an exciting city such as London, I would think there would be more entertainment available. Yes, that is what is missing.”
The ladies easily guided their horses across a small brook that split the path and continued on to the south. The Airedales took this opportunity to explore the water’s edge, sticking their noses into the stream and into every hole they could find. Within minutes they were mud-covered and happy.
The farther away from the Bracknell Estate they rode, the more privacy the ladies enjoyed. Barbara knew that Delain had something important to discuss, and it was a puzzle to determine exactly when she would reveal her true reason for the meeting.
“I do miss the boys,” added Barbara, watching Delain’s response to see if this was all about her affection for Jonathan; however, Delain simply smiled and nodded.
“Possibly we could attend the theatre? That might add some entertainment to your days?” asked Barbara.
“That would be lovely. I would enjoy that,” said Delain.
No, thought Barbara. I have not uncovered her purposes yet. Maybe I will employ silence. She will crack soon.
They rode on, calling for Daisy and Daffy when they no longer saw them about. They knew the dogs were, by now, miles away, on their own adventure as they knew the woods well and would return home when tired and most assuredly filthy.
After a few silent minutes, Delain began to talk.
“I was wondering about going to a proper tea,” she stated.
“A proper tea?” Barbara asked. “You and I have had several teas at both the Bracknells and at Captain Walker’s home. I do not understand. They have all been proper.”
“I mean at someone else’s home. Like…the Wilders, for instance. They did invite us.”
“The Wilders?” asked Barbara. “You know, Lady Alina and I attended the Swedish School together, though she is a year or two older than I. Just yesterday I received an invitation to tea for Wednesday at Wilder Manor. I could inform her of our intention to attend. Would that do?”
“Oh!” said Delain happily, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble!”
“Not at all. It has been over two years since she has held a tea party. I am sure Alina would enjoy showing you off to her friends,” added Barbara.
Delain seemed slightly surprised at this comment. Why would Lady Wilder desire to “show off” a fourteen-year-old girl?
“You may not
have noticed, but you are somewhat of a celebrity. Your exploits, my dear Delain, have even been written about in the papers. Many in polite society discuss your firing of cannons, engaging in sea battles, stowing away to Africa—well, these are not the exploits of ladies of London. You are, and please excuse me, somewhat of an oddity. A pleasurable one, however.” Barbara added a smile to the end of her point.
“An oddity!” Delain said, laughing. “Only to those who, excuse me for saying, never get out!”
“Delain,” said Barbara, now becoming the motherly type, “you will soon see that our role is to be ladies, not adventurers. A woman of today must be more than a pretty face, I remind you. We need to be literate, engaging in conversation, intelligent, yet—”
“Do nothing with our talents and education?” inserted Delain.
Barbara now had a turn at being slightly taken aback.
“What would you do with your education and upbringing, then?” Barbara asked.
“Whatever I could. Go sailing to South America! Climb a mountain! I am used to only small hills and a few fortress walls for climbing, but a mountain? That would be stupendous!”
“Delain!” exclaimed Barbara. “Really!”
“And maybe solve a murder! Or at least uncover a mystery. It is certainly better than being a, a doll, sitting pretty and waiting for a man to take me somewhere. I have to believe there is more to this life than just being silent and polite, like a…” she reached for words that would not come.
“Bird in a cage?” Barbara said flatly, staring off into the vast woods.
Delain did not comment immediately. She looked to Barbara, trying to read her thoughts. Was she aware of the possibilities that could await her outside of the formalities of London? If she only could have had the opportunity to grow up as Delain had, in a more untamed and adventurous setting. Would she have developed a different view?
