Cuttlefish Read Free Page B

her mother's hand tense in hers.
    The old lady went back to peering out of the small window. “If the polis come you'll be away through the back.” She pointed to a small door. “There's a crawlway under the briars.”
    But all that came for them was the bargee, Padraig. He'd cleaned his hands and face, and changed his clothes. And by the way he spoke, he was no bargee after all. The thick Irish accent had all but vanished. He grinned at them. “You're a sight, the pair of you. Well, you'd better stay that way. I've organised transport to a safe house for you. But it's in a tink's cart, so you may as well look the part. Although you're even a bit dirty for it.”
    â€œAnd then, Padraig?” asked her mother. There was a real edge to her voice.
    â€œWe're arranging things. You've caused quite a stir, Dr. Calland. Fortunately, it seems that there are still people keen to give you shelter. And not just, like me, because of Jack.”
    Mother said nothing. But her hand tensed again.
    Jack was Clara's father's name.

    Lying on her narrow bunk in the submarine Clara could hear the boom of explosions echoing through the steel walls. She wished that she knew what they were and what was happening. But, as with much of this journey, she didn't. And she didn't know who to ask, since that boy had plainly not been going to talk to her. It was hard with no one her own age to ask, she thought, suddenly irritated all over again by how adults tended to fob you off, telling you that you were too young. Not too young for the problems and consequences of things, just too young to be told exactly what was going on. She'd badly wanted to know more about Padraig the not-really-a-bargee, and about her father. She'd wanted to know about why Padraig being mentioned had upset her mother so much. And she really wanted to know just what her mother had done to get all of them following her like a pack of blood-crazy foxhounds.
    Clara looked around the little cabin with its dim battery-powered light in its simple Bakelite fitting, and its plain riveted steel walls. It was very different from the elegant colonnaded mansion they'd been hidden in outside Fermoy. Very different from the way they'd got from Ireland to London too. Not so very long ago she'd wondered what it must be like to travel underwater, or through the air, instead of clickety-clack by tram. On the whole, the air part had been scarier—because mother was so very afraid—but it was also a lot more exciting and comfortable.

T he Most Noble Malcolm Woldemar Adolf Windsor-Schaumburg-Lippe, Duke of Leinster, Margrave of Waldeck, Earl of Northhampton, and Baron of a dozen lesser estates, English, German, Canadian, African, and Australian, wore, as always, his full regimental dress. He had, after finishing his schooling at Harrow, gone to Sandhurst, and thence joined the Inniskillen Fusiliers. He'd moved on in the Imperial Hierarchy since then, but even as the chief of Imperial Intelligence he had not forgotten them. He'd shaped the Inniskillen Fusiliers from an ordinary regiment into the enforcement arm of the secret service he headed. He let the Inniskillens know that he was one of them, and they in turn were his. He was the Duke of Leinster, and they deluded themselves that he cared about them.
    Duke Malcolm didn't care what uniform he wore. He had little interest in clothing. His half-brother Ernest made a spectacle of himself in tasselled boots and mulberry half-pantaloons. One could do that…if one were the king. Duke Malcolm's only personal affectation was his long ivory cigarette holder. He liked it, for reasons that were his to know, and for others to fail to guess at.
    As usual, at this time of day, his staff were bringing him the morning summary of reports. “Your Grace,” said Colonel Wexford, of the Irish Interest section, “we've picked up on the movement of several senior Menshevik agents entering our operations area. The Russians