Maggie Bright (17 page)

“HAIL, BELOW!
” came a call from above. “Are you decent, Mr. Vance?”

“Depends who you ask.” Murray came to the companionway, wiping the last of the shaving cream from his neck with a towel. He looked up and got an unflattering angle of a beaming Mrs. Shrewsbury. “You ask Betty Reynolds, no, I ain’t decent. But that was a long time ago.”

“There’s a lovely little place called Evelyn’s, just up the road. Best sticky toffee pudding in all of England.”

“I’m game. Let me get some dough. They take American cash? It’s all I got.”

“I doubt it. Perhaps we can pop into the bank in Teddington to exchange.”

By the time they got to Evelyn’s place, the sun was setting. It took much longer than expected to exchange Murray’s money, as the bank
was mistrustful of the brand-new bills. Apparently America’s paper currency had gone through a redesign and did not match the pictures in the Teddington bank’s currency book. They had to go all the way to London, where one of the banks had an up-to-date book.

“What do you call this stuff?” Murray asked, his mouth full.

“Sticky toffee pudding,” said Clare.

“Ain’t never had anything like it.” He swallowed. “My mother would go nuts. She’s got a sweet tooth to shame every kid who trick-or-treated. Sea foam’s her favorite. They make the best on Long Island, Ruby’s Confectionery.”

“Sea foam?” asked Mrs. Shrew, perplexed.

“Brown crunchy stuff, covered with chocolate? Don’t you have that here? Aw, I wish I had some with me, you’d
 
—”

“Your father’s last words were for you.”

Murray poked the pudding with his fork, then put it down. “You can sure rain on a parade.”

“It’s a little hard for me to carry on as usual, knowing what’s going on just over the Channel.”

And indeed, the words of the men from Scotland Yard proved true: the early editions in the newsstands in London were now filled with ominous updates on the situation with the BEF.

Some of the papers, it was true, downplayed the news with a lot of hearty bravado as they usually did. But in others, like the
News Chronicle
, one of the papers Mrs. Shrew had bought and read aloud in the cab on the way back to Bexley, the news was far bolder:

In his brief statement on the war situation yesterday the prime minister made it clear that the tide of German penetration into Belgium and northern France has not yet been stemmed.

And from the
Evening Standard
:

First let us have no ostrichism in our preparations against an invasion of this island. There are still some who scorn the idea. Can Hitler succeed where Napoleon failed? No, they say, the Channel is impregnable. We would do better to prepare for the worst.

“Your father did something brave, and it cost his life.” Clare felt the heat rise. “But when I say, ‘Your father’s last words were for you,’ you don’t show the slightest interest to know what they were.”

“You wanna know what it’s like standin’ in a soup line with your mother?” Murray looked up at her. “And she’s tryin’ hard not to show she’s cryin’, wonderin’ how she’s gonna make rent, how she’s gonna put clothes on your back? You wanna know how it feels when she acts like she’s not hungry so
you
won’t go without? And your old man’s off sailin’ on some boat with your mother’s name on it and not sending anything to help, livin’ free and easy and makin’ misery wherever he goes? You think I
care
what his last words were?”

He fell to his pudding with a glower. He took the fork, and then put it down and shoved the plate away. He rubbed his forehead.

After a moment, he said, “What were they?”

“He said, ‘Tell Murray I’m sorry it all went to bilge.’” Clare watched him worriedly.

“What kinda last words are those?” He looked up at Clare, confused. “Say it again.”

“‘Tell Murray I’m sorry it all went to bilge.’” She winced. “Oh, I wish it were more than that, but I’m sure he said it
all
with that
 
—I love you, I’m proud you were my son. Mr. Butterfield said your father’s greatest regret was leaving you and your mother.”

“I’ll bet. Like he left you and a dozen other kids.” He pulled over his plate, took his fork
 
—and a very peculiar look came to his face.

“What is it, Murray?” asked the Shrew anxiously. “Do you need paper? A pencil? Everyone
 
—hush.”

“Bilge, eh?” he said. He looked at Clare and said, “Why didn’t he give the packet to the bobbies?”

Clare shrugged. “He was waiting for the BV to come for it. Mr. Percy said he didn’t trust Scotland Yard. It really seemed to bother Mr. Percy. I suppose he felt that after all the time they’d spent together
 
—”

“But he trusted me,” Murray said, gaze drifting.

“What do you mean?”

The gaze came back to Clare. “I know where the packet is.”

“But I
looked
there,” Clare complained, watching Murray.

“Nope,” Murray grunted. “Not here, you didn’t. You can’t see this place; you can only feel for it.”

Murray had removed the companionway ladder and pulled up the boards over the engine, opening up the lower deck in Clare’s captain’s room. He lay on his stomach along the edge of the opening, reaching into the space as far as he could to an area on the other side of the engine.

“Cylinder head,” saying what his hand felt. “Valve cover. Ah. Holding tank.”

“What
is
it, exactly?” Clare asked, trying to see through crevices, but it was impossible, he blocked the whole space. Mrs. Shrew held a lantern in one hand and a torch in the other, aiming it fruitlessly at Murray’s back.

“It’s a fake compartment, made to look like a small holding tank. Bolted right to the engine mount, other side. It’s even insulated. Dad had it put in when he started sailin’ waters where there’s pirates.”

“Pirates? These days?” said the Shrew, delighted. “Excellent!”

“He stashed extra money there, in a waterproof pouch.” He grunted, and pulled up his hand. The Shrew shined the torch on it; it was covered with oily gray-and-green goo.

“Disgusting,” said Clare.

“That’s bilge,” said Murray. He sifted it between his fingers, then shook it away over the open space. “Water rolls around up there in a bad storm. Gets ugly. Lemme try again, I ain’t done this before. My hand keeps slippin’.”

He readjusted himself, and reached farther.

“You can see it if you got a couple of mirrors,” he grunted. “Hang on
 
—okay, cover’s off.” They heard a dull thump. “Yep
 
—there’s something inside. It’s kinda big. Bigger than his money pouch. I don’t know how I’m gonna . . .” He grimaced, strained, and then sat up, sliding something out of the compartment. Mrs. Shrew’s torchlight fell upon a cellophane-wrapped bundle.

The three looked at one another.

“Open it,” said Clare.

“My hands are dirty.” He held it out to her. “You open it.”

She reverently took the bundle with both hands.

Murray’s father, and her own, had died to keep it safe.

“We must get it to William Percy immediately,” she said softly.

“It’s quite late,” Mrs. Shrew said. “Don’t you think tomorrow is a better idea?” She added a bit reluctantly, “I saw the light on over there, and I know Mr. Percy is talking with that man. I don’t wish to interrupt. I am sure it’s doing the captain good, the man talk. Always did my Cecil good. I’d run him down to the pub on a blue day.”

“I won’t let him spend another night wondering where it is.” She smoothed her hand over it. “All his hope is in this packet. Hope for America to wake up.”

Then Clare stilled and looked up, listening.

“What was that?” Mrs. Shrew said sharply.

It came again, a sliding thump, not from above but from the side
 
—sounded as though something was bumping up against Maggie’s starboard bow.

“What on earth?” said the Shrew, steadying herself.

Clare shoved the packet into Murray’s hands. “Hurry
 
—put it back.”

“Where’s my teakettle,” Mrs. Shrew murmured, turning into the galley.

Murray dropped to his stomach and went to work.

The next noise came from the stern, port side. Heart racing, Clare stared at the curved wall of her cabin. She could feel the vibration of whoever was there. What were they doing? She whirled
 
—that thumping slide at the starboard bow again. Noises from opposite places at the same time.

There were at least two out there.

“Quickly, Murray.”

The companion hatch ladder was lying on its side. She started for it. She had to secure the hatch, but couldn’t reach it without
 
—

She grabbed the captain’s table to steady herself. “Did you feel that?” she whispered. “They’ve cut the anchor.”

Murray’s arm was deep in the compartment, his face red with effort. “There
 
—it’s back.” He reached for a compartment board.

She turned to him. “Murray, whatever happens, they must not get that packet. Your father gave his life for it.”

The
Maggie Bright
gave a terrific lurch, and Clare fell sideways into the engine’s open compartment.

So Clare Childs was the daughter of Arthur Vance, one of the few men William Percy had truly admired. How interesting.

“Of course, it seemed vain to me at the time,” Captain Elliott was saying. “I likely said as much. But now I’m glad. It really captured him.”

William wished Clare had known Arthur. And he wished Arthur had known her.

“He shook the hand of King George, once, when he inspected the
regiments. Wish my wife could’ve seen that. She was there, in spirit. Always with Jamie in spirit.”

Arrogant and insufferable became eccentric and tolerable, the more you got to know him. You began to suspect that something else lay beneath all the smug trappings of a fashionable expat. Something did.

“Yes,” William said, because something was expected of him. “Handsome lad.”

Captain Elliott replaced the picture frame on the shelf. “There’s the cot for you, Mr. Percy, over there. Mrs. Shrewsbury’s very clever; she’s got the place all kitted out. Right up to specs. Look there.” He pointed to a line of gas masks, hanging on pegs. “And there’s the list of who should be in here. Look at that neat handwriting. She’s a retired schoolteacher. Of course, Minor Roberts came and crossed his name off. He doesn’t like his name on anything. Lives in that old river tug, year-round. Dodgy old sod.”