Black Ship (6 page)

As usual with Daisy, curiosity overcame any reluctance to appear incorrectly dressed. With the gentlemen present, perhaps she’d get the answers to some of her questions about the Jessups.

A few minutes later, the maid preceded them into a large drawing room at the front of the Jessups’ house. It was furnished—to Daisy’s disappointment—in a thoroughly conventional manner.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, madam,” the maid announced.

“Who, me?” bleated Lambert, at his most inane.

“Oh, this gentleman isn’t my husband,” Daisy said at the same time. “This is Mr. Lambert. He’s visiting from America.”

Mrs. Jessup, rising to greet them, sank back into her chair as if her legs had suddenly lost their strength. Already on their feet, the two men froze. After a moment, they exchanged a silent glance of consternation.

Audrey Jessup stepped into the breach. “How do you do, Mr. Lambert? Mrs. Fletcher, Father says you’ve definitely decided to move in. I’m thrilled!”

By the time she had made all necessary introductions, the others had recovered their sangfroid. Her husband made no mention of his previous meeting with Daisy in the garden, so she followed his lead, despite wondering about the reason for his reticence.

His father, Maurice Jessup, a portly man, was wearing a well-cut suit designed to disguise that fact. His jowls hung over the knot of his tie, and his forehead was receding towards the crown of his head. His present worried frown looked out of place on a face that seemed essentially genial. He offered drinks: “Anything you fancy,” he said, gesturing at a cabinet standing open to display bottles of every conceivable shape, size, and colour. “Aidan, you do the honours, will you?”

While his son poured and mixed, he turned to Lambert and asked warily, “Are you over here on business?”

“Not really, sir. Well, kind of.”

This response—to Daisy’s ears, typical of Lambert’s vagueness—appeared to hold some sinister significance to the Jessups. She was tempted to tell them he was on government business, just to see what their reactions would be. She resisted temptation, remembering how chary he’d been of revealing his “business” to the Pearsons. It was quite conceivable that he was being obfuscatory on purpose.

“Which part of America are you from?” asked Audrey, the only one not disturbed by Lambert’s presence.

“Arizona, ma’am.”

“Is that in the South?”

“Southwest. It’s mostly desert and mountains, no real big cities. The population of the whole state’s not much above three hundred thousand. My father owns the biggest insurance company in the state. Both our senators are customers. That’s how he got me a job in … er, hmm, on the East Coast.”

Daisy came to the rescue. “We met in New York a couple of years ago. I was over there on a writing assignment.”

“Oh yes, Father mentioned that you’re a writer. How marvellous!” Audrey exclaimed. “What do you write? Do you use a pen name?”

“Magazine articles, under my maiden name, Daisy Dalrymple.”

“In
Town and Country?
” asked Mrs. Jessup. “I’ve read several. You always have such fascinating snippets of the history of the places you write about.”

Everyone seized on this new topic and worried it to death. Then they moved on to the house next door and Daisy’s plans for it.

Mr. Jessup was given to colourful notions, such as enclosing the front porch and turning it into a conservatory for hothouse orchids. Recalling his Continental travels, Daisy decided the miniature Galerie des Glaces must be blamed on him rather than on his wife. She, in contrast, made several helpful suggestions about the kitchens and servants’ rooms. Aidan took after his mother in practicality, offering the name of a housepainter whose work and charges they had found satisfactory. His wife seconded everyone’s proposals with enthusiasm, but her chief interest was in the nursery, which she was longing to see.

“As soon as it’s been cleaned and painted,” Daisy promised. “I’m sure you’ll be able to give me some ideas.”

When Daisy started making “time we were getting home” noises, Mr. Jessup said, “If by any chance you’re thinking of having a housewarming party, I’ll be glad to let you have any wines and spirits you want at wholesale.”

Daisy must have looked as blank as she felt, because Aidan
added, “We’re in the business, you know, Mrs. Fletcher. Jessup and Sons of New Bond Street, since 1837.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise.” That would explain Mr. Jessup’s travels, visiting wine growers, no doubt. About to comment, she recalled just in time that she had been eavesdropping when she overheard Mrs. Jessup’s mention of his whereabouts. “That’s awfully kind of you.”

“Just a gesture to welcome new neighbours,” said Aidan, perhaps with an eye to depressing future expectations.

“I’m afraid,” Daisy went on regretfully, “my husband’s job precludes our accepting favours.”

“Civil service?” he asked.

“Yes, sort of.”

“No one need know,” said his father.

“Thank you, but it’s just not on.” The inevitable moment had come when Mr. Irwin’s discretion went for nothing and all must be revealed. “Alec’s a policeman, you see. Scotland Yard. He’s a detective.”

“Too thrilling!” Audrey exclaimed.

The rest of the Jessups appeared more dismayed than thrilled.

“Of course he can’t accept a gift, then,” said Mr. Jessup with a jovial laugh that didn’t quite come off. “Are you a policeman, too, Mr. Lambert?”

“Who, me?” Lambert said blankly.

“Lambert’s usual idiotic response to any question about himself,” Daisy told Alec later that evening when he rang up, “but it averted further interrogation and they dropped the subject.”

“They were alarmed, though, to hear I’m a copper?”

Daisy considered. “
Perturbed
is the word. They didn’t seem as worried as Mr. Irwin was.”

“Perhaps Irwin, as a lawyer, is more aware of the legal ramifications of whatever they’re doing. You say the Jessups run an off-licence?”

“I should think they call themselves ‘Purveyors of Fine Wines and Spirits to the Aristocracy.’ Premises in New Bond Street, and the elder Jessup trots around the Continent, presumably visiting vineyards.”

“Most likely they’re evading duty somewhere. Not my headache, thank heaven. I don’t feel obliged to tip off Customs and Excise, especially as the whole thing may exist only in your imagination.”

“It’s not!” said Daisy indignantly. “You don’t think it could have something to do with their unwanted Yankee visitor?”

“Great Scott, Daisy, it’s not against the law to have visitors from America, even unwanted ones, or we’d be in trouble ourselves! It’s probably just the shiftiness the law-abiding public so often display when coming face-to-face with the police. Are you having second thoughts about moving in next door?”

“Oh no, darling. I like them. Mrs. Jessup’s read my articles—”

“A sure way to a writer’s heart.”

“And she didn’t tell the others about my writing as ‘the Hon.,’ which was jolly decent of her. It would have been frightfully embarrassing! Of course, maybe she didn’t notice or had forgotten.”

“I wish you could persuade your editors to leave it off.”

“Believe me, so do I. At least in England. I don’t care if—”

“Your time is up, caller,” the exchange operator announced. “Do you want another three minutes?”

“Let me see if I have change. Daisy, I’ll be home tomorrow late, but I have to leave again early the next—”

Click click bzzzz.
They were cut off. With a sigh, Daisy hung up the receiver.

“Gee whiz!” Lambert stood on the stairs, staring at Daisy. “Are you telling me some guy from the States called on the Jessups?”

“No.”

“They didn’t have an American—?”

“I wasn’t telling you anything.”

Lambert looked confused. “You mean there
was—
?”

“I mean it’s not really any of your business. Or mine, come to that.”

“Aw, gee, come on, Mrs. Fletcher! I’m here to do a job for the government—”

“Not my government. As it happens, I can’t tell you anything for certain anyway. I overheard what sounded to me like an American accent, but I could well have been mistaken.”

“And old Jessup’s a wine merchant. What a stroke of luck! It gives me somewhere to start looking. As soon as my papers arrive,” he added sheepishly.

“Let’s hope it’s soon,” said Daisy in heartfelt tones.

“Welcome aboard
Barleycorn
,” grunted the seaman who had helped Patrick to descend from
Iffie.
A couple of others were busy stowing sacks and crates. “Skipper’s in the wheelhouse.”

Taking this as an invitation—or perhaps an order—Patrick made his way cautiously forward by starlight, making for the blacker black rectangle in the bow. The wheelhouse was much lower than he would have expected. He couldn’t imagine how a man might stand upright inside.

Beneath his feet, the deck surged as the
Barleycorn
put on
speed, her engines running smooth and quiet. Having found his sea legs weeks ago aboard
Iphigenia
, Patrick adjusted easily to the motion.

“And these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn was dead …,” he sang silently to himself.

“Then little Sir John sprung up his head, and soon amazed them all.”

Whoever had christened the bootleggers’ boat had a sense of humour, though somewhat lacking in common sense. Her name would surely arouse suspicion in anyone who knew the old ballad.

He was quite close to the wheelhouse before he could make out the windows, faintly illuminated by the binnacle lamp within. But glancing back, he saw the wide white curve of the wake. If Coast Guard vessels were about, they could hardly miss that signal. Then, the very absence of required lights would be cause enough to stop her.

The wheelhouse roof was just above his waist level. Stooping, he peered through the side window and saw the silhouette of a mariner in a peaked cap. He knocked.

The man at the wheel gestured to him to enter. He had to crouch to enter and climb down a short ladder to reach the deck inside.

“Sir, I’m Patrick—”

“No names,” growled the skipper.

“Right-oh. I mean, aye, sir. But I’m supposed to be meeting a man….”

“The Irishman.”

“Is he aboard?”

“Nope. Waiting ashore.”

“Oh.” While not exactly gushing, the skipper didn’t seem actually hostile. Patrick ventured a question. “May I ask why the wheelhouse is lower than the main deck?”

“So there’s somewhere to duck down when the bullets start flying.”

“Gosh, I’d hoped the stories I’ve heard were exaggerated. The Coast Guard actually shoot to kill?”

“Ayup. Leastways, I don’t say they mean to kill, but when you turn a machine gun on a manned ship, accidents happen.”

“I suppose so.”

“Even with bulletproof glass and armour plating.”

“Which she has?”

“Purpose-built.”

Patrick was silent for a moment, contemplating the degree of adventure he was encountering. “Are you … er … are we expecting to meet any Coast Guard ships?”

“Regular patrol cutter hereabouts is paid off. Shore station likewise. But there’s no knowing where they’ll pop up. We can outrun ’em, given half a chance, even their new cutters.”

“I thought your engines sounded sweet. Where do you intend to land the stuff?”

“No names. We’ll get you where you’re bound. You don’t need to know how.”

“Sorry!”

Patrick expected to be dismissed ignominiously to join the crew. However, the nameless captain ignored him henceforth. After waiting for a few minutes, he found a stool and sat down, leaning back against the rear window. He even managed to sink into an uneasy doze without falling off the stool.

He dreamt he was standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, with motor-car horns blaring all around him. The noise woke him.

A brilliant white light flooded the small cabin. The moon? No, much too bright, and it moved with a disconcerting unsteadiness. “What …?” he asked, confused.

“Get down! Last thing we need is them to find a limey aboard. Go nap on those sacks.” The captain pointed at a pile in the corner. “Pull one over you. If you’re questioned, you’re my sister’s deaf-mute boy.”

“Aye, sir.” As Patrick ducked below window level and scuttled over to the sacks, a Klaxon horn bellowed again, followed by a loud-hailer.

“Ahoy,
Barleycorn!
U.S. Coast Guard. Stand by to be boarded.”

The beam of the searchlight remained on the wheelhouse. “Damn their eyes!” the captain swore. “It’s illegal to throw a searchlight on the bridge of a ship! Pity I’m in no position to report them, though if it comes to trial….” He let roll a slew of oaths but throttled back the engine. He hauled himself up the short ladder to the main deck.

Huddled among the sacks, which smelled of a curious mixture of fish, spirits, and tar, Patrick heard only fragments of the ensuing conversation.