Pirate King

  Pirate King is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Laurie R. King

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books,

  an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,

  a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are

  registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Interior photo credits:

  Fernando Pessoa: found in Circuilo de Leitores, Fernando Pessoa—Obra Poetica, Vol. I The brigantine Romance by Gloria Cloutier Kimberly: courtesy of Jane Meyer Moroccan house: courtesy of the photographer, Zoe Elkaim

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  King, Laurie R.

  Pirate king : a novel of suspense featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes /

  Laurie R. King.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90754-4

  1. Russell, Mary (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—England—

  Fiction. 3. Holmes, Sherlock (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 4. Motion picture

  studios—Fiction. 5. Pirates—Fiction. 6. Abduction—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3561.I4813P57 2011

  813′.54—dc22 2010053043

  www.bantamdell.com

  Map by Jeffrey L. Ward

  Jacket design: Joe Montgomery

  Jacket images: © Danita Delimont/Getty Images

  (silhouettes at sunset), © Axiom/Glasshouse (mosque at sunset), © Shmuel Magal/Sites & Photos/Alamy

  (Pena National Palace, Sintra, Portugal)

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  Characters

  Author’s Foreword

  Book One: Ship of Fools: November 6–22, 1924

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Book Two: The Harlequin: November 17–27, 1924

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Book Three: In the Kingdom of Bou Regreg: November 27–30, 1924

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  PIRATE KING

  a Moving Picture in Three Acts

  Director: Randolph St John Warminster-Fflytte

  Assistant director: Geoffrey Hale

  Assistant’s assistant: Mary Russell

  Cinematographer: Will Currie

  Choreographer: Graziella Mazzo

  THE CAST:

  Major-General Stanley played by Harold Scott

  Ruth played by Myrna Hatley

  Mabel played by Bibi

  The Pirate King played by Senhor M. R. X. La Rocha

  His Lieutenant, Samuel, played by Sr La Rocha’s Lieutenant

  Frederic played by Daniel Marks

  THE SISTERS:

  Annie Ginger

  Bonnie Harriet

  Celeste Isabel

  Doris June

  Edith Kate

  Fannie Linda

  THE PIRATES:

  Adam Gerald

  Benjamin Henry

  Charles Irving

  David Jack

  Earnest Kermit

  Francis Lawrence

  THE CONSTABLES:

  Sergeant played by Vincent Paul Donald

  Alan Edward

  Bert Frank

  Clarence

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  I find myself of mixed mind about this, my eleventh volume of memoirs concerning life with Sherlock Holmes. On the one hand, I vowed when I began writing them that the accounts would be complete, that there would be no leaving out failures or slapping wallpaper across our mistakes.

  Nonetheless, this is one episode over which I have considerable doubts—not, let us be clear, due to any humiliations on my part, but because I fear that the credulity of many readers will be stretched to the breaking by the case’s intricate and, shall we say, colourful complexity of events.

  If that be the case with you, dear reader, please rest assured that for this one volume of the Russell memoirs, you have my full permission to regard it (and alas, by contagion, me) as fiction.

  Had I not actually been there, I, too, would dismiss the tale as preposterous.

  —MRH

  BOOK ONE

  SHIP OF FOOLS

  November 6–22, 1924

  CHAPTER ONE

  RUTH: I did not catch the word aright, through being hard of hearing … I took and bound this promising boy apprentice to a pirate.

  “HONESTLY, HOLMES? PIRATES?”

  “That is what I said.”

  “You want me to go and work for pirates.”

  O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free …

  “My dear Russell, someone your age should not be having trouble with her hearing.” Sherlock Holmes solicitous was Sherlock Holmes sarcastic.

  “My dear Holmes, someone your age should not be overlooking incipient dementia. Why do you wish me to go and work for pirates?”

  “Think of it as an adventure, Russell.”

  “May I point out that this past year has been nothing but adventure? Ten back-to-back cases between us in the past fifteen months, stretched over, what, eight countries? Ten, if one acknowledges the independence of Scotland and Wales. What I need is a few weeks with nothing more demanding than my books.”

  “You should, of course, feel welcome to remain here.”

  The words seemed to contain a weight beyond their surface meaning. A dark and inauspicious weight. A Mariner’s albatross sort of a weight. I replied with caution. “This being my home, I generally do feel welcome.”

  “Ah. Did I not mention that Mycroft is coming to stay?”

  “Mycroft? Why on earth would Mycroft come here? In all the years I’ve lived in Sussex, he’s visited only once.”

  “Twice, although the other occasion was while you were away. However, he’s about to have the builders in, and he needs a quiet retreat.”

  “He can afford an hotel room.”

  “This is my brother, Russell,” he chided.

  Yes, exactly: my husband’s brother, Mycroft Holmes. Whom I had thwarted—blatantly, with malice aforethought, and with what promised to be heavy consequences—scant weeks earlie
r. Whose history, I now knew, held events that soured my attitude towards him. Who wielded enormous if invisible power within the British government. And who was capable of making life uncomfortable for me until he had tamped me back down into my position of sister-in-law.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “He thought two weeks.”

  Fourteen days: 336 hours: 20,160 minutes, of first-hand opportunity to revenge himself on me verbally, psychologically, or (surely not?) physically. Mycroft was a master of the subtlest of poisons—I speak metaphorically, of course—and fourteen days would be plenty to work his vengeance and drive me to the edge of madness.

  And only the previous afternoon, I had learnt that my alternate lodgings in Oxford had been flooded by a broken pipe. Information that now crept forward in my mind, bringing a note of dour suspicion.

  No, Holmes was right: best to be away if I could.

  Which circled the discussion around to its beginnings.

  “Why should I wish to go work with pirates?” I repeated.

  “You would, of course, be undercover.”

  “Naturally. With a cutlass between my teeth.”

  “I should think you would be more likely to wear a night-dress.”

  “A night-dress.” Oh, this was getting better and better.

  “As I remember, there are few parts for females among the pirates. Although they may decide to place you among the support staff.”

  “Pirates have support staff?” I set my tea-cup back into its saucer, that I might lean forward and examine my husband’s face. I could see no overt indications of lunacy. No more than usual.

  He ignored me, turning over a page of the letter he had been reading, keeping it on his knee beneath the level of the table. I could not see the writing—which was, I thought, no accident.

  “I should imagine they have a considerable number of personnel behind the scenes,” he replied.

  “Are we talking about pirates-on-the-high-seas, or piracy-as-violation-of-copyright-law?”

  “Definitely the cutlass rather than the pen. Although Gilbert might have argued for the literary element.”

  “Gilbert?” Two seconds later, the awful light of revelation flashed through my brain; at the same instant, Holmes tossed the letter onto the table so I could see its heading.

  Headings, plural, for the missive contained two separate letters folded together. The first was from Scotland Yard. The second was emblazoned with the words D’Oyly Carte Opera.

  I reared back, far more alarmed by the stationery than by the thought of climbing storm-tossed rigging in the company of cut-throats.

  “Gilbert and Sullivan?” I exclaimed. “Pirates as in Penzance? Light opera and heavy humour? No. Absolutely not. Whatever Inspector Lestrade has in mind, I refuse.”

  “One gathers,” Holmes reflected, reaching for another slice of toast, “that the title originally did hold a double entendre, Gilbert’s dig at the habit of American companies to flout the niceties of British copyright law.”

  He was not about to divert me by historical titbits or an insult against my American heritage: This was one threat against which my homeland would have to mount its own defence.

  “You’ve dragged your sleeve in the butter.” I got to my feet, picking up my half-emptied plate to underscore my refusal.

  “It would not be a singing part,” he said.

  I walked out of the room.

  He raised his voice. “I would do it myself, but I need to be here for Mycroft, to help him tidy up after the Goodman case.”

  Answer gave I none.

  “It shouldn’t take you more than two weeks, three at the most. You’d probably find the solution before arriving in Lisbon.”

  “Why—” I cut the question short; it did not matter in the least why the D’Oyly Carte company wished me to go to Lisbon. I poked my head back into the room. “Holmes: no. I have an entire academic year to catch up on. I have no interest whatsoever in the entertainment of hoi polloi. The entire thing sounds like a headache. I am not going to Lisbon, or even London. I’m not going anywhere. No.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  PIRATE KING: I don’t think much of our profession, but, contrasted with respectability, it is comparatively honest.

  MY STEAMER LURCHED into Lisbon on a horrible sleet-blown November morning. My face was scoured by the ocean air, I having spent most of the voyage on deck in an attempt (largely vain) to keep my stomach from turning inside-out. My hair and clothing were stiff with salt, my nose raw from the handkerchief, I had lost nearly half a stone and more than half my mind, and my mood was as bloody as my eyeballs.

  If a pirate had hove into view—or my husband, for that matter—I would merrily have keelhauled either with a rope of linen from the captain’s table.

  My only source of satisfaction, grim as it was, lay in the knowledge that several of the actors on board were every bit as miserable as I.

  The eternal, quease-inducing sway lessened as we left the open sea to churn our way up the Rio Tejo towards the vast harbour—one of Europe’s largest, according to someone’s guide-book—that in the days of sail had made Portugal a great empire. The occasional isolated castle or fishing village along the shore slowly proliferated. Our view panned across a lighthouse, then picked up an odd piece of architecture planted just offshore to our left, a diminutive fort in an unnecessarily exuberant Gothic style. (Was that the style the guide-book—Annie’s?—had called “Manueline”?) Someone in the crowd of shivering fellow passengers loudly identified it as the Tower of Belém; my mind’s eye automatically supplied the phrase on an internal sub-title:

  “That’s the Tower of Belem!”

  I shook my head in irritation. I had watched more moving pictures over the past few days than in the past few years: My way of seeing the world had changed dramatically.

  Beyond the Manueline excrescence rose Lisboa itself—Alis Ubo to the Phoenicians, Ulissipont to the Romans. Our first indication of the city was the spill of masts and belching smoke-stacks that pressed towards the docks. As we drew nearer, a jumble of pale walls and red tile roofs rose up from the harbour (it looked like a lake) on a series of hills (the guide-book had claimed seven, on a par with Rome) punctuated by church spires (a startling number of those) watched over by a decaying castle.

  Pirates, I sniffed as I eyed the castle gun-ports. Any sensible member of the piratical fraternity would have steered well clear of this place.

  I pulled my thick coat around me, made a fruitless attempt to clean my spectacles, and went below to assemble my charges.

  My job—my official job—was to shepherd, protect, nurse, and browbeat into order some three dozen inmates of a mobile lunatic asylum. I was the one responsible for their well-being. It was I who ensured the inmates were housed and fed, entertained and soothed, kept off one another’s throats and out of one another’s beds. I was the one the inmates ran to, sent on errands, and shouted at, whether the complaint was inadequately hot coffee or insufficiently robust lightbulb. On the first night out from England, I had been roused from a fitful sleep by a demand that I—I, personally—remove a moth from a cabin.

  A fraternity of actual pirates could not have been more trouble. Even a travelling D’Oyly Carte company would have been less of a madhouse.

  But I was working neither with buccaneers nor with travelling players: The letter with the heading of the firm responsible for the Gilbert and Sullivan performances had merely been by way of introduction. Instead, I found myself the general coordinator and jack-of-all-trades for a film crew.

  In the early years after the War, Fflytte Films had appeared to be the rising star of the British cinema industry: From Quarterdeck in 1919 through 1922’s Krakatoa, Fflytte Films (“Fflyttes of Fancy!”) seemed positioned to challenge the American domination of the young industry, producing a series of stupendously successful multi-reel extravaganzas with exotic settings and dashing stories. Then came Hannibal, which ran so far over budget in the preliminary stages, the proje
ct was cancelled before the second reel of film was fed into the cameras. Hannibal was followed by the wildly popular Rum Runner, but after that came The Writer, which took eight months to make and ran in precisely four cinema houses for less than a week. The Writer’s failure might have been predicted—a three-reel drama about a British novelist in Paris?—except that Randolph St John Warminster-Fflytte (“Fflyttes of Fantasy!”) was a director famous for pulling hugely successful rabbits out of apparently shabby hats (Small Arms concerned the accidental death of a child; Rum Runner was about smuggling alcohol into the United States; both had returned their costs a hundredfold) and a movie about a thinly disguised James Joyce might have been as successful as his other ugly ducklings, particularly when one threw in the titillating appeal of the Ulysses obscenity ban.

  However, since the film had skirted around the actual depiction of the obscene acts in question, it went rather flat. So now, with three costly duds on his hands and the threatened loss of his aristocratic backers, Fflytte was returning to the scene of his three previous solid successes (“Fflyttes of Fanfare!”): the sea-borne action adventure.

  This one was to be loosely based on the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Loosely as in wobbling wildly and on the verge of a complete uncoupling. Not an inch of film had gone through the cameras; the Major-General was drunk around the clock; the cameraman’s assistant had a palsy of the hands that was explained to me, sotto voce, as the result of a recent nervous breakdown; the actress playing Mabel had taken the bit into her teeth with this, her first starring rôle, and was out to prove herself a flapper edition of Sarah Bernhardt (if not in talent, then in imperious attitudes and a knack of fabricating alternate versions of her personal history); and the twelve other young ladies playing the Major-General’s daughters—yes, thirteen daughters altogether—formed a non-stop cyclone of lace, giggles, and yellow curls that spun up and down the decks and occasionally below them—far below, to judge by the grease-stains on one pink dress thrust under my nose by an accusing maternal person. Even the eldest of the “sisters,” a busybody of the first order, had blinked her big blue eyes at me in practiced innocence from more than one out-of-bounds state-room.