IV - Before the Storm
The next day, The Bulldog strode across the deck of the Rip Tide, his first mate Stevens by his side. When he reached his cabin he proceeded to tear the smelling rags from his body.
"Make sure that the crew lays low. We can't risk drawing any attention to us. I don't want to hear of any brawls or drunken riots." He stuffed the clothes into one of two trunks that stood beside his bunk, then pulled out clean trousers, a shirt and jacket. "If any of them step out of line get rid off them. And I don't want the bodies to be found until we've left."
"Aye, aye." Stevens reached for the plain brown cap that had been carelessly thrown over a chandelier and handed it to his Captain.
"I also want you to pick five or six men. A couple of sharpshooters would be good. Take Martin and Saman. And prepare one of the cabins, we are going to have company."
"There will be guards posted around the Governor's mansion, now that Deriks is dead."
The Bulldog paused. He would not have tolerated such an remark from any other man, but he had known Stevens long enough to know that he was not questioning his actions. Though he would have had reason to. Robert Travers had to admit that killing the whelp might have been rash. But it had never been a smart idea to tempt his wrath. The impertinence of asking for a reward after failing so miserable to procure the map… by the gods, the lad had asked for it.
"You're right. Once they find the body, Travers will be suspicious." The Bulldog smiled maliciously. "So we'll have the chance to send a few of those spruced up navy boys to kingdom come." He sobered somewhat. "We'll have to be careful though."
He swept the jacket over his shoulder and tilted the cap so it dipped below his shaved off hairline. Satisfied, he gazed into the floor length mirror that stood against the far wall. He looked like a commoner, not like a Pirate Captain. One among hundreds. There was nothing remarkable about him. His appearance was instantly forgettable.
Giving off a bellowed laugh, the Bulldog slapped his first mate good-naturedly on the shoulder. "And now, my friend, I have to convince a charming and greedy young lassie to do me a favour or two." He took a small satchel filled with gold coins from his desk and left the cabin.
* * * * * * *
"I know it must be here somewhere. I distinctly remember packing it into one of the trunks."
Constance was kneeling in front of her drawers and rummaged through its contents, flinging garments carelessly to the ground. Her maid, Theresa, futilely tried to pick the clothes up and put them back into their respective drawers. "Miss Constance, please." The servant girl looked in horror at the articles strewn about the wooden floor and the thick, intricately woven carpets. "My lady, look at the mess you've made."
Constance looked up from her furious search and looked around. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Theresa." She jumped to her feet and walked over to her wardrobe. "I promise I'll help you clean it up later." She gave Theresa a slightly guilty smile. "But first I have to find my hat. I really want to wear it on my first sightseeing tour of Fort Charles."
Her arms full of fabric, Theresa sighed in exasperation. "Your mother won't we pleased at all. She told you to leave the hat in England."
Constance only laughed. "She told me to leave so many things at home. Honestly, she will hardly remember all of them. I doubt she will realize…"
A sudden knock on the door interrupted her.
Theresa hurried back to the drawer and started folding the clothes as Constance bid the person beyond the door to enter. The excited face of her twelve year old sister peaked around the door.
"Mirabelle, come in." Constance laughed high spirited and picked up a candlestick as her sister approached. She held it in front of her like a sword and poked her sister in the rips. "How dare you invade my sanctuary, little demon. Have you come to slay me?"
Mirabelle giggled. "Actually I'm just hiding from Isabeau. She says I can't come along when you go off shopping," she grasped Constance's hand. "But I so want to. I'm sure it will be terribly exciting. Do you think the Commodore will allow you to see the ships?"
"I doubt it." Constance frowned. "Even if he would not mind, mother would never allow it."
The smile slipped from Mirabelle's face. "I think you're right."
Like all members of the family, Mirabelle was tall for her age. Unlike Constance and Isabeau, however, she had inherited her father's green eyes and dark hair. Constance and her sister took after their mother's looks.
Constance gently ruffled her sister's hair. "Don't be so glum. We'll sneak out later, when Isabeau and I have returned. I'm sure the Commodore will excuse himself after we had tea. No sane man would voluntarily spend more time than necessary listening to mother show us off as if we were cows on the cattle market."
"Constance!" Mirabelle gasped in shock than dissolved into giggles. "Don't let mother hear you talk like that." Then she darted to the table and picked up another candlestick. "Lay down your weapons, knight. The prince is mine."
And so the battle begun.
Constance had played this game with her little sister ever since Mirabelle was old enough to wield a sword. Even though it was only a candlestick and no real weapon. But what reality lacked the girls made up for with their imagination.
In this game Constance was a brave knight come to save the fair prince from certain doom at the hands of the little demon. At first Constance had insisted that if her sister wanted to play the villain that she should at least be a witch or sorcerer, but Mirabelle had always preferred to impersonate a little hunched-over demon with leathery wings that were too small to fly. In the end Constance had let it go. They game was fun no matter who they pretended to be and it posed a welcome diversion to their duties which mostly consisted off studying and behaving properly within the narrow confines of society.
The two girls were so caught up in their make-believe fight that they did not notice Theresa who was kneeling on the floor by the drawers folding the robes that Constance had so carelessly disposed of.. Mirabelle lunged forward, forcing Constance to step back and suddenly Constance and Theresa lay sprawled on the floor, while Mirabelle was shaking with laughter.
Then the door was thrust open and a tall, blond woman with brown eyes, and a disapproving frown on her face, stepped into the room. "Honestly. The two of you are impossible." Isabeau narrowed her eyes at Mirabelle who was valiantly trying to repress the giggles, then frowned down at Canstance. "You are twenty years old and still behave like a child. You should set a good example for Mirabelle, not encourage her in these lunatic games."
Theresa had scrambled to her feet and stood silently against the wall, while Constance was still sitting on the floor. Her good mood evaporated in the face of her sister's nagging. "Oh, cheer up, Isa."
"I will not cheer up. The Commodore is waiting downstairs. You should have been in the sitting room minutes ago. Mother is already in such a state." Isabeau threw her hands up. She briefly surveyed the floor, then motioned to Theresa. "Would you please pick this up and find a suitable hat for my sister to wear."
Theresa curtsied. "Of course, miss."
"And you," Isabeau pointed at Mirabelle, "will wash your hair and then return to your studies. I'm sure Pamela is already waiting for you and the water will be cold by now."
Mirabelle pouted. "But Pamela told me to go away. She was talking to a man down in the garden and said that she doesn't have time to wash my hair."
"Well, then I will have to talk to father about this matter. Neglecting her duties… Oh I wish we had never left England."
Mirabelle and Constance exchanges equally exasperated looks. While the two of them had been excited to travel across the ocean, Isabeau had been overcome with homesickness even before they had left their estate in Stafford Shire. She had spent most of the voyage below decks, miserable and doing her best to spread her melancholy among the family.
Having inherited her mother's kind disposition, Mirabelle hurried towards her older sister to embrace her, while Constance tried to hide her annoyance in vain.
"Oh don't be sad, Isabeau. It's so lovely here. I'm sure a walk through town will cheer you up."
Constance snorted. "I'm sure it's going to be very cheerful with mother around. She won't stop nagging until one of us is engaged to that Commodore," she said disdainfully. "Isabeau, can't you just go down there and make him fall in love with you, so we can have our peace?"
Isabeau looked scandalised. Mirabelle only giggled her arms still wrapped around her sister's waist.
A knock on the door prevented Isabeau from retorting. Pamela, Mirabelle's maid, entered and curtsied. "Begging you pardon, Miss Isabeau, Miss Constance. I was looking for Miss Mirabelle. She is due to take her bath now." Then her gaze fell on the young girl who was frowning in displeasure. "There you are. I was looking all over for you."
"Mirabelle told us you sent her away." Isabeau untangled herself from her youngest sister and held her by the shoulders so she could look into her eyes. "Have you been telling stories again?"
"No, I haven't. She was talking to someone by the back gate."
Pamela hastily stepped forward her hands folded in front of her. "Oh yes, Miss Isabeau. I was talking to one of the servants, but I promised Miss Mirabelle that I would be up in her room shortly and bid her to wait for me there."
"No, you didn't." Mirabelle looked pleadingly up at her sister. "She told me to go away."
Isabeau wearily rubbed her hand against her brow. "I'm sure you just misunderstood her, dear." She gently pushed her sister into the maid's direction. Now go take your bath and behave yourself."
"But I..."
Isabeau gazed at her sternly. "Go."
Pouting, Mirabelle stomped out of the room in a very un-ladylike manner. She didn't spare Pamela a single glance.
* * * * * * *
Richard Travers swallowed heavily, his face white as a death mask. He nodded repeatedly then hurriedly stepped back from the barred up corpse, a gloved hand covering his nose.
"It's him."
Constable Meyerson covered James Deriks face's with a white cloth.
"He was found at The Night Watch. It's a tavern down by the merchant docks." He shook his head in disgust. "Seedy place." At Traver's impertinent look he hastily added. "My apologies Mr. Travers, this must be a shock to you. Please accept my condolences."
Travers dismissed his words with a wave of his hands. He was more concerned about the circumstances of his valet's death than the actual loss of the man. "Have you apprehended the murder?" he asked.
Meyerson shook his head. "I'm afraid we did not. We were hoping you could give us some idea what Mr. Deriks was doing there," he said uncomfortably.
Offended, Travers towered over the smaller man. "I brought well over a dozen servants with me from England. You can hardly expect me to keep track of all of them." He gestured towards the late Deriks. "Perhaps he could not bare to be away from England and tried to drown himself in liquor. What else could he have been doing in such a place?" There was a note of desperation in the last sentence, as if Travers was trying to convince himself rather than the Constable. "But surely you must have some idea who did this. A description perhaps?"
Constable Meyerson shook his head. "You know how it is, Sir. Nobody has seen anything."
Travers snorted. "Of course not."
He exited and walked into the adjourning office, were Governor Swann was waiting.
"I expect you to find this man, Constable." He said with a glance over his shoulder. "Such vermin needs to be brought to justice."
Then he left without another word.
* * * * * * *
The next day, The Bulldog strode across the deck of the Rip Tide, his first mate Stevens by his side. When he reached his cabin he proceeded to tear the smelling rags from his body.
"Make sure that the crew lays low. We can't risk drawing any attention to us. I don't want to hear of any brawls or drunken riots." He stuffed the clothes into one of two trunks that stood beside his bunk, then pulled out clean trousers, a shirt and jacket. "If any of them step out of line get rid off them. And I don't want the bodies to be found until we've left."
"Aye, aye." Stevens reached for the plain brown cap that had been carelessly thrown over a chandelier and handed it to his Captain.
"I also want you to pick five or six men. A couple of sharpshooters would be good. Take Martin and Saman. And prepare one of the cabins, we are going to have company."
"There will be guards posted around the Governor's mansion, now that Deriks is dead."
The Bulldog paused. He would not have tolerated such an remark from any other man, but he had known Stevens long enough to know that he was not questioning his actions. Though he would have had reason to. Robert Travers had to admit that killing the whelp might have been rash. But it had never been a smart idea to tempt his wrath. The impertinence of asking for a reward after failing so miserable to procure the map… by the gods, the lad had asked for it.
"You're right. Once they find the body, Travers will be suspicious." The Bulldog smiled maliciously. "So we'll have the chance to send a few of those spruced up navy boys to kingdom come." He sobered somewhat. "We'll have to be careful though."
He swept the jacket over his shoulder and tilted the cap so it dipped below his shaved off hairline. Satisfied, he gazed into the floor length mirror that stood against the far wall. He looked like a commoner, not like a Pirate Captain. One among hundreds. There was nothing remarkable about him. His appearance was instantly forgettable.
Giving off a bellowed laugh, the Bulldog slapped his first mate good-naturedly on the shoulder. "And now, my friend, I have to convince a charming and greedy young lassie to do me a favour or two." He took a small satchel filled with gold coins from his desk and left the cabin.
* * * * * * *
"I know it must be here somewhere. I distinctly remember packing it into one of the trunks."
Constance was kneeling in front of her drawers and rummaged through its contents, flinging garments carelessly to the ground. Her maid, Theresa, futilely tried to pick the clothes up and put them back into their respective drawers. "Miss Constance, please." The servant girl looked in horror at the articles strewn about the wooden floor and the thick, intricately woven carpets. "My lady, look at the mess you've made."
Constance looked up from her furious search and looked around. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Theresa." She jumped to her feet and walked over to her wardrobe. "I promise I'll help you clean it up later." She gave Theresa a slightly guilty smile. "But first I have to find my hat. I really want to wear it on my first sightseeing tour of Fort Charles."
Her arms full of fabric, Theresa sighed in exasperation. "Your mother won't we pleased at all. She told you to leave the hat in England."
Constance only laughed. "She told me to leave so many things at home. Honestly, she will hardly remember all of them. I doubt she will realize…"
A sudden knock on the door interrupted her.
Theresa hurried back to the drawer and started folding the clothes as Constance bid the person beyond the door to enter. The excited face of her twelve year old sister peaked around the door.
"Mirabelle, come in." Constance laughed high spirited and picked up a candlestick as her sister approached. She held it in front of her like a sword and poked her sister in the rips. "How dare you invade my sanctuary, little demon. Have you come to slay me?"
Mirabelle giggled. "Actually I'm just hiding from Isabeau. She says I can't come along when you go off shopping," she grasped Constance's hand. "But I so want to. I'm sure it will be terribly exciting. Do you think the Commodore will allow you to see the ships?"
"I doubt it." Constance frowned. "Even if he would not mind, mother would never allow it."
The smile slipped from Mirabelle's face. "I think you're right."
Like all members of the family, Mirabelle was tall for her age. Unlike Constance and Isabeau, however, she had inherited her father's green eyes and dark hair. Constance and her sister took after their mother's looks.
Constance gently ruffled her sister's hair. "Don't be so glum. We'll sneak out later, when Isabeau and I have returned. I'm sure the Commodore will excuse himself after we had tea. No sane man would voluntarily spend more time than necessary listening to mother show us off as if we were cows on the cattle market."
"Constance!" Mirabelle gasped in shock than dissolved into giggles. "Don't let mother hear you talk like that." Then she darted to the table and picked up another candlestick. "Lay down your weapons, knight. The prince is mine."
And so the battle begun.
Constance had played this game with her little sister ever since Mirabelle was old enough to wield a sword. Even though it was only a candlestick and no real weapon. But what reality lacked the girls made up for with their imagination.
In this game Constance was a brave knight come to save the fair prince from certain doom at the hands of the little demon. At first Constance had insisted that if her sister wanted to play the villain that she should at least be a witch or sorcerer, but Mirabelle had always preferred to impersonate a little hunched-over demon with leathery wings that were too small to fly. In the end Constance had let it go. They game was fun no matter who they pretended to be and it posed a welcome diversion to their duties which mostly consisted off studying and behaving properly within the narrow confines of society.
The two girls were so caught up in their make-believe fight that they did not notice Theresa who was kneeling on the floor by the drawers folding the robes that Constance had so carelessly disposed of.. Mirabelle lunged forward, forcing Constance to step back and suddenly Constance and Theresa lay sprawled on the floor, while Mirabelle was shaking with laughter.
Then the door was thrust open and a tall, blond woman with brown eyes, and a disapproving frown on her face, stepped into the room. "Honestly. The two of you are impossible." Isabeau narrowed her eyes at Mirabelle who was valiantly trying to repress the giggles, then frowned down at Canstance. "You are twenty years old and still behave like a child. You should set a good example for Mirabelle, not encourage her in these lunatic games."
Theresa had scrambled to her feet and stood silently against the wall, while Constance was still sitting on the floor. Her good mood evaporated in the face of her sister's nagging. "Oh, cheer up, Isa."
"I will not cheer up. The Commodore is waiting downstairs. You should have been in the sitting room minutes ago. Mother is already in such a state." Isabeau threw her hands up. She briefly surveyed the floor, then motioned to Theresa. "Would you please pick this up and find a suitable hat for my sister to wear."
Theresa curtsied. "Of course, miss."
"And you," Isabeau pointed at Mirabelle, "will wash your hair and then return to your studies. I'm sure Pamela is already waiting for you and the water will be cold by now."
Mirabelle pouted. "But Pamela told me to go away. She was talking to a man down in the garden and said that she doesn't have time to wash my hair."
"Well, then I will have to talk to father about this matter. Neglecting her duties… Oh I wish we had never left England."
Mirabelle and Constance exchanges equally exasperated looks. While the two of them had been excited to travel across the ocean, Isabeau had been overcome with homesickness even before they had left their estate in Stafford Shire. She had spent most of the voyage below decks, miserable and doing her best to spread her melancholy among the family.
Having inherited her mother's kind disposition, Mirabelle hurried towards her older sister to embrace her, while Constance tried to hide her annoyance in vain.
"Oh don't be sad, Isabeau. It's so lovely here. I'm sure a walk through town will cheer you up."
Constance snorted. "I'm sure it's going to be very cheerful with mother around. She won't stop nagging until one of us is engaged to that Commodore," she said disdainfully. "Isabeau, can't you just go down there and make him fall in love with you, so we can have our peace?"
Isabeau looked scandalised. Mirabelle only giggled her arms still wrapped around her sister's waist.
A knock on the door prevented Isabeau from retorting. Pamela, Mirabelle's maid, entered and curtsied. "Begging you pardon, Miss Isabeau, Miss Constance. I was looking for Miss Mirabelle. She is due to take her bath now." Then her gaze fell on the young girl who was frowning in displeasure. "There you are. I was looking all over for you."
"Mirabelle told us you sent her away." Isabeau untangled herself from her youngest sister and held her by the shoulders so she could look into her eyes. "Have you been telling stories again?"
"No, I haven't. She was talking to someone by the back gate."
Pamela hastily stepped forward her hands folded in front of her. "Oh yes, Miss Isabeau. I was talking to one of the servants, but I promised Miss Mirabelle that I would be up in her room shortly and bid her to wait for me there."
"No, you didn't." Mirabelle looked pleadingly up at her sister. "She told me to go away."
Isabeau wearily rubbed her hand against her brow. "I'm sure you just misunderstood her, dear." She gently pushed her sister into the maid's direction. Now go take your bath and behave yourself."
"But I..."
Isabeau gazed at her sternly. "Go."
Pouting, Mirabelle stomped out of the room in a very un-ladylike manner. She didn't spare Pamela a single glance.
* * * * * * *
Richard Travers swallowed heavily, his face white as a death mask. He nodded repeatedly then hurriedly stepped back from the barred up corpse, a gloved hand covering his nose.
"It's him."
Constable Meyerson covered James Deriks face's with a white cloth.
"He was found at The Night Watch. It's a tavern down by the merchant docks." He shook his head in disgust. "Seedy place." At Traver's impertinent look he hastily added. "My apologies Mr. Travers, this must be a shock to you. Please accept my condolences."
Travers dismissed his words with a wave of his hands. He was more concerned about the circumstances of his valet's death than the actual loss of the man. "Have you apprehended the murder?" he asked.
Meyerson shook his head. "I'm afraid we did not. We were hoping you could give us some idea what Mr. Deriks was doing there," he said uncomfortably.
Offended, Travers towered over the smaller man. "I brought well over a dozen servants with me from England. You can hardly expect me to keep track of all of them." He gestured towards the late Deriks. "Perhaps he could not bare to be away from England and tried to drown himself in liquor. What else could he have been doing in such a place?" There was a note of desperation in the last sentence, as if Travers was trying to convince himself rather than the Constable. "But surely you must have some idea who did this. A description perhaps?"
Constable Meyerson shook his head. "You know how it is, Sir. Nobody has seen anything."
Travers snorted. "Of course not."
He exited and walked into the adjourning office, were Governor Swann was waiting.
"I expect you to find this man, Constable." He said with a glance over his shoulder. "Such vermin needs to be brought to justice."
Then he left without another word.
* * * * * * *
