Chapter 37

A/N: Many thanks to Fergus for the Russian swearing and other information (and the loan of his cat).

London. A few days after the events of chapter 36.

Jim Turner picked up his letters on his return to London. Three from Molly. Two from Peggy. Rather unusually, three in Nancy's untidy scrawl. As usual, he opened the most recent first. "The kids" had had chickenpox but had recovered. He'd have to read the previous letters to find out which of the kids had suffered. He was fairly sure some of them had had it already. Or perhaps that was measles. And who was Rowan?

Nancy's most recent letter was rather more interesting although she seemed, as usual, to have the matter well in hand. Again, who was Rowan? And why was he (Jim looked again. Nancy's handwriting wasn't the best, but that looked as if the word was "she", rather than "he", yes, it was definitely an "s") sleeping in the houseboat? Nancy wrote as if it was something he had already agreed to, but then that was Nancy. The enclosed note, written in pencil by Jane made him smile.

….Mummmy rowed us around the houseboat a bit too and Julia and me looked for clues and I found one and here it is. And Mummmy stayed in the houseboat last night and I think it was to see if she could catch the buggler but he never came back and so she couldn't. I think he was scared because Mummmy is very brave. …..

The Garrick club wasn't the sort of place that Jim would usual choose to eat his lunch, but his company today (and two of them wrote a damn good yarn – better, he would cheerfully admit than Mixed Moss) was good and so was the lunch. Eventually, three of them remained at the table. Both the others would be amused by the incident on the houseboat, which didn't seem related at all to anything he had done since the war. Besides, Jane's letter, obviously written without assistance, was really pretty good for someone who was only just six. Certainly better than Nancy or Peggy could have managed at that age.

"The lass is quite right." said one of Jim's companions, removing his spectacles and holding the scrap of paper close to his eyes for a better look, as short-sighted people after a certain age very often do. Jim wondered for a second whether the paper would get caught in his friend's walrus moustache. His other companion, a thin, bespectacled clean-shaven man gave a short laugh at the salutation of the letter.

" "Dear fat uncle Jim"?" he enquired.

"Peggy – my other niece – is married to a chap called Jim." Jim explained.

"The child is quite right. A Cyrillic letter. And written, as she observes, in "grown-up ink" and not the washable sort. Someone has been a little careless."

"And a little unlucky. Mind if I use this, Jim? It could be a useful little sub-plot."

"Hornblower back to the Baltic again?"

"No, this is an earlier one. Set earlier, of course, I mean. I was thinking French."

"It would have to be a whole word then. Or at least a smaller fragment."

"I was thinking a numeral."

"Seven." Jim said

The thin man flashed a grin at his companions. "Exactly. Too good to waste. Fog will be the thing. And perhaps not paper."