The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

“Because it was stolen,” Tarquin replied, his tone matter-of-fact. “Chris identified it, and we called the police.”

  “They’ve been questioning us, Tarquin, it’s very unpleasant.” Petunia tossed her red hair, haughty even as she seemed to be aiming for vulnerable. “Something about a city scam? And Bryan has interests in the city, it’s getting rather thorny for him too! They’re digging around in everything, asking questions about this and that, looking at all our business interests!”

  Interests in the city.

  He seems the sort.

  “If you’ve done nothing wrong, what do you have to worry about? It’s coppers dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.” But there was a sour taste in Tarquin’s mouth as he thought of Bryan and his business interests. Could he have been involved in the investment that Chris blew the whistle on?

  “Tarquin.” She smiled again. “I know you love your collection so…if Chris could perhaps realize he’d misidentified the artifact or somehow point the police elsewhere… Well, we could even give you a little thank-you gift? Just a little something between friends so you could buy a few more bits for your display cases? Bryan and I are happy to discuss the finer details but cash flow is a little tight until this is all resolved.”

  Frozen assets?

  Does Bryan really have it in him to try and ruin the boy who’d had him expelled?

  Either way, the police would no doubt be interested in this conversation.

  Tarquin shook his head. “It’s in the hands of the police. They’re looking into it. All you have to do is tell them where that lewd little soapstone chap turned up from and you’ll be fine!”

  “Do you know what I love about Bryan? He sees things through, even expulsion.” The false bonhomie was gone. She leaned close and whispered meaningfully, “Christopher Hardacre had it coming since school. Enjoy the race, Mr. Bough.”

  A cold shiver trembled through Tarquin, but he put on a brave face. “I’m sure I will. And may the best captain win.”

  “Oh, he will.” She turned and strode away, no doubt off to bellow at some unexpecting rowers.

  It struck Tarquin as he wandered back down to the riverbank that saddest thing about this new development was the very fact that, in many ways, it didn’t surprise him. Petunia knew how to manipulate and when that failed, she knew even better how to bully. And Bryan… Well, anyone who could change his own name and blatantly pretend he hadn’t done so when faced with his childhood nemesis was really capable of anything. But looting the cultures of indigenous people and selling their treasures on the anonymous black market?

  If anyone could, it was probably Bryan Reeve.

  I hope they chuck the whole bloody book at him.

  By the time he made his way along to the starting line with the Oracle, Tarquin was sure that the good folk of Bough Bottoms had no intention of burning either him or Chris at the stake. In fact, all they seemed to really want to do was offer him cupcakes and sausage rolls, Buck’s Fizz and flask-warmed cuppas. There was a party atmosphere in the world and Tarquin was ready to join in, especially since he’d be cheering on the finest man ever to don a rowing vest and shorts.

  My lover.

  And Tarquin felt a thrill for the race that had long been absent, ever since Bryan had appointed himself captain of the Upper Bough Blues and set about bleaching any fun there might have been from it, replacing it with stone-cold competition. Perhaps today they might show him what it meant not only to be a winner, but to do so graciously.

  Tarquin had already plotted his own route, and once the boats were away he would speed home and be at the foot of the garden waiting for them to pass by again. Another short hop in the car would take him to the finish line. The only man, other than those on the team, to literally see the race from the starting line to its finish.

  And he’d be cheering every step of the way.

  The teams paddled toward the starting line. Tarquin gazed at Chris, so handsome in his rowing club gear, his golden hair glowing in the sunlight. He glanced at the other boat and saw Bryan, glowering at the boy who’d managed to get him expelled. Chris didn’t give him a second glance, instead offering Tarquin a wave and a kiss from the palm of his hand. Petunia, seated in pride of position as coxswain, shook her head and sneered, but she alone showed anything but enthusiasm.

  The rival clubs’ flags flew from the pole above the starting hut and Bough Bottoms’ mayoress, Mrs. Longfellow, waved from the hut to the waiting crowd. She held the hunting horn aloft, and silence fell.

  Then she blew.

  Small children clapped their hands over their ears, and somewhere several dogs started to bark, but the race had begun.

  A roar went up and Shobna and Petunia lifted their megaphones, shouting instructions to the crews. With an almighty pull on the oars the boats pulled away along the river, leaving a spearheaded wake as they went. The Oracle snorted happily and tossed her head, adding her own cry of encouragement to her friend.

  Tarquin patted his knees. “Come on, Orry, home we go—let’s go and cheer Uncle Chris on!”

  The locals parted, making way for Tarquin and the pig as he hurried to his Land Rover. He put the pig in the footwell, but she climbed onto the passenger seat anyway, apparently enjoying the breeze through the open window as Tarquin drove home. Then once he’d arrived at Bough Towers, the Oracle galloped through the garden down to the river, with Tarquin panting behind.

  “There they are, Orry! Look! Can you see—they’re coming around the bend!”

  And for the first time in too long, Bough Bottoms was easily in the lead, with Upper Bough but a speck on the horizon. Yet even as jubilation seized him, Tarquin could see that something was wrong. The rowers weren’t at anything like full power and— No. He held up his hand to shield his eyes as he watched half of the team throwing water over the side of the boat.

  They were bailing out water, lots of it.

  “Bloody Reeve did it again!” Chris shouted to him as they drew nearer. “Something corrosive, we didn’t know we were in trouble until we were really in trouble!”

  “Don’t sully Bryan’s reputation!” Petunia called through her megaphone as the pursuing boat began to gain ground. “Bad maintenance and bad sportsmanship, typical bloody Hardacre! See you at the finish—or the bottom of the river!” Then she grinned and, if there had been any doubt that Bryan was once Aubrey, added, “Queen of the Riverbank all over again, Christopher! Enjoy coming last!”

  And she was right, Tarquin knew, because as far as he understood it, boats didn’t come with handy plugs that one could just wedge into unexpected holes.

  “Should’ve checked your boat before the race!” Bryan jeered as the boat skimmed by. “You never know who might get into your boatshed overnight! Hope you can all swim!”

  “You bastard, Reeve!” Tarquin shouted, impotently waving his fist at the departing boat. All of that training, that dedication, that…hope. So much skill shoved outside by a rotten, cheating trick.

  Bough Bottoms needed something to fill the gap. A bung, a plug, something.

  Tarquin blinked as an idea came to him. It was no way to treat an artifact, he knew, but needs must.

  “Don’t worry, Chris! I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

  Tarquin ran to the house, the Oracle close on his heels. He hurried up to the collection room and grabbed the Tudor dildo from its case. He was about to run downstairs with it again, when he remembered the pig was just outside. Flinging open the window, Tarquin called, “Take it to Uncle Chris!” and threw the dildo down to the Oracle.

  His dignified porcine assistant scooped the wooden member from the grass in her mouth with admirable delicacy. Then she turned and set off at a spirited gallop to save the day. She scooted away across the lawn toward the riverbank, snorting and squealing as she went, causing every person on the stricken vessel to turn her way.

  “Orry!” Chris exclaimed. “And Queen Elizabeth, saving the day!”

  But the intrepid pig stopped dead still a couple
of feet from the edge of the riverbank. And it was there that she remained, her head extended as far as she could possibly reach but Tarquin had a feeling that it wouldn’t be far enough. Chris balanced carefully on the sinking craft and reached out but he couldn’t quite span the distance. Even at full stretch an inch or so of air remained between his fingertips and Queen Elizabeth I’s favorite dildo.

  “Come on, girl,” Chris urged, beckoning to her gently. “Just a bit closer, Orry, you can do it.”

  The Oracle looked down at the bank but remained unmoving, apparently unsure about taking that one extra step that would carry her trotters to the very edge of the grass and the incline into the water.

  “Come on,” Chris urged again then, as the rowers began to bail ever more frantically, he started to sing. It was the most bizarre tableau Tarquin had ever seen but if anything could work, it was this. Yet still the Oracle of Delphi hesitated until, as they bailed, the Bough Blues joined their captain in a rousing chorus of Anything Goes.

  And the Oracle edged forward.

  Chris took the wooden dildo from the pig’s mouth with a cry of, “Good girl!” Then he dropped to his knees, wedging the feted monarch’s favorite companion into the hole that Bryan Reeve had created.

  Will that be enough?

  It has to be.

  Tarquin hurtled outside, skidding over the grass to get back down to the riverbank. The rowing boat didn’t seem to be as low in the water as it had been.

  “Chris, has it worked?” Tarquin shouted to the boat, which was now picking up as it sped along the calm surface of the river.

  “It’s perfect!” Chris shouted in reply. “We’ve got some serious work to do, but we can still win this race! Come on, Blues, let’s show those Upper Bough cheats how we do it in the Bottoms!”

  His fellow crew cheered and as one they pulled on the oars with renewed vigor, heading off after their cheating opponents.

  They can do it, Tarquin knew. With a captain like Chris, how can they fail?

  The Oracle squealed and Tarquin waved until the boat had rounded a bend and vanished out of sight.

  “Orry—to the finish line!”

  Tarquin drove through the lanes to Upper Bough, the Oracle resting her snout on the wound-down window as if she was trying to detect the cheating Bryan’s scent.

  From a hill, Tarquin could see the two boats, neck and neck. And once he got down to the finish line, the boats had very little distance to go. The Upper Bough crowd were tense with silence. Tarquin was almost holding his breath as he watched, hearing the pull of the oars, the shouts of the coxswains and the occasional yell from the gathered spectators. In the bows of their respective boats Shobna was all encouragement, but Petunia was more like a woman supervising a chain gang, sneering and barking at her prisoners. It looked like hell on Earth, and from the annoyed look on the faces of her teammates, Tarquin got the impression that she probably wouldn’t be asked to repeat the experience.

  Turning from the sight of his former fiancée, Tarquin fixed his gaze instead on Chris, watching the pull and thrust of his muscles, the expression on his sweat-sheened face one of absolute, concentrated focus.

  They can do it, Tarquin told himself silently. Chris can do it.

  “Come on,” Chris called to his team, as though Tarquin had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Give it one last push over the line!”

  Tarquin couldn’t imagine where they found their last burst of energy, but mere meters from the line, the Bough Bottoms’ boat shot forward and was over the line first, a whole boat length ahead of Upper Bough.

  “They did it! They won!” Tarquin cheered.

  Oh, how I’ll enjoy giving Chris a celebratory rubdown later.

  “We did it, Tarks!” Chris shouted. “You did it! And Queen Liz and Orry too!”

  Tarquin had never heard a roar of excitement like that given by the winners. It seemed to fill the very heavens and beside him the Oracle turned in excited circles, squealing merrily as she celebrated a victory to savor, a victory for the ages. Yet there was no celebration on the losing boat. In fact, it sounded more like a mutiny.

  “We don’t need to cheat,” someone was shouting, and it wasn’t someone in the crowd, it was a member of the crew. “And we don’t like people who do.”

  “Cheat! Bastard! Cheat!” The cries of dissent seemed to be coming from everyone on board, souring the happy atmosphere. The crew turned on Bryan, shouting, their arms waving and their fingers angrily stabbing at the air.

  Then Petunia lifted her megaphone and bellowed, “Sit bloody down, you bunch of losers!”

  “Yeah, you bloody useless oiks!” Bryan bellowed. “You can’t even beat a sinking boat! I’m sacking the lot of you!”

  As the Bough Bottoms Blues came ashore, the Upper Bough boat began to rock and somehow, Tarquin wasn’t sure exactly how, Petunia and Bryan were suddenly in the water, spluttering and choking as their disgruntled former teammates jeered at their cheating captain. Only then did the Upper Bough Blues turn to the victors and applaud, apparently more gracious in defeat than their captain and coxswain.

  “Tarks!” Chris threw his arms around Tarquin. “We won! We bloody won!”

  Turning his back on Petunia and Bryan, Tarquin covered Chris’ face in kisses. “You’re wonderful! Oh, darling, what a triumph over adversity!”

  “Trophy time.” His lover beamed. “Then back to Bough Bottoms and all up to Hardacre Grange for the party of the year!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  And it really was quite the party, with champagne and music, and this time no furious squire with torn trousers. As the evening wore on and the drink flowed, the Oracle finally left her public and retired to bed in Bough Towers, but as the evening slipped into the night, still the team and the village partied. How lovely it was to have such life and light back in the neighboring house, where once all had been overgrown and crumbling.

  Apart from the ancient late resident of course, who had apparently had fancies by the dozen.

  Bryan and Petunia hadn’t gone to the party, although their teammates had. And Tarquin knew that even if Chris’ team had lost, he would still have thrown the party to celebrate his rivals’ win. And that was why Tarquin loved him.

  Once the last few stragglers had gone, Tarquin started to tidy up.

  He yawned. “Don’t know how you’re still awake, Chris—you’ve had quite a day!”

  “Adrenaline.” He was smiling more brightly than even the surface of the silver rowing trophy. “And tomorrow my month is up, so fingers crossed the Oracle agrees to come over and at least pretend she likes it here!”

  Tarquin crouched down and diligently loaded the dishwasher. “I’ll have a serious word with her over breakfast, don’t worry! But the offer still stands—you’re more than welcome at Bough Towers if you lose this place.”

  “And I’m gainfully employed now.” Chris scrubbed his hand through his lover’s hair. “An honest man! With a gorgeous boyfriend and a secret dirty book to read in bed, thanks to Bunny Bough!”

  “All’s well that ends well.” Tarquin got back up to his feet and kissed Chris on the end of his nose. “Back to mine for words with Mrs. Oracle?”

  “Shall we take a bottle of fizz?”

  Tarquin surveyed the carnage of the party’s aftermath. “If there’s any left!”

  With a bottle of chilled champagne clutched in each hand, Tarquin and Chris sauntered over the garden and neatly hopped the fence into Tarquin’s garden. Yet despite the celebrations of the night, something seemed off as soon as they reached the house. Even though the world’s worst guard dogs still slumbered there was a certain sense of unease in the air, like the rumbling of a distant storm.

  When Tarquin opened the door, he could hear the Oracle’s squeals, but from somewhere deep inside the house.

  “Orry?” he called. But she didn’t come. Tarquin glanced at Chris. “She sounds very upset—she made a racket not unlike that when Beardsley shuffled off this mortal coil. Maybe a draugh
t caught one of the doors and she’s shut herself in somewhere?”

  “Orry!” Chris put the bottles down on the side and reached for Tarquin’s hand. “Let’s go and let the poor old girl out!”

  They headed into the hallway. Her cries were louder now and Tarquin tipped up his head. “Sounds like she’s gone upstairs! Come on! Keep calling to her, Chris! Or sing!”

  Tarquin took the stairs two at a time. Why the pig had chosen the day before Mr. Driscoll was due to arrive, he couldn’t fathom. The Oracle was clever, but surely she hadn’t been ticking the days off on a calendar. To the sound of Chris singing a medley of Gershwin they ascended not just to the bedrooms but beyond, heading up to the eaves where the collection was housed.

  It was a hell of a climb for a Gloucester Old Spot.

  “I didn’t think pigs could climb stairs,” Chris admitted.

  “She’s a pig, not a Dalek,” Tarquin told him with a chuckle. “Stairs hold no fears for pigs! I just wonder what she’s doing up here. She’s making a right old row! Unless taking you the dildo has given her a great interest in saucy artifacts!”

  Chris laughed. “It seemed to survive its dunk in the river, didn’t it? I know how much your collection means to you, yet you did that for us.”

  “Of course I did! That thing has survived all these years, a little trip in a boat wasn’t going to hurt it.” Tarquin winked. “Right, let’s find out what the Oracle is up to in my collection room!”

  As soon as they reached the landing Tarquin knew this wasn’t a simple case of porcine mischief. The troubled pig trotted back and forth in front of the revolving fireplace, squealing with agitation just as she had on the evening that Tarquin had heard an intruder in the house. She was a better guard dog than his dogs, it seemed. Not surprising, really.

  “Oh, I’m a bloody idiot, I must’ve left the door unlocked after I’d thrown the dildo out of the window!” Tarquin watched the Oracle’s progress and noticed something. “What’s that—piece of cloth in her mouth? Someone’s in here—they’re in the Secret Study!”

  “Is that—” Chris peered at the scrap of material, frowning. “Royal blue and red?”