Blood Fever Page 6

  ‘How’s Mark Goodenough, sir?’ he said. ‘Have you heard anything?’

  ‘He’s with his grandfather. He’s bearing up, I think,’ replied Haight. ‘But I don’t know if he’ll return this half. He’s taken it all rather badly, and who can blame him.’ For a moment Haight’s face clouded and he appeared lost in thought, then he snapped out of it and smiled at James.

  ‘I thought I recognised you,’ he said. ‘The racing driver, James Bond.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said James.

  ‘So, tell me, young James Bond,’ said Haight, ‘are you interested in Sardinia?’

  ‘I think a relative of mine has a house there,’ said James. ‘But until tonight I didn’t really know very much about the place.’

  ‘Exactly my point.’ Haight beamed at him. ‘Nobody does. But I intend to open a few boys’ minds. I’m taking an expedition there at the end of the summer, to look at some of the monuments. Perhaps you’d like to join us? Visit the Tombs of the Giants.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said James. ‘I’m not sure yet what my plans are for the holidays…’

  ‘Well, if you fancy it, just add your name to the list in School Yard. Are you still coming, Perry?’

  ‘Think so, sir, if I can get the old m-man to stump up, he’s feeling frightfully poor since the burglary.’ Perry turned to James. ‘They didn’t just take paintings, but also a lot of jewellery and silver and the like, but I reckon I’ll go to the M-Med and take a look at these Neurotic m-monuments. What do you say, James? Why don’t you come?’

  Before James could reply he felt a tug at his sleeve and turned to see a small milk-faced boy.

  ‘I think you’d better come,’ he said. ‘Your friend Pritpal’s in trouble.’

  James followed him out of the building and found an unruly gang of boys running off down the High Street, singing and chanting. He gave chase and as he got closer he could make out the words of their chant.

  ‘Throw Nandra in the river! Throw Nandra in the river!’

  He managed to get the attention of one of the stragglers, a skinny lad with spots all over his face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ James asked.

  ‘We’re going to throw Nandra in the river,’ shouted the boy.

  ‘Why?’ said James.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the boy. ‘It just seemed like a good idea.’

  The mob bundled off the road and made its way down to Fellows Eyot by the Thames, where it stopped. James fought his way to the front and saw the frightened face of Pritpal. He was cornered by the river’s edge, clutching his hat and trembling.

  Three of the largest boys advanced on him. ‘Come along, little rabbit,’ said one of them. ‘You’re going in the pot!’

  ‘Stop it!’ James yelled, and they turned round laughing.

  James stepped out of the crowd. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he said, looking from one boy to another.

  He recognised the ringleader, a large boy with floppy hair. He would have been quite handsome if his ears and nose hadn’t stuck out so much, and he wore an expression of arrogant superiority that only the truly stupid can pull off. He was well known in the school. His name was Tony Fitzpaine and he was the Duke of something, or the Earl of somewhere.

  ‘We’re going to throw Nandra in the river,’ he drawled, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘He’s not one of us,’ scoffed Fitzpaine. ‘He’s an invader and we’re going to throw him back into the sea, just like Haight’s Sardinian bandits.’

  ‘Wash him in the Thames!’ someone shouted.

  James stepped forward and put himself between the boys and his friend. ‘Leave him alone,’ he said. ‘He’s better than the lot of you.’

  ‘Ha!’ snorted Fitzpaine. ‘Do you know who I am, you dirty little pleb?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘And you could be the King of England for all I care. Pritpal is my friend and you’re not going to throw him in the river.’

  ‘If you don’t get out of my way,’ bawled Fitzpaine, ‘I’m going to throw you in the river.’ He looked to his friends and brayed with laughter like a donkey.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said James flatly and Fitzpaine frowned at him.

  The two of them stood there, staring at each other. Fitzpaine was not used to anyone standing up to him. His father was an important, powerful man, so, within Eton, Fitzpaine was also important and powerful. For a moment he seemed confused, then the arrogant look returned. In his mind there was a certain order in the world, and this order was being threatened. He didn’t know James, which meant that James wasn’t important. And you could do whatever you liked to unimportant people. Fitzpaine pulled his lips back from his large teeth and forced his mouth into a superior smile.

  ‘Well, you asked for it,’ he said, and pushed James hard backwards in the direction of the river’s edge. But James had been expecting something and stood his ground. Then, before the older boy knew what was happening, he punched him hard in the mouth.

  Fitzpaine rocked on his feet, stunned, trying to focus his eyes, his knees shaking and his legs wobbly.

  There was a shocked silence from the other boys.

  James calmly walked over and gave Fitzpaine a shove. He toppled over into the Thames and floundered about in the reeds at the river’s edge, spluttering in amazement. Two of his friends went to haul him out.

  James confronted the rest of the mob. Now what? They’d probably lynch him.

  However, someone laughed.

  ‘Good show!’ said someone else and, before James knew what was happening, he was hoisted up on to the boys’ shoulders and carried off in triumph amid much laughing and singing.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked James.

  ‘Oh,’ said one of the boys carrying him, ‘we didn’t much care who went into the river, just so long as it was someone. Nobody likes Fitzpaine.’

  Pritpal was hoisted aloft as well, and the two of them were paraded down the High Street like champions before being dumped in a back alley. The other boys hurried away, their laughter echoing off the walls.

  Pritpal tried to thank James, but James shrugged it off.

  ‘I’d have done it for anyone,’ he said. ‘People like Fitzpaine think they can do whatever they want, just because of who their father is.’

  ‘My father’s a maharaja,’ said Pritpal, ‘but I don’t go around beheading people.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should,’ said James. ‘Then people might show you a little more respect.’

  ‘You are lucky, James,’ said Pritpal. ‘People keep clear of you. You can look after yourself, but if you go around hitting people you’re going to get into trouble one day.’

  ‘I know,’ said James. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. But you must admit he did look funny, sitting there in the river.’

  Pritpal laughed. ‘Come along. We’d better get back,’ he said, anxiously checking his watch. ‘We’ll miss lock-up.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said James, who was standing staring at something.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the building.’

  ‘Building?’ said Pritpal. ‘What building? There are lots of buildings here.’

  ‘From the other night,’ said James. ‘Where the two men were speaking Latin.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Pritpal.

  ‘I’m positive. Seeing it here, like this, at night, I recognise it.’

  ‘Well, there is no time to investigate now,’ said Pritpal. ‘We must get back.’

  ‘You go,’ said James. ‘I’m going to take a quick look.’

  ‘All right,’ said Pritpal, trotting off. ‘But please hurry!’

  James walked closer. From the outside there was nothing special about the place. Its windows were shuttered and it looked deserted. There was no clue as to whether anyone lived here. It looked like a perfectly ordinary Eton house. Except James knew that in the cellar was a chapel dedicated to some strange god.
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  He approached one of the windows and pressed his nose up against it to try and see past the crack between two partially opened shutters, and he was surprised to find that there was someone inside. A dim light was burning, but all he could make out in the gloom were the shoulder of a tweed suit, a white shirtfront and a black-and-red-striped tie. He thought he vaguely recognised the clothes and then the man moved and James got a glimpse of a red face and a moustache.

  Cooper-ffrench. It could only be him.

  James was straining for a better look when he suddenly heard the front door opening.

  He ducked down and turned away and pretended to be a tying a shoelace, but he was aware of someone’s eyes boring into the back of his neck and he stood up. There was a man standing on the doorstep in his shirtsleeves. He had lank red hair and two long scars running from the edges of his mouth to his ears. He appeared to be smiling, but he looked at James with such a blank expression in his eyes that the effect was menacing and hostile. He put a cigarette to his mouth and inhaled a lungful of smoke, which he let out slowly, his gaze all the while fixed on James. James saw that the hand that held the cigarette was tattooed. There was a crude red letter M on the back of it. And there was an identical tattoo on his other hand.

  James remembered the stencilled letters on the packing crates that he had seen the other night. MM. He wanted to know more, but now wasn’t the time to ask questions. He smiled politely and sauntered off down the street as nonchalantly as he could, aware of the man’s stare following him to the end of the road.

  ‘Oh, but that sounds like an excellent idea!’

  It was three weeks later and James was on long leave. He was free from Friday morning to Monday night. A lot of the other boys were up at Lords for the annual Eton versus Harrow cricket match, but James had taken the opportunity to get away from anything to do with school – in particular the stifling uniform and the top hat. He had gone home to his aunt’s cottage in Kent where he could happily spend the weekend sunning himself in the countryside wearing his comfortable old shirt and trousers.

  He and Charmian were eating a picnic lunch outside in the shade of an old apple tree and James had mentioned that he might be interested in joining Haight’s expedition to Sardinia.

  ‘You could spend the start of the hols here with me before I leave for Brazil,’ said Charmian, cutting a slice of pork pie. ‘Then ship out with Mister Haight. How long is the trip?’

  ‘Three weeks, I think,’ said James. ‘Though I’m not sure I want to spend all that time tramping round ancient ruins.’

  ‘Well, stay with the school party for as long as you can bear it, and then peel off to your cousin Victor’s in Capo d’Orso. I’m sure Mister Haight wouldn’t mind. You could stay with Victor until the end of the holidays.’ She handed James a plate of food. ‘There,’ she said. ‘We have it. A plan. It’ll do you the world of good to get away from dreary old England.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said James. ‘I can’t say I’m that interested in Nuraghic monuments, but Mister Haight’s good fun and one of my friends will be going. Are you sure that Victor will have me, though?’

  ‘You’ve stayed with him before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘But that was years ago. At his old house in Italy.’

  James couldn’t remember much about his cousin, who was a lot older than he was, so that James thought of him as more of an uncle.

  ‘Well,’ said Charmian, ‘from what I hear, he’s getting more and more eccentric in his old age. But I’ll write to him and see what he has to say.’

  ‘OK.’ James smiled and took a sip of water. ‘Aunt Charmian,’ he said after a short pause, ‘you know a bit about tattoos, don’t you?’

  ‘Tattoos? Yes. A little. Why?’

  ‘It’s only that I saw a man in Eton with some and I was curious about them. Do you know what a tattoo of the letter M would mean? Two Ms. One on each hand.’

  ‘Not off the top of my head,’ Charmian replied. ‘Could be the initials of almost anything. Or the number two thousand.’

  ‘Two thousand?’ said James. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘M is the Roman numeral for a thousand. Two Ms – two thousand.’

  ‘But why would you have it tattooed on your hands?’

  ‘Oh, people get tattoos for many different reasons,’ said Charmian. ‘But it most commonly means you belong to a tribe, or gang. The custom goes right back to ancient Egyptian times.’

  ‘What sort of people get tattoos?’ James asked.

  ‘In England? Well, they were first brought here in the eighteenth century by men who’d sailed to the South Seas with Captain Cook. They copied the idea from the natives out there. They started quite a craze. Did you know that King George has a tattoo?’

  ‘Really?’ said James, who couldn’t quite picture it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charmian. ‘He and his brother both have dragons on their arms. It’s all down to their father, the old king. He had the Jerusalem Cross tattooed on to his arm in the Holy Land when he was Prince of Wales. Well, after that, everyone in smart society had to have a tattoo. You weren’t anybody unless you had one. King Edward had several more done and then got his sons tattooed in Japan by the celebrated master Hori Chiyo. But it all ended in 1891.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’ said James.

  ‘A man named Samuel O’Riley went and invented a mechanical tattooing device and suddenly everybody could afford one. Overnight tattoos changed from being the decoration of an aristocrat to the mark of a low life. But in many other cultures around the world they still use tattooing and ritual body-scarring as a sign of manhood.’

  ‘What would it mean if you had a scar from the corners of your mouth to your ears?’ said James, indicating the lines on his own face. ‘Would that be a ritual thing, too?’

  ‘No,’ said Charmian. ‘That would mean you were an informer. A criminal who’d given information to the police and been found out by his gang. It’s an underworld punishment. Rather gruesome. You swipe a long knife crossways into a man’s mouth and slice through both his cheeks.’

  She demonstrated, with a sweep of her hand and a ghoulish look on her face. ‘He’s marked for life, you understand?’ she said. ‘It’s clear for all to see that he had betrayed his own kind. Criminals are a charming bunch. Talking of criminals, there was another article in The Times this morning about your friend Mark Goodenough’s family.’

  ‘Any news?’ James asked.

  ‘It didn’t say much more than what you’d already told me. They’re almost certain it was pirates. They’ve found the bodies of all the men, but still not the girl and her tutor. The fear is that they might have been taken for the white slave trade.’

  ‘I didn’t think there were still pirates in the world,’ said James. ‘When I think of pirates I think of the Spanish Main, Captain Kidd, Blackbeard and Long John Silver…’

  ‘Oh, as long as men have taken to the sea in boats there have been pirates,’ said Charmian. ‘And there always will be. We have a romantic notion of them, James, but in reality they are simple criminals, no different from any other burglar or thief, except that they’re usually more ruthless and murderous. You will just have to hope, James, that you never come face to face with one outside of a picture book…’

  6

  The Sailor Who Feared the Sea

  The Charon was lifted by the heaving water, and then slammed down into a trough between two waves. The sea thumped against her hull and she shuddered like a dog shaking itself. On the bridge, Tree-Trunk looked out through the thick glass of the window, a cigar clenched between his teeth. The huge, tattooed Samoan was wearing a yellow oilskin and had a woman’s fur hat jammed on top of his head.

  This was the worst storm he’d seen in the Mediterranean for many years. The waves were 15 to 20 feet high and rain thrashed relentlessly down on to the surface of the water, tearing at it, and throwing salt spray into the wind. All the colour had been drained from the day; sea and sky were th
e same ugly slate grey. It was four in the afternoon but it was almost as dark as night. The temperature had dropped to winter levels.

  All in all, it was a filthy day.

  Another wave reared up and the vessel turned into it, sending a wall of water crashing over her bows.

  To an ordinary man the churning sea would have seemed to be a formless mass, but the Samoan could read shapes in it. He had learnt to paddle a canoe when he was four years old and had signed on to the crew of a whaling ship when he was eleven. Salt water was in his veins. He understood the sea and could predict its furious movements. An even bigger wave took the ship now, and he braced himself as the Charon lurched beneath his feet, seeming to hang in mid-air for a moment before thudding down against a solid mass of water. Tree-Trunk made a small adjustment to the controls and shifted his cigar to the opposite corner of his mouth, all the while staring dead ahead. The gusting wind now changed direction and rain whipped against the windows with a noise like rattling pebbles.

  Tree-Trunk scratched his armpit and yawned. She could take it. The Charon was built to withstand anything the elements could hurl at her. She was small and tough and easily shouldered the storm, chugging resolutely through the boiling water. But they were making slow progress. Tree-Trunk had been standing here battling the storm for several hours, and it looked like he might be here for several more. As fast as they moved forward they were battered back and they would be using up a lot of fuel.

  The noise of the wind was deafening as it howled all about the ship, drumming against her sides as if it was trying to get in. But beneath the cacophony the Samoan could hear the ship’s engine steadily throbbing down below. And that was a very reassuring sound. From the outside the Charon looked like a clapped-out old tramp steamer. But it was a deception. She was fitted with a fast and powerful steam turbine engine and could reach a top speed of 35 knots. The turbine had enough muscle to drive a vessel twice this size. The Charon may have looked fat and slow and solid, but she could outrun almost any other ship in the deep ocean.