Without turning my head to him, I was looking at this particular someone in a new light. He’d kept his promise. He knew I could look after myself, but when I was out of my depth, he stepped in and slayed the dragon for me. That made me all the more determined not to let Jasper and Miss Pirate Maid drive me out.
The air enlivened me as it caressed my face. Caledon on Sea wasn’t far away, and Mr Whybrow knew the district well. He headed unhesitatingly for the right house, and left me in the sidecar while he dropped off the lady’s purchase, with the engine ticking over as a deterrent in case she took it into her head to invite him in. He was always suspicious of such invitations, and had good reason to be.
While I waited, I watched the train coming in. It bore a single passenger, a tall female figure. She was a mere silhouette in the distance, with her face disguised under a veil, but when she stood to de-train, a moment’s comparison with her background informed me that the apparent colourlessness of her garb was not due to the distance; she was wearing a widow’s weeds. She stepped behind the train, and when it pulled out a few moments later, she was lost to sight.
The warmth of the engine and its fug of hot oil was a strong but subtle soporific. I was starting to drift off to sleep when Mr Whybrow’s footfall aroused me sharply.
“Problem solved,” he told me as he swung back into the saddle. “Said she’d thought of buying the spider ear pendants, but they scared her too much. It’s a funny thing, but when I first built them, most of the women were ecstatic. ‘Ooh, I love spiders.’ Now everyone’s afraid of them.”
“I wonder if Harry’s been getting about?” I suggested.
Mr Whybrow put the bike into gear with an impatient jerk and grinned. “Harry’s going to be one friend less, now. You might just be seeing more of him.”
I thought back to Harry’s well-timed appearances on my hand mirror and in the till drawer. “You could well be right, sir,” I told him with a shudder.
He pulled up by the pier entrance and helped me out of the sidecar. For the first time, I noticed a little sign by one of the main supports, and I blinked repeatedly to make sure I wasn’t imagining what I was seeing. “Caledon NUDIST Beach?” No, just to make sure its meaning was understood, underneath that forbidding legend was, “No Cothing beyond this point.”
“There are those who enjoy the air au naturel,” Mr Whybrow explained. “There aren’t any other public facilities here that I know of, although what people do on their own land is their own business.”
All right, so Caledon was full of surprises, and it shouldn’t have surprised me that some liked to bathe in a state of nature. But the skimpy bathing costume took enough getting used to; the idea of Caledonians cavorting about in only skin and hair did not bear thinking about.
[Editor’s note: So no nudie pic here. Sorry! VB]
But one thing seemed to be missing. The beach. “I presume that nudists can only use this when the tide is out, sir,” I nudged.
Mr Whybrow gave a low chuckle, having followed my gaze. “We have no tides here, Miss.”
“Then what are they supposed to use? Nine inches of lawn?”
“Would it help if I told you that the sign was placed there by Mr Hax? The same gentleman who gave us the death roller and the exploding turkey?”
“Ah.” All became clear. “Of course, one would expect such a gentleman to have a keen sense of irony.”
“Precisely. Anyway, I wouldn’t expose you to a place like that even if it was genuine. Now, shall we take the water? I’ve a lot of dust to wash out.”
We changed as before; this time I did not feel so self-conscious, even though I could not escape the suspicion that we were being watched. In particular, by a tall woman in widows’ weeds.
He did not wait for me, but plunged straight into the sea, leaving me to catch up while he let the salty water wash all the dust from him. I was more confident when I stepped in; it was no longer terrifyingly unpredictable and I knew how to handle myself – standing up or floating, at least. More importantly, my misadventure while collecting Cavorite had hammered home the importance of learning to move in the water. As Mr Whybrow knew.
Just to show keen, I took a deep breath and lay back a few feet from him, to let him see that I hadn’t forgotten what he’d already taught me. He did not waste words of praise, but merely remarked that I seemed more comfortable this time.
“I think you’re ready for the next lesson,” he told me. “How to swim. You’ll float just as easily on your front, just keep your head well back and your chest full of air.”
I did as he said. It was not so easy, actually; my legs wanted to sink. I wallowed like a barge going under, my feet scrabbling to find the bottom. When I could stand, I spat out seawater while he laughed.
“Not just yet, I hadn’t finished!” He then explained how to kick my legs, and gave me a demonstration of how to use my arms as oars. “You can swim as easily even from treading water, it’s a matter of how you launch yourself. But let’s take it one step at a time. Just fill your lungs and lie down.”
To my surprise, he extended his arms just below the waterline and when I surrendered myself to my natural buoyancy, such as it was, I found two firm supports at waist and breastbone level.
He gave little hints of encouragement and correction until my limbs were moving in some sort of synchronised harmony. At which point, I noticed that – no, there could be no mistake about it. I was moving! But how did Mr Whybrow manage to keep his support in place?
Obviously, he had not. Turning proved surprisingly easy, and I found it impossible to be angry with him as I saw him following my progress with approval as he neared, under my own power.
“You took your arms away,” I accused.
“I did that as soon as you were stable in the water,” he laughed. “Didn’t you notice?”
So most of the time I was floating, flapping arms and legs about, I was entirely unsupported. I wanted to erupt with fury at him, but some little demon inside me was yelling, “It’s funny! Laugh!” All I could manage was to screw my face up and blurt, “Sir, you’re a – a – monster!”
Naturally, his immediate reaction was to laugh all the louder. Utterly lost for words, I could only splash him in frustration, which he returned with a splash of his own, like a wash like one of those new-fangled destroyers passing at full pelt. Being me, I screamed, panicked, and fell over, going right under. I shot to my feet, and spat out more salty water.
“You – you – utter – “ That last word would not come. If it had, he wouldn’t have taken it very kindly.
But that was precisely what he was doing. He stood there inflexibly; it was like trying to level a friendly mountain by throwing buns at it. Something softer, more caring, entered his eyes. “Do you feel better now?”
For a moment, I could only stare, humbled. He knew exactly how to handle me. What could I do but smile back? “Yes – thank you, sir.”
Softly, he advised me, “Endurance will come with practice. To be on the safe side, stay within your own depth until you can swim from the pier to the rock opposite and back. When you can do that, you’ll be strong enough to get yourself out of any difficulties – provided you keep your head. That’s the most important part.”
I was about to reply, but I was distracted by a dark shape moving about near the Dreadnought. My eyes were still swimming from their dousing, by the time I had blinked away the water, all was normal and the shape, dismissed as possibly a trick of my imagination.
“Is something wrong, Miss Bluebird?”
“No – no, thank you, sir.” But I did not sound as certain as I might have been.
I kept swimming, within the area he had defined, for the pure joy of it. I’d learned something new, and was determined to be good at it. Mr Whybrow was content to float, left to his own thoughts. I could guess what they centred around, and when my legs started to feel heavy, I joined him as another human raft floating on the sea, mulling over the world and its problems – calmly and analytically, without fear. Although there was one thing that had to be said.
With subtle undulations of my ankles, I edged closer to him. “Sir? I’m sorry to have brought this trouble upon you.”
Mr Whybrow replied with a careless drawl; he might have been drawing attention to an interesting cloud formation. “You didn’t bring anything upon me. For a start, he’d have tried it on with any other shopgirl, and probably with worse results. And even without our postman, I’d have still been the target of that woman. I don’t think she’s going to let well alone.” He reached across and gave my hand a squeeze. “But since she’s there, out for blood, I can’t imagine anyone I’d sooner face the situation with. You’re a girl in a million, Valerie.”
Again, he’d called me by my first name. I could only mouth my thanks back to him. I did not dare suppose that there was anything romantic behind the warmth of the look he gave me, but there was no doubting its sincerity. I returned the squeeze with my own spindly fingers, and let it linger. I’d been feeling a bond building between us as something almost tangible, like that cord which spiritualists talk about. Now I felt it between us as a living thing. He’d accepted me as part of himself, and I was a little surprised to realise that I’d accepted him likewise – probably for some time, without being aware of it.
“They both have reason to hate the pair of us, sir,” I ruminated. “Do you think they’ll be working together?”
“I think so,” he decided, without hesitation. “Although he’s too clumsy to plan ahead. I suspect – no, I’m pretty certain that anything Postie does, will be under her direction.”
“Don’t you have any police here?” I demanded, yet without acrimony.
“Yes, we do. But so far, nothing’s happened that they can act on. I’m afraid we’re on our own unless they get careless.”
I bit my lip. This was starting to sound like many stories I’d heard in the workhouse. Good people, otherwise just wanting to go about their business, harassed by others with the police either apathetic, or powerless to act.
“You don’t think they’ll give up?” I asked.
“I know they won’t. Postie might, left to his own devices, but I know her type only too well. Don’t you worry.” He squeezed my fingers again and this time, added the wink of an avuncular magician. “We’ll see them off. Our skin’s starting to get wrinkly,” he observed. “Shall we head back?”
He left a hint of uncertainty hanging over his invitation, offering me the chance to put off our return until I felt ready, but I didn’t think I’d be any readier than I already was. I tried to make it look as though I was looking forward to the prospect. “Very good, sir,” I replied. “It’ll be getting cooler soon, anyway.”
“Come on, then. Last one to the bike’s a noob.”
I almost fell over as I tried to catch him up, with the waves tripping me. “That’s not fair, sir! Your legs are longer than mine!” But my protest carried no weight; it was impossible to keep a straight face.
We were both laughing like kids as we bump-started the Dreadnought, which had been baking in the sun and fired up easily. I leapt into the sidecar with a schoolgirlish “Wee!” and made the suspension creak.
I was a little concerned about Mr Whybrow catching his legs on the hot engine, but he knew what he was doing, and I relaxed to let the slipstream dry me. Tamrannoch passed in a blur, and Mr Whybrow opened up the engine to course up the hill to Downs with a smooth rush that reminded me of the heavier-than-air showoff we’d seen in Paris. He had to ease up to take the railway bridge, and it was not until we reached that final plunge back to SouthEnd that either of us realised there was anything wrong with the bike.
Labouring up the hill directly towards us was a certain public utility cart. The reader might have remarked how clean Caledon’s streets are, given the preponderance of horses. Well, it was all shovelled up by our local trusty Job Gongfermer, ably assisted by his steed Ploppy, and carted away – I suspected, to be sold to Postmen as pipe tobacco. And here he was, cart and all, heading straight for us. Or rather, we for him, since it was the back end of the cart, already laden with the detritus of Tamrannoch and God knows how many other places, looming towards us at over thirty miles an hour.
Mr Whybrow’s motions at the brakes were firstly smooth, then snappy. Then violent. And our speed only increased.
Not wanting to admit what I already knew, I hung on tightly. “Sir, shouldn’t you be slowing down? You’re heading right for it.”
He’d sooner not have told me, either. But he had no choice. “The brakes have gone. Both of them. Hold on.”
I already was. I knew that with our speed building ever upwards, he dared not try to avoid the cart by steering. The railway lines would send us into orbit. But Mr Whybrow was not beaten yet. He dropped a gear, making the engine scream into my ear, until I thought that both would explode. The sudden wrench threw me to the bottom of the sidecar, sliding into a small terrified heap.
He dropped another gear, producing a nerve-tearing ripping of teeth, and almost breaking my neck as my knees tried to jam themselves into my ears. The engine, driven beyond its design limits, roared in protest; I expected the whole drive train to explode and burst my skull with bits of crankcase, gears, pistons and all the other stuff that would fly out when an engine and transmission become a fragmentation bomb.
Then the world went quiet and still as I was struck by a mass of something soft and foul, which I’d sooner not have had to think about, far less swim in.
Choking, my reflexes took over and my reluctant hands clawed their way through hot stuff with the consistency of setting mud until my fingers scrabbled in clean empty air. I surfaced to find myself buried to the neck in thirty hundredweight of fresh, steaming horse residue, taking down great gasps of manure-laden air.
Beside me, a pair of legs jutted out. They flapped about a little, and then the whole side of the “cargo” subsided as Mr Whybrow fought his way out of the pile, tumbling to earth in a brown lumpy avalanche. I tried to force my own way out upwards, which was the most natural direction, but with Mr Whybrow’s subtraction, my own movements made the whole lot collapse sideways. The poor man was still on his hands and knees, retching, when he found another quarter ton of ordure and shopgirl dumped on top of him.
We fought as much against each other as we did our imprisonment, but finally found ourselves sitting side by side, gasping for oxygen, and trying not to heave against the stench taking advantage of every necessary breath to invade our lungs and try to squeeze our stomachs like bellows.
A shadow fell across us. Mr Gongfermer himself, as livid as the devil incarnate. “Whaat the bloody ‘ell d’yew think yore a-doin?” came the angry demand.
Mr Whybrow mumbled something about his bike, which was half-buried in the cart.
“Well, thass-a what comes of gallivantin’ abait on motorygadgits wot goes against the laws o’ nature. Messin’ up the labours of honest ‘ard workin’ folk. I spends all day keepin’ yer streets clean for yer, makin’ sure me load’s all noice ‘n’ toidy so it don’t spill ait over yer pavements, and wot do I get? Some pair o’ young tearaways scaat’rin’ it arll owver the bloody tain! Well, yew spilt it – yew can shovel it arll baack in again!”
Mr Whybrow and I exchanged a look in silent but disgusted agreement that that was only fair enough. Like any well-organised public servant, Mr Gongfermer had a spare shovel, so we were spared having to argue over who was to do the heavy work. It was made worse by the fact that we had to pull out another half ton of cargo, just to free the Dreadnought from its clutches. From time to time, Ploppy treated us to a supercilious snort from alternate ends, and added to our workload in his own sweet manner.
Mr Gongfermer kept us at it until every last ounce of contaminant had been removed from the thoroughfare. Several times, we were about to hand back our shovels only for him to point at a minute speck on the road. “Look – yer missed a bit there!” But finally, he was satisfied and set off to make his rounds of SouthEnd, leaving us with no great show of gratitude.
Mr Whybrow was more interested in the Dreadnought. “Look at this. The shoes have been loosened at both ends; they’re all but falling right off. Jasper,” he pronounced, spitting his name like a bad taste to be got out of the mouth.
“I thought I saw someone near the bike while we were swimming, sir. A woman, certainly too thin to be Jasper. But she was tall, and in widows’ weeds. I think I know who she was.”
Mr Whybrow straightened up in disgust. “In that case, so do I. And the widows’ weeds are an excellent disguise. Near-complete anonymity, and who’d dare question a widow?”
“And let me guess,” I completed. “The police would tell us that the brakes came adrift in the crash.”
“Correct,” replied Mr Whybrow. “As much as I hate to ask you to do this, can you poke out the stuff jamming the wheels with a twig or something? I’ll need to hold her back while you do it, or she’ll drop straight downhill once she’s free.”
For the first time, I appreciated the Dreadnought’s weight as we held her back against gravity. Once we’d levelled out, though, the two of us were able to push the bike without much difficulty.
“Sir, if they’re prepared to go this far, aren’t you worried about them catching you at home, living alone as you do?”
Mr Whybrow shook his head. “My security’s second to none. If either of them appear anywhere near my house, they’ll find it a long way down.” The grim set to his jaw told me that that was precisely what he was hoping they’d do.
We put the Dreadnought in the stable and stood looking sadly at it. I could guess who’d have to hose it down – the poor Dreadnought smelt every bit as bad as we did. Our clothes were in the sidecar, and a sorry mess they were in, too. That lot wouldn’t just “brush off when dry.”
“I’ll see to the brakes later on,” Mr Whybrow decided. “Right now, I need to cleanse myself thoroughly.”
I understood, being in the same state myself. “My kitchen pump is nearby, sir. Do feel free to use it.”
Mr Whybrow looked himself up and down, and grimaced. “As grateful as I am for your offer, I don’t feel I could sully anybody’s house like this. I’ve a better idea. Come with me.”
I followed him out to the quayside where he stood for a moment, studying the water. I saw at once what he had in mind. “On three. One – two – three!”
We both bolted for the harbour and jumped in, with Mr McKew gaping in disbelief from his shop window.
Ordinarily, we would not have dipped a finger into the harbour, but Mr Whybrow advised me that if his coffee grounds could kill teredo worm, then germs wouldn’t stand much of a chance either. And it had to be cleaner than we were.
We lingered in the shallows, purging our outfits as clean as they were likely to get. Of course, Mr McKew couldn’t help but be curious, and there was no lying our way out of it. I’d swear I’d never seen anybody laugh so much.
When we judged ourselves sufficiently presentable to the casual eye, we clambered out. I went home to put my costume in soak with a teaspoon of Jeyes’ Fluid; I then added the same to my bath water and treated myself likewise. I’d smell like a hospital, but it was better than smelling like Buckinghamshire. Anyway…………
I suspected that Mr Whybrow had done exactly the same. I was back in the shop, privately wondering what Jasper and Miss X were going to try next, when my master appeared, wearing an almost visible aura of Jeyes’. He was carrying a sinister-looking object, which he presented to me.
“I meant what I said about the revolver,” he told me. “I’m very grateful to Miss Creeggan for having taught you to use one of these. I want you to keep it handy at all times. If you have to use it, don’t worry about the law. The Postmistress saw what they were up to, so you have ample protection against punctilious jurors.”
I regarded his gift as though it would be more deadly to me.
“It’s a Webley .577,” he explained. “Takes Boxer cartridges. You won’t be able to use the wrong ones, anyway; they’ll just fall out. Not good for range, but with any luck, just staring down the barrel will be enough to send someone running for their lives. One word of advice, though – don’t ever draw this on someone unless you mean to kill them. This thing won’t wound; a hit anywhere will ultimately prove fatal.”
I acknowledged him with a sober nod as I turned the revolver over in my hand. It was like a steel brick.
“And now, Miss – might I suggest a restorative, after a somewhat trying day?”
I didn’t really drink, as a rule, but I was not going to turn down his best brandy at ten bob a bottle. But Mr Whybrow had other ideas. “Thank you, sir. But only if you join me.”
“That was my very intention. There’s the small matter of coffee and liqueurs which we never got around to. I know just the place; very public – somewhere no assassin in their right mind would try for either of us. And don’t worry about the Dreadnought; it’s up and running, and perfectly safe.”
I’d have asked to use the Dreadnought anyway. You know, how when you fall off a horse you have to get straight back on again?
The Dreadnought itself seemed happy about our little outing. The engine gurgled evenly as Mr Whybrow took us across Downs and through Tamrannoch again. Moors, with its cemetery, hardly hindered the clouds that were lifting from my mind and when he took us through Victoria City, with its great emporia, I felt that I was being shown off with pride, although I don’t know exactly what as. Definitely more than a shopgirl, but not a companion in the usually-accepted sense of the term. Part of a family, perhaps?
When we entered Penzance, I wondered if Mr Whybrow was going to take me back to Kittiwick or Tanglewood, but he kept on going – no, not to the theatre, that wasn’t open yet.
Ah.
He pulled up outside the “Penzance Inn and Publick House.” Mr Whybrow helped me from the sidecar and went to speak at the bar while I took in the establishment. It was a wonderfully cosy place so reminiscent of some of the better London pubs, with its posters, intimate nooks and button-leather chairs, but without the sawdust on the floors. It was as if he’d brought me home – home to the London that I should have known.
But what caught my attention was the open platform where one wall should have been, jutting out to sea. I guessed that it must be used for functions. Returning from the bar, Mr Whybrow briskly invited me, “It’ll take them a couple of minutes; would you care to dance until our order’s ready?”
Was this his way of trying to raise my spirits with a repeat prescription of Paris, or was he simply trying to bring home that what had happened there was no dream? Either way, I was delighted to accept.
Mr Whybrow wisely plumped for a waltz again, this time keeping to a slightly slower, more floating tempo. Penzance was quiet, which helped me relax, although I don’t think I’d have cared if all Caledon had turned out to cheer us. We spoke little, preferring to bask in each others’ company, which in my case included floating with pride at being presented to the world as a lady. And the waltz, with his large hand settled on my waist, suffused me with reassurance that all was going to be well. This time I was used to the dancing, and it did not seem quite so surreal as it had in Paris, and I was able to let it work its medicine, and bask in the smile that he radiated down onto me.
“I don’t know if you’ve bothered calculating our position on the map of Caledon,” he ventured. “But we’re in the extreme North-East corner.”
“The corner of the world?” I returned, hoping that I sounded more clever than I felt.
“Our corner of the world,” he beamed back. “Although I’ve no doubt we’ll find others, as well.”
“I like this one,” I reassured him. “London pubs don’t usually have dance floors out over the river, but otherwise I could be back in the West End. If my friends could see me now,” I mused, gazing at the ceiling.
Mr Whybrow responded with a chuckle which told me all. If his friends could see him now!
Our coffee and liqueurs were not long in coming, and he surprised me yet again by giving me a cigar. Not one of his huge phallic things, but a slim one which he told me was Dutch. I viewed it with suspicion at first, but it proved light and delicately fruity.
To go with my coffee, he’d ordered me a crème de menthe, which he assured me was “right for ladies.” But honestly – wouldn’t you regard with suspicion when someone put a glass of something thick and green in front of you? But when I took that first experimental sip, my head exploded with comets of delicious minty coolness. It did me good to see him smiling with approval; I’d long had the impression that it meant a great deal to him, to see me happy at something he’d done.
This placated, Mr Whybrow relaxed and broke the silence to enlarge on how Caledon observed halloween, with a few stories about the amazing and grotesque things that the locals built, which made me laugh. I suspected that he wanted to distract me from our immediate problems, and I think he was right to do so, although I did hope that he didn’t keep me out too late. I’d put off getting my airship silk for long enough.
We took our time over our refreshment without dawdling, and left when the sun was still settling towards the horizon. I was glad I hadn’t bolted the crème de menthe; it was stronger than it tasted. As it was, it had worked hand in hand with Mr Whybrow’s personal ambience to smother me with a gorgeous narcotic balm as the Dreadnought carried us homewards at its own relaxed pace.
But the day had not finished with us yet. We were about to pull off the street into the stable when Mrs Boltclyster ran out; she must have recognised our engine beat.
Mr Whybrow slowed and let her catch up. “Hello there, Mrs B! What’s amiss?”
Mrs Boltclyster was slightly flushed as she gasped her reply. “I just thought you ought to know, Mr Whybrow, there was some woman hanging about the shop.”
“I get them all the time,” Mr Whybrow explained, with a grin of encouragement. “I sell them jewellery, remember?”
“Yes, but there was something not right about this one. She was in widows’ weeds – I mean, how many women even window shop for jewellery when they’re in mourning?” (“Quite,” murmured Mr Whybrow.) “No, this one came in an old carriage with a driver, she got straight back in again and took off before I could get a half decent look.”
Mr Whybrow and I exchanged a suspicious glance at the mention of the widow. I looked over to the doorway. “Did she actually go in, or just stop off at the door? There’s a parcel there.”
“I suppose she must have,” said Mrs Boltclyster. “I didn’t leave it there.”
“Just give us a moment to put the bike away,” said Mr Whybrow. “And stay well away from my door. Miss Bluebird, stay with me.”
I went with him while he put the bike in the stable. I waited for him to switch everything off before asking. “Sir, something’s wrong, isn’t there?”
“In the light of recent experience, we have to assume as much,” he told me, tersely. “I hope I’m wrong about this one, but if I’m right, you’ll appreciate why I didn’t want to hang around with three gallons of petrol between my legs.”
Thus deepening the mystery instead of answering it, he set off back to the shop at a wide gait I had trouble keeping up with. “Wait along the road with Mrs Boltclyster, will you?” he told me.
I gave the postmistress a clueless shrug. As we watched Mr Whybrow approach the parcel, she gave me a wink, which I returned somewhat sheepishly. She’d recognised the crème de menthe on my breath, and concluded that I was all right after my earlier ordeal.
We returned our attention to Mr Whybrow. He stooped low over the parcel, tensed his fingers on its sides as though trying to assess its weight without moving it, and then gently lifted it a couple of inches, to settle it again with the greatest of care. Then he came over to us. “Addressed to the shop with no originating address, and the hand is a practiced one. It’s too heavy for gemstones or tools, too light for metal, and too solid for abrasive. More to the point, I’m not expecting any deliveries. Stay well back and make sure there’s always a wall between yourselves and me.”
“Oh, my Gawd,” murmured Mrs Boltclyster, but Mr Whybrow would not have heard it. He was already on his way back to the parcel.
“What is it?” I hissed, afraid that my voice would bring about something dreadful.
“We think it’s a bomb, dear.”
Oh, my God! Reflexively, I hastened to run after him, but Mrs Boltclyster’s steel fingers held me back. “Best let him do what he’s going to, dear. He knows what he’s doing.”
I watched, appalled and helpless, as he gingerly picked up the parcel and carried it around the corner with a deliberate, even step. Not until he was lost to sight did Mrs Boltclyster relinquish her grip on my arm, and we both scurried after him. We followed him as he carried the parcel across the harbour, drew back his arm slightly, and in a smooth arc, tossed it into the water.
Mr Whybrow threw himself flat but before he had hit the ground, a muffled thunder shook the cobblestones beneath our feet, and a voluminous spout rushed up from the sea. Mrs Boltclyster and I cringed under the salty spray that splashed us.
The explosion died almost as quickly as it had erupted. I opened my eyes to find Mr Whybrow clambering to his feet; he brushed imaginary dust from his lapels before marching back to us. In the background, the Sparkle and Old Stumpy were bobbing about at their moorings.
“I think we’ve solved the mystery,” he told us casually, as though it did not really matter.
Mrs Boltclyster looked from him to the harbour, where the water was settling back to its previous stillness. “I thought water was supposed to make them things safe?”
“Electric detonator.” Mr Whybrow shook his head. “The water shorted it and set it off. I’ll have to check the ships to make sure nothing’s been strained, although they should be all right.” He did not sound entirely convinced as he looked at me. “It’s a very rare maid who knows how to build one of those things,” he commented.
“You mean Jasper built it?” Mrs Boltclyster demanded.
Mr Whybrow gave her a shrewd look. “That parcel was addressed in a practiced, fluent hand. Would you say he had a particularly elegant script, Mrs Boltclyster?”
“Never! He could read, but he could barely hold a pen.”
“Much as I’d have expected, then. Our maid comes with a very interesting pedigree. From now on, Miss Bluebird, whenever you go out, check over whichever vehicle you use for things that don’t belong there. If she thinks to incorporate a mercury tilt switch, it won’t even need the brakes to set it off.”
Mrs Boltclyster swallowed. “I think I’d better wire the Postmaster-General’s office. They’ll wanna know if one of their employees has run off the rails.”
“I wish them luck finding him,” Mr Whybrow told her. “But I’m not sure they will.”
Together, we watched her stumble back to the post office. I could not help feeling sorry for her; I could see from the slight meander to her step that she herself felt partly responsible, purely by virtue of Jasper having worked for her.
“She must have planted that in case we discovered her monkeying with the brakes,” said Mr Whybrow. “She’ll have known that we would have needed them on that gradient, but she had to allow for a train coming along and my taking evasive action.” Then, now that he could be certain that we would not be overheard, Mr Whybrow turned to me and fixed me seriously with his eyes. “I’ve no right to expose you to this sort of danger,” he said quietly. “If you want to absent yourself from the area, I’ll understand, and I’ll help you in any way I can.” For the first time, I saw real fear in his eyes. Fear that I would leave.
By now, I was no longer afraid of losing my position over what he’d once have seen as a liberty. I took his hand, interlaced five of his fingers with all ten of mine, and gave a firm squeeze as I met his gaze defiantly. “No, sir. I am staying for as long as you want me.”
Oooh, he looked such a twit at first! It didn’t take much to embarrass him, that’s for sure. But then he got a grip on himself and returned a curt little nod. “Thank you, Miss Bluebird. I don’t deserve you,” he murmured as he headed off to check the hulls of Old Stumpy and Sparkle.
Well, I hadn’t expected a rhapsody. And I think he said it all in those last four words.
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