Peter and the Sword of Mercy (24 page)

And so he paced, exhausted, sick with guilt and worry, nagged incessantly by questions about both his wife and daughter.
Where had the flying machine come down? Why hadn’t anyone …

“He will see you now, Mr. Darling,” Blake’s secretary announced.

“About time,” muttered George. He squared his shoulders and marched into Blake’s office. The secretary closed the door behind him.

“Mr. Darling,” said Blake, rising from his desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of—”

“Spare me the pleasantries,” said George. “I haven’t the stomach for it today.”

Blake sat back down.

“Of course, I understand,” he said, with a calmness that George found very irritating. “I heard about your daughter. Terrible thing. A girl on a flying contraption …”

He stopped there, but George saw the rest of the thought in Blake’s eyes—contempt for a father who would let his daughter get into such a predicament.

“Terrible thing,” Blake repeated. “If there’s anything we can do here at the Yard …”

“I am working with the Cambridgeshire authorities,” said George. “And I am confident they will find my daughter. What I wish to know is what progress you have made in locating my wife.”

“As my men have told you a number of times, Mr. Darling, we are doing—”

“I
know
what they’ve told me, Chief Superintendent. They’ve told me they’re doing everything they can. But I fail to understand how, with all the resources of Scotland Yard, they have produced nothing.
Nothing.
My wife was…my wife
is
a respectable woman, from a good family. She is not a beggar; she is not a criminal. Such people don’t simply disappear.”

“Oh, but they do,” said Blake, again with that irritat-ingly calm voice. “People disappear all the time.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing more you can do.”

“What I am saying,” said Blake, “is that everything that can be done is being done.”

George felt as though his head was going to explode. He had gotten virtually no sleep since his wife had gone missing. Now his daughter was missing as well. And this smug, pompous man, sitting behind a desk …

George realized that he had moved close to that desk. He was now leaning over Blake, unable to stop himself from blurting out what he was thinking—what he had been thinking for days now.

“Perhaps you don’t
want
to find her,” he said.

Blake stiffened. “What did you say?”

George leaned closer. “Before my wife went missing, she came to see you,” he said.

“Did she?” said Blake. “I meet so many—”

“She came to see you,” interrupted George, “to discuss certain concerns she had about one of your men, James Smith. And about the Palace.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed.

“My wife told me that after she left that meeting with you,” continued George, “she was almost grabbed by a police officer in the Underground. Two days later she disappeared.”

“What are you suggesting?” said Blake quietly.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said George. “I’m
telling
you this, Chief Superintendent. I want my wife found. And I no longer believe your department is trying to find her.”

“That’s a serious accusation, Mr. Darling.”

“Yes it is,” said George. “And I intend to make sure it is investigated. I have friends in the government, Chief Superintendent. Powerful friends. I will bring this matter to their attention.”

“Do you really think that’s wise?” said Blake, his voice still calm. “Making accusations? A man in your position? A man with a career?” He paused, then added, softly, “A man whose wife could be…vulnerable?”

George recoiled. “Is that a
threat?’
he said.

“No,” said Blake. “It’s merely a description of your situation. I shouldn’t think you’d want to make it any worse.”

For a moment the two men stared at each other. George started to say something, then decided against it. He spun on his heel, went to the door, yanked it open violently, and stalked out.

When he was gone, Blake stared at the empty doorway for a moment, drumming his fingers on his desk. Then he picked up the telephone and made a call.

T
HE
P
LAN

M
OLLUSK
I
SLAND WAS THE
most beautiful place Wendy had ever seen.

When she first caught sight of it, from the Mollusk canoe, it was a dark speck on the horizon. But as the canoe drew closer, escorted by porpoises and propelled swiftly through the sea by eight strong warriors, the speck turned into a spectacular sight—a rugged volcanic mountain rising steeply from the blue water, the dark green of its jungled slopes occasionally broken by the white foam of a cascading waterfall.

The mountain’s volcanic peak rose steeply overhead as the canoe passed through a series of reefs and into the calm water of a lagoon, embraced by a long, curved white-sand beach fringed with palm trees. A group of people stood on the beach, apparently waiting for the canoe, but they were too far away for Wendy to identify them. Closer at hand, near the middle of the lagoon, was a small, rocky island; Wendy saw some figures lounging on a big flat boulder by the water’s edge. As the canoe drew closer, she saw that they were beautiful young women. Several of them waved at the canoe, and Wendy, hesitantly waved back. Then, with a chorus of giggles, the beautiful young women slid from the rock and dove into the water, flashing their long graceful …

Tails?

Wendy gasped as the mermaids disappeared below the lagoon surface. One of the Mollusk warriors said something to the others in their odd-sounding grunt-and-click language; all eight warriors chuckled.

This
is definitely not England,
thought Wendy.

The canoe was fast approaching the beach. Wendy was relieved to see that Peter was one of the people standing there. After making sure she was safely aboard the canoe, he’d flown back to the island, saying he needed to speak to somebody. Wendy thought he’d said the person’s name was Fighting Prawn, but that seemed unlikely.

The canoe reached shallow water and glided onto the sand. Wendy turned and waved her thanks to the porpoises, who headed back toward the open sea. Then Wendy climbed out of the canoe and stepped onto the sand. She staggered, her legs wobbly, her body weak from her harrowing ordeal. Peter ran to her, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling. As he helped her up the beach, Wendy heard bell sounds coming from his hair. They sounded displeased.

Waiting for her with open curiosity was a group of about two dozen Mollusks. Standing slightly apart from the others was a tall, powerfully built man with deep-bronze skin, jet-black hair, and piercing dark eyes. Wendy had no doubt, as Peter led her to him, that he was the leader. When they reached him, Peter said, “Fighting Prawn, this is Wendy Aster.”

“Darling,” said Wendy.

“What did you say?” said Peter.

“My last name is Darling,” said Wendy.

Peter frowned. “Darling?” he said. “But wasn’t that…I mean, isn’t that George’s name?”

“Yes,” said Wendy. “George Darling is my father.”

“George is your father,” said Peter softly.

“Yes,” said Wendy.

“So George…married Molly.”

“Why, yes,” said Wendy.

“Oh,” said Peter. He reddened and looked down.

“Is there something wrong?” said Wendy.

“No,” said Peter, recovering. “Anyway, Fighting Prawn, this is Wendy
Darling.”

Wendy didn’t like the way he said her name, but decided to ignore it.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said to Fighting Prawn.

Fighting Prawn studied her face for a moment before speaking.

“Peter was right,” he said. “You look remarkably like your mother. You must also have her courage, to have come all this way alone.”

“I had help,” said Wendy. “From the porpoises. And of course, Peter. But now I need to …”

Wendy’s voice turned to a moan as she staggered forward, faint from lack of food, water, and sleep. Fighting Prawn caught her and picked her up easily.

“Tell us later,” he said. “First you need to eat and rest.”

Wendy tried to protest, but lacked the strength. Holding her in his arms, Fighting Prawn turned and carried her toward the path to the village. Peter followed, still trying to digest the news that Molly had married George, and wishing this fact did not bother him so much.

Wendy slept the rest of the day, and all night long, in a hut in the Mollusk village. When she awoke, two of Fighting Prawn’s daughters, Shining Pearl and Little Scallop, brought her coconut milk and a wooden platter covered with fruits, berries, and some kind of broiled chunks on skewers. She ate ravenously.

“What
is
this?” she said, holding up a skewer. “It tastes quite interesting.”

“It’s one of our favorites,” agreed Shining Pearl. “We only get it a few times a year.”

“What is it?” asked Wendy.

“Our word for it is—” Shining Pearl made an odd-sounding noise.

“What does that mean?” said Wendy.

“Giant scorpion,” said Shining Pearl.

“Oh,” said Wendy, quickly putting down the skewer.

“Don’t worry!” said Little Scallop. “We take out the poison parts.”

“Thank you,” said Wendy, “but I’m quite full.” She gulped down some coconut milk, then said, “Can I see your father now?”

“He’s waiting for you,” said Shining Pearl. “With Peter.”

They led Wendy out of the hut into a spectacular island morning, the sun rising in a cloudless blue sky, turning the jungled mountainside a million shades of green. The Mollusk village was bustling—adults cooking, eating, talking; children running, playing, laughing. Wendy was struck by how healthy and happy they all seemed; there was no sign of suffering or discontent. The whole village—the whole island—seemed somehow magical. Wendy was beginning to see why Peter was not keen on leaving.

Fighting Prawn and Peter were sitting on stools made from logs in the shade of a sort of lean-to. As Wendy approached, they rose, and Fighting Prawn invited her to join them.

“You seem to be feeling better,” said Fighting Prawn, once they were all seated.

“Much, thank you,” said Wendy.

“How’d you like the scorpion?” said Peter, smiling. A raucous burst of bells pealed from somewhere inside his wild mass of hair.

“I found it
delicious,”
lied Wendy, silencing Tink and wiping the smile from Peter’s face. Turning to Fighting Prawn, Wendy said, “I am very grateful for your hospitality, Mr.…Prawn. Unfortunately, even though I’ve just arrived, I need to arrange for Peter and me to get back to England. It’s most urgent.”

“So Peter tells me,” said Fighting Prawn. “I will of course do what I can. Both your mother and grandfather were friends to my people. If they are in trouble …”

“I’m afraid they are,” said Wendy. “Grandfather is very ill, and I don’t even know where Mother is. I fear she’s been kidnapped.”

“Did you go to the police?” said Fighting Prawn.

Wendy shook her head and said, “I think they’re involved.”