Black Ship (8 page)

“From next door. An invitation to drinks before dinner tomorrow, to meet the neighbours.”

Alec groaned. “Must we?”

“I’m afraid so, darling.” She checked that the parlour maid had returned downstairs. “Unless you want to hide behind closed curtains with all the lights off. But we’d never get away with it anyway. Remember, Elsie’s sister is parlour maid next door.”

“And a rotten idea that will probably prove to be! I bet that’s how the Jessups know I’m home for a few days. We could try for theatre or concert tickets?”

“We could, but we’ll have to take the plunge sooner or later. After all, we’re not only neighbours, we’re their landlords. We don’t want to behave as if we’re high-and-mighty, and turn them against us. Besides, the Jessups are nice people. Mr. Jessup did offer to provide drink at cost for a housewarming party.”

“Trying to worm his way into my good graces. We don’t have to have a party, do we?”

“I thought the best thing would be to wait till Christmas and hold an open house for everyone, your friends, my friends, relatives—”

“Mothers?” Alec asked with deep foreboding.

“We’ll have to sometime, darling. This way, they’ll be sort of diluted.”

“You have a point.” He sighed. “All right, drinks next door tomorrow. I suppose that nosy old man from the Heath will be there.”

“Diluted,” Daisy said hopefully.

“She was on the stage, you know,” said Miss Bennett in an insinuating tone. A pudgy woman with pepper-and-salt hair, confined in a net, and a round, pale, doughy face, she had cornered Daisy.

“Our hostess?” Chorus girl? Music hall turn? Though dying to know, she wouldn’t have asked for the world. To do so would only encourage the beastly woman’s tattling, and she didn’t need any encouragement. Obviously, the Bennetts were going to be the flies in the ointment. One ought to be able to interview one’s prospective neighbours before moving.

“We all know about actresses. And Irish, into the bargain!” said Miss Bennett darkly.

“Such charming people, I’ve always found.”

Miss Bennett looked at her as if she were mad. “Charming? Always blowing up policemen—”

“I don’t suppose Mrs. Jessup’s career left her any time for blowing up policemen. Mine certainly doesn’t.”

“Your career?” Her nose positively twitched. “You have a job?”

“I write. Oh, excuse me, Miss Bennett, I believe my husband wants to speak to me.”

“Write? Write what?” Her nose twitched eagerly, but Daisy was already moving away with an insincere smile. “
Novels
, no doubt,” came a mutter behind her, the inflexion leaving no doubt about the kind of novels Miss Bennett was imagining.

Aidan Jessup, bottle in hand, intercepted Daisy on her way across the room towards Alec. “Now what has that dreadful woman been saying to put you in such a pucker?” he asked with a wry look. “Let me fill up your glass. Dubonnet, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, thanks. No doubt you’ll soon be hearing that I write blue novels.”

“But you write magazine articles, don’t you? I’m afraid I don’t read much besides the trade journals, but Mother enjoys your work. Good Lord, you didn’t tell Miss Bennett—?”

“Not I. It’s what she prefers to assume.”

“Oh yes, Always Assume the Worst is their motto. I suppose they’ve told you Mother was a chorus girl.”

Daisy willed herself not to blush. “Just that she was on the stage.”

“As a matter of fact,” he said a trifle belligerently, “she started as a soubrette in the provinces and was playing decent roles in London—Celia and Nerissa and that sort of thing—when she met Father. She might have gone on to Rosalind and Portia if she hadn’t retired when they married.”

“Not the Lady Macbeth type, I take it.”

That made him laugh. “No, Mother’s not made for tragedy. She doesn’t even take the Bennetts’ mischief making too seriously. If you ask me, it’s a great pity my revered papa-in-law didn’t put a spoke in the Bennetts’ wheel when they decided to
buy here.” He nodded towards Mr. Irwin, who stood staring gloomily into his glass, his expression suggesting that the stout, prosperous-looking citizen holding forth at his side might be asking for free legal advice.

“Could a reputable lawyer do that?”

“There must be a way, don’t you think? As it is, unfortunately, one can’t easily exclude them from a gathering of Constable Circle residents. It doesn’t do to be at odds with one’s neighbours.”

“No, of course not. Their tales would only grow the wilder. Otherwise, everyone seems to be very pleasant.”

“Not a bad lot. Is there anyone you haven’t met yet?”

“I’ve talked to all the neighbours, I think. Your brother and sister aren’t here? Your sister’s married, I understand, but I didn’t gather where she lives. I had the impression that your brother lives here, though.”

Aidan looked disconcerted. “Deirdre lives in Birmingham,” he said. “My brother often goes on buying trips with our father, to learn that side of the business. I’ve never been much of a one for travel. I prefer to stay home, and one of the family has to be here to mind things at this end. There’s Audrey and the children to be considered, too. Have you travelled much on the Continent?”

“Just one flying visit, a few days last summer. If it hadn’t been for the War, I’d undoubtedly have been shipped off to finishing school, like my sister Violet. I’m glad to have avoided that—I don’t think it would have suited me at all—but I’d like to see some of the rest of the world. Besides America, that is.”

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten you were in America.” He turned with obvious relief to Alec, who came up just then. “May I get you another drink, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Thank you, no. We ought to be making our adieus, ought we not, Daisy?”

People were beginning to drift away, and the Fletchers had to run the gauntlet of new acquaintances saying “So glad to have met you.” A few last good nights were exchanged on the pavement before they attained their own front steps.

Daisy tucked her hand into Alec’s arm as they went up.

“Did you talk to the Bennetts?” he asked, delving into his pocket for the door key. “He asked me if it’s true I’m a peeler—a peeler! I thought the word went out of use decades ago. And then he had the nerve to say he hoped not, because many respectable people don’t care to associate with the police.”

“Don’t worry, at least Miss Bennett seems to disapprove of blowing up policemen. She told me in the most horridly insinuating way that Moira Jessup is Irish and pointed out that the Irish have a habit of blowing up policemen. They’re in luck, as I have no intention of associating with them any more than absolutely unavoidable.”

Small wonder if Daisy forgot Aidan’s odd reactions and patent attempt to change the subject of his brother’s whereabouts. She did remember next morning but decided against telling Alec. He’d only say she was imagining things.

The moment the Coast Guard destroyer was sighted,
Barleycorn
’s skipper had changed course. Now, though he knew they were on his tail, he held steady.

“Can we outrun them?” Patrick asked.

“Not with this load. But they’re slow to turn. Just watch. Go out on deck if you want.”

Two considerations weighed against Patrick’s reluctance to leave whatever cover the wheelhouse offered: He didn’t want to appear a coward, and surely the skipper wouldn’t let him go out if they were in range of the destroyer’s guns. Would he?

He climbed the short ladder to the low door. Two deckhands had opened several of the lockers lining the port and starboard rails and were spreading fish from a large crate over the illegal contents.

Glancing around, Patrick saw the lookout standing on the railed roof of the wheelhouse, gazing astern with his spyglass to his eye. Now and then he would swing round to scan the horizon. Near him, smoke poured from the smokestack as the
Barleycorn’s
engines put forth their utmost effort. Though the smoke quickly dissipated in the wind created by their speed, it must appear as a banner to the pursuing destroyer. Staring sternward into the glare of sea and sky, Patrick could just make out the distant banner of smoke from the Coast Guard ship’s four funnels.

He was about to ask the lookout man for a turn with the spyglass when one of the others called to him. “Bear a hand here,” he requested, holding out a bucket.

“What are you doing?”

“Can’t hurt to tell ’em we’re innocent fishermen,” the other drawled. “Not that they’ll believe it, ‘less they’re looking for an excuse to let us go.”

Patrick took the bucket and scooped up a mess of fish. They were very dead, with dull eyes, and beginning to smell. Fresh fish might have better helped the deception, he thought, crossing to an open locker to slosh the contents of his bucket across the bulging sacks within. Perhaps the bootleggers hoped the smell would deter the Coast Guard from further investigation.

Perhaps they were right. Holding his nose, he returned for another bucketful. No wonder they didn’t want to attempt this ruse unnecessarily. When time came to unload, not only would the fish have to be disposed of but the burlap swathing the bottles would have absorbed the stench. Patrick could only hope he would not be expected to help with that, too.

As he worked, he kept an eye on the destroyer. At first, the four smoke trails grew more indistinct. The distance between her and
Barleycorn
must be increasing, Patrick realised. Gradually, the four appeared to merge into one as she came around to chase the rumrunner. And then the intervening distance began to shrink.

Patrick started to wonder what American gaols were like. It was a happier alternative to wondering what it felt like to be shot.

The lookout on the roof shouted to his shipmates, “OK, go ahead!”

One of the men put down his bucket and moved aft, where he crouched to fiddle with three cylindrical canisters. Puzzled, Patrick stopped mucking about with fish and moved closer to watch. The man delved into the pockets of his pea jacket, came up empty-handed, and called to Patrick, “Matches?”

Patrick threw him a box, his aim sure despite the motion of the boat.

The seaman caught it. Cupping his hands, he struck a match and applied it to the top of one of the canisters. He paused to study the result. No effect was visible to Patrick, but the man nodded in satisfaction and proceeded to light the other two canisters.

The third failed to ignite on the first try. By the time he got it going, smoke billowed from the first and streamed out behind the
Barleycorn.

“Tell the skipper to give it a couple of minutes,” he directed Patrick.

Grinning, Patrick hurried forward. The destroyer was already invisible. Therefore, he presumed,
Barleycorn
was invisible to the destroyer.

Leaning down, he passed on the message. The skipper glanced back through the rear window at the thickening, spreading screen, then gestured to him to enter.

He obeyed. “They’ll never catch us now,” he said with enthusiasm.

“
They
won’t.”

“Oh.” Patrick pondered. Of course, the destroyer would have a radio transmitter. At this moment, they were doubtless sending out wireless messages to all Coast Guard ships within reach, with details of
Barleycorn’s
course. “Oh,” he said again, crestfallen. Given the hint, the conclusion was obvious, and he should have worked it out for himself right away.

The skipper glanced back again at the smoke screen, then changed course.

Since the skipper didn’t dismiss him, Patrick stayed below, dropping onto the stool. This time, the result of his subsequent cogitations was still less cheering: The skipper expected shooting, and since the codes Patrick carried were important to the success of the lucrative business, he was to be protected.

He didn’t exactly want to be on deck, dodging flying bullets, yet he felt like a coward, hiding out of sight while the others risked their lives on deck. If he had fought in the War, would he have been one of those who did his duty, even a hero, perhaps, or would he have funked it? He couldn’t help wondering, though it was a futile question. He had been too young to bear arms for king and country.

Not that his present business was in any way comparable. He was doing nothing illegal by English law, but he was deliberately flouting American law. In American terms, he was a criminal.

Too late to worry about that. He had a job to do for his family, and he’d do it unless prevented by force majeure.

The approach of force majeure was announced just a few minutes later.

“Cutter on the starboard bow.” The man relaying the sighting from Jed on the wheelhouse roof stayed by the open door.

Patrick stared through the windscreen, or whatever it was called on a boat. He couldn’t see the cutter, but what had been a shadow on the horizon was now unmistakably land, green and grey and growing clearer by the moment.