Chapter Thirty-two

The McGloury Croft

Tasha and Ian were stretched out on a sheepskin before the fire, having just finished making love. Mother would later tell herself that the act was simply a mechanism to purge her frustrations, suppress her emotions, and allow her intellect to regain control. Then all her formidable powers—unhindered and sharp—would be singularly devoted to my rescue. And while her strategy would likely work, at that moment her eyes glistened with tears. Ian caressed her wet cheek.

“Human at last. I wasn’t sure. You were like some kind of thinkin’ machine.”

She said nothing, for it was not the time for words, only physical release. Tasha drew closer and kissed him passionately.

  

Later, when only a few embers remained of the spent fire, the storm had abated, and all was at last quiet. Ian slept under the sheepskin, but Tasha was not beside him. She stood at the door, wrapped in a blanket. Ian’s coat hung on a hook and she was searching through the pockets. She withdrew the wallet Ian had stealthily recovered at the cliff. Mother opened it and scanned the contents. She removed a folded document and read it by the dim oil lamp at the table.

She held a Mariner’s Masters Certificate issued to Cedric McGloury in 1897.

Tasha’s face lost its tender vulnerability and hardened. She sat at the table, set the document down, stretched out her long legs, and tented her palms and fingers. And there she sat, physically still; her mind moving pieces of a thought puzzle this way and that.

  

It was still dark as Ian opened his eyes to see Tasha, now in her cat-burglar attire, and holding an oil-lamp, bending close to him to stir him awake. “Ian. The storm’s over—get dressed. Quickly.”

“The storm …” he said groggily, then as awareness grew, “Oh, the ferry … I’m up.”

Tasha picked up his trousers, draped over the back of a chair, and tossed them to Ian, who (remember, this was 1906) had moved behind a dressing screen. She then collected his shirt and tossed that over the screen as well.

“Here’s your shirt. Would you mind a little last minute advice?”

“I reckon I surely wouldn’t,” he answered from behind the screen as he called for his vest (and he used the American term, instead of waistcoat). “And don’t fret—you just high-tail it back to London and save that kid.”

Tasha picked up the vest. “Oh, I think I’ll be able to save her.” She tossed the garment over the dressing screen. “By the by, that ruined church on the mainland, the one with the telescope trained on the Dreadnought … if you’re quick enough you may be in time, Inspector. Here’s your tie.”

He stepped out from behind the screen, nearly dressed, and caught the tie. “Be in time? In time for what?”

“To stop the Circle of the Smiling Dead from attacking the Dreadnought, blaming Germany, and provoking a major war. Their long brewing revenge on Christian Europe. I think the coat comes next.” She flung it to him.

He stared at her and finally said, “Seems we’ve strayed a mite from your friend McGloury’s murder—not to mention your daughter’s kidnapping.”

“While the man who was murdered last night was certainly McGloury, he was not the man who hired me. The man I knew was an imposter, used as bait to lure me to Millport Island, just as my daughter’s abduction is a ruse to force my return to London.”

Ian slipped on his coat and froze, eyeing her suspiciously.

“The genuine McGloury had served at sea,” Mother explained pleasantly. “My imposter had not. There were no calluses on his hands, his walk was not the rolling stride of someone used to a life on ships. But the details hardly matter, Inspector.” Her voice took on an icy tone. “Is it Inspector? Or perhaps your credentials are as assumed as your affection.” She reached into her belt and withdrew the Mariner’s Master Certificate.

Ian’s tone hardened, “You’ve been just stringin’ me along from the first!”

There was no emotion in Tasha’s voice, “This is a very complex game and you’ve done rather well for a pawn.” She threw him his hat and said coldly, “But now that you’re dressed, let’s visit the queen.”

Ian drew his revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Mother. “I’m amazed you forgot this.”

“I didn’t. It isn’t needed. Shall we go? We mustn’t keep Deirdre waiting.”

“I wish to heaven you’d returned to London!” he spat out through clenched teeth.

Mother noted his heightened passion, what it might portend and how it might be useful.

  

As Ian and Mother approached the altar stone, it sank into the mud and slid away uncovering a shaft with handholds hewn into the rock.

“As I suspected,” said Tasha. “We are observed—and expected.”

Grimly, Ian motioned for her to descend, following close behind. They vanished into the dark shaft, and the altar stone slid back into place. The ruins were again deserted, alone and gaunt against the night sky, leaving no visible evidence anyone had been there at all.