Airman

Chapter 17:

TANGLED WEB

Two hours later, Arthur Billtoe sat on a fruit box in Marshall Bonvilain’s office trying to hold the flaps of his wound together. His trousers were soaked and small gouts of blood pumped between his fingers in time with his heartbeat.
Marshall Bonvilain entered the room, and the gouts pumped faster.
‘Sorry about the fruit box, Arthur,’ said Hugo Bonvilain, sitting behind his desk. ‘But the brocade on my chairs is worth more to me than your life, you understand.’
‘O-of course, Marshall,’ stammered Billtoe. ‘I am bleeding, sir. It is quite serious, I think.’
Bonvilain waved this information away. ‘Yes, we will come to that later. For now, I wish to talk about this creature.’
He took a notepad from his desk drawer and spun it across the desk towards Billtoe. It was Pike’s notebook, open to a dynamic sketch of the Airman.
‘They are calling him the Airman and he can fly apparently.’
In cases like this, Billtoe had learned that it was always best to plead ignorance.
‘We was taking a walk, and he sprung himself on us. Amazed I am.’
‘Hmm. So it was all a coincidence? You just happened to be at Sebber Bridge making yourselves a target for the Wall watch, when this Airman descended from the heavens?’
Billtoe nodded eagerly. ‘That’s it exactly. You have gone straight to the nub of the matter, as usual.’
‘And did Mister Pike do his sketching before or after he was shot? I don’t see how he could have done it at either time.’ Bonvilain leaned forward, his bulk casting a shadow on Billtoe. ‘Could it be that you are lying to me, Arthur Billtoe?’
Blood pulsed between the guard’s fingers. ‘No, sir, Marshall, never.’
Bonvilain sighed, obviously enjoying his game of cat and mouse.
‘You are weaving yourself a tangled web. I think it’s best if I tell you what I think you’ve been up to, and then when I am finished speaking, you colour in any details I might have missed. How about that, Arthur?’
Billtoe nodded, as if he really had a say in proceedings.
‘So, firstly, there’s you giving me ideas for flying and salsa beds. Then there are reports of a flying man digging up things in the salsa beds. Things which Pike tells me are diamonds.’
‘Pike is raving,’ objected Billtoe. ‘Bullet fever.’
Bonvilain raised a finger. ‘No time for lies, Arthur. You’re bleeding, remember? And I have not finished speaking.’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Billtoe.
‘Now, you are far too ignorant and short-sighted to have thought up this diamond scheme yourself…’
‘Exactly,’ said Billtoe, relieved. ‘Ignorant and shortsighted, that’s me.’
‘So you must have been manipulated by whoever supplied these ideas. Now I know of only one person on Little Saltee with a fascination for flying.’ And here Bonvilain’s easy manner was replaced by cold, hard danger. ‘Be careful what you say here, Billtoe, because if your answer displeases me, you will not live long enough to die of that leg wound… Were these ideas Conor Broekhart’s?’
‘Who?’ asked Billtoe, genuine confusion writ large on his features.
‘Finn. Conor Finn.’
Whatever blood was left in Billtoe’s face drained from it. He had always known this moment would come. Only one card left to play.
‘Yes, Marshall,’ he said, shamefacedly. ‘He sold his ideas for blankets and such. It seemed a harmless deception.’
Bonvilain grunted. ‘Until he escaped on that coronation balloon. With your help, I’ll warrant.’
‘No, sir,’ said Billtoe, squeezing the flaps of his wound together. ‘Finn is locked up in the mad wing, just as you ordered. No escaping for Conor Finn.’ Billtoe paused guiltily. ‘Though he may look a tad different than he did last time you saw him. The years have been hard on the poor lad. What with the bell work and the beatings that you ordered. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t even recognize young Conor Finn.’
Bonvilain laced his fingers, squeezing them until the tips were white, then rolling the knuckles along his forehead. He knew what had happened, of course he knew. It was his own fault.
Conor Broekhart should have been tossed out of the window years ago, not kept alive on the off chance he would be needed to control his father. What tangled webs we weave…
Bonvilain admitted to himself that he had liked the idea of having a witness to his genius. How much more agonizing must Conor Broekhart’s imprisonment have been, knowing his father believed him to be a murderer.
The marshall smiled tightly. No, it had been a good plan. Incredible circumstances had scuppered it. An Airman, if you please. How could a man prepare for eventualities that had not yet been invented.
Conor Broekhart may be a genius, but Hugo Bonvilain was ingenious. This situation was a test of his mettle. It would involve some quick thinking, but already the germ of a new plan was sprouting roots in the marshall’s mind. There would be murder involved, but that was not really an issue, except it could very well be murder at a high level, and when indulging in such murders one must seem completely blameless. European royal families did not approve of commoners disposing of their monarchs. And royal disapproval generally took the form of approaching warships and annexation. Hugo Bonvilain did not intend to share his diamonds or his seat of power with anybody, especially not with Isabella’s close friend, Queen Victoria of the British Empire.
The Bonvilains had been striving for too many centuries to reach the very position that he was in now for him to pack his satchel at the first sign of worthy opposition.
Bonvilain remembered the night his father died. He had been raving from the leprosy that he had picked up on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and much of what he had said was gibberish but there were moments when his eyes were as clear as they had ever been.
‘We have been pruning,’ he’d said to the young Bonvilain. ‘Do you know what I’m saying to you, Hugo? For centuries we have been pruning the Trudeaus. They breed like rabbits, God blast them, but we have set the crown on the right head, keeping the Saltee Islands independent. You must finish the job. You are the last in the line of servants, and the first in a line of Bonvilain masters. Promise me, Hugo. Promise me.’
And the dying man had clutched at his son’s forearm with bandaged hands.
‘I promise,’ Bonvilain had said, unable to look at the wasted remains of his father’s face.
It occurred to Bonvilain that he had been rocking in his seat, knuckles to forehead for several moments now, which may appear strange. He leaned back, tugging straight the red-crossed, white Templar stole over his navy suit.
‘That’s my thinking position, Arthur. Any objections?’
‘No, Marshall. Not a one.’
‘Glad to hear it. Anything else you care to tell me about our Airman?’
Billtoe fished inside his head for some pertinence that the marshall would appreciate.
‘Um… erm… Oh! He speaks French, calls a body mish-yoor.’
Bonvilain slammed the desk with both fists, bouncing his writing set into the air.
French. That clinched it. He had in a moment of miscalculation revealed his Francophobia to Conor Broekhart. It seemed as though the boy had a sense of humour. Best to dispose of him as soon as possible. The last thing he needed was a vindictive Airman flying around stealing his diamonds and undermining his plans.
‘So, Arthur, you maintain that Conor Finn languishes in his cell?’
Billtoe swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Apart from the languishing bit, which I am not certain on, yes. He is in his cell.’
‘Good. I would like to speak to him.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes, now. Does this pose a problem for you?’
‘No, there is no problem.’ Billtoe’s features were drawn with pain and desperation. ‘Except that I’m bleeding, Marshall, quite badly. This wound needs closing or I might not survive the ferry to the prison.’
Bonvilain glanced at the fireplace. Flames crackled orange and blue in the hearth, and a model broadsword, used as a poker, hung from a hook by the coal scuttle.
‘You’re right, Arthur,’ he said brightly. ‘It is time to seal that wound.’
Bonvilain boarded the ferry with Captain Sultan Arif, his most trusted officer. Billtoe cowered in the stern, every now and then poking at the scar of fused flesh on his thigh, seeming surprised each time the contact caused him pain. He passed out during the short trip and each time woke up blubbering like a babe and blurting the word barrel.
Bonvilain found that he was not in the least anxious now that he had considered the night’s developments. In fact, he felt invigorated by the challenge of maintaining his position, or even improving it. After all, Conor Broekhart was a youth with a kite. Hugo Bonvilain was a military strategist with an army behind him. Apparently young Conor was reluctant to commit murder, whereas Bonvilain regarded murder as a time-honoured and valid political tool.
The marshall leaned close to Sultan Arif’s ear.
‘There may be some poisoning later. Ready your potions.’
Sultan nodded casually, toying with his splendid moustache. ‘Yes, Marshall. May I ask who we may be poisoning?’
‘Myself, I regret to say,’ replied Sir Hugo.
Sultan seemed unsurprised. ‘There will be others, I take it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Bonvilain confirmed, his gaze distant. ‘There will be others.’
Little Saltee

There was a prisoner in Conor Finn’s cell, but it was not Conor Finn.
‘And who, pray tell, is this?’ asked Bonvilain, pointing to the terrified wretch huddled in the corner away from the lamplight.
Billtoe knew he was rumbled. ‘Don’t kill me, Your Worship,’ he begged, dropping to his knees, and grabbing the hem of Bonvilain’s Templar stole.
‘Please spare me. I don’t know how the blighter escaped. One minute he was there, the next gone. Some form of magic. Perhaps he ’ypnotized me.’
Bonvilain did not kick him off immediately, enjoying the grovelling.
‘What I don’t know yet, Arthur, is if you were actually Finn’s accomplice. You helped him escape, and you were his smuggling contact.’
‘Oh no sir, Marshall,’ gibbered Billtoe. ‘I never done no colluding. I don’t have the depth of thought for that.’
‘I’m not so sure. This substitute scheme of yours might have worked with any other prisoner. You were unfortunate to lose this particular one.’
‘That’s all it was, sir. Bad blasted luck, not an ounce of co-operation with the prisoner in it.’
Bonvilain decided a display of anger was called for, after all Sultan was watching.
‘You lied to me, Billtoe,’ he shouted, his voice echoing in the tiny cell. ‘You stole my diamonds!’
The marshall whipped his stole from Billtoe’s fingers then delivered a mighty kick, which sent the guard tumbling over the bed and into the wall behind. A muck plate cracked and fell. Billtoe lay in a heap like a spilled sack of laundry.
‘Well struck, Marshall,’ said Sultan. ‘On the point of the chin. He rolled like a cartwheel. Should I finish him off?’
‘No,’ replied Bonvilain. ‘Something more poetic, I think. Perhaps our friend Arthur needs some time to reflect on his shortcomings.’
He was distracted by a strange glow from the rear of the cell. Billtoe’s forehead had knocked some mud from the wall, and strange ghostly scribblings shone behind.
Curious, Bonvilain stepped closer, bending to examine the markings.
‘Coral, I imagine,’ he mused. ‘Old Wandering Heck would have loved this.’
But the markings were man-made. Diagrams and equations. Someone had tried to cover up these markings with mud, but the mud had not bonded completely with the damp surface below. A glider was plainly visible on the wall. Bonvilain tapped it with a gloved finger.
‘Hello, Airman,’ he whispered. ‘It seems I provided you with your laboratory.’
He drew a pistol from his belt, rapping the wall with its grip. Another plate of mud cracked and fell, revealing that the glider had been launched from the roof of a tower.
‘And you have left me your location. And more valuable secrets, I shouldn’t wonder.’
On the floor, Billtoe moaned.
‘Am I to be executed now, sir. Is that my fate?’
‘Not at the present time,’ said Bonvilain, stretching. ‘I have use for you, Arthur Billtoe. Your immediate fate is to clean the dirt from these walls, then transcribe every mark you find underneath.’
‘Oh thank you, sir,’ said Billtoe, tears of relief dripping from his nose. ‘I shall have one of the inmates get to it immediately. Top of my list.’
‘You misunderstand, Arthur,’ said Bonvilain, catching the guard’s lapels in his fist, wrenching the very coat from his back, tumbling Billtoe further to the back of the cell.
‘You will not be supervising this task as prison guard, you will be performing it as inmate.’
Bonvilain turned to the young man who had occupied the cell for almost a year.
‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Claude deVille Montgomery, Yer Majesty,’ answered the youth promptly. ‘Though me nears ’n’ dears call me Spog.’
Bonvilain blinked. Life never failed to surprise.
‘Old Billtoe there said to answer Conor Finn if anyone, ’specially yerself, ever got around to asking, but that was only if he didn’t get around to pulling me tongue out, and as you can see…’ Spog opened his mouth wide to reveal two teeth and a grey tongue.
‘Thank you, eh, Spog. Tell me, has Mister Billtoe been unkind to you?’
Spog’s whole face frowned. ‘Blinkin’ nasty, the evil scut. With the hitting and spitting. Pulling hair too, which is hardly gentlemanly, is it now?’
‘Well then, now is your chance for revenge,’ said Bonvilain tossing him the guard’s jacket. ‘You are now the prison guard, and he is the prisoner. Do unto him and so forth. His life is yours, and yours his.’
Spog greeted this announcement with complete calm, as though his fortunes were reversed every day.
‘I’m yer man, Yer Highness,’ he said, approximating a salute. ‘What’re yer views on torturin’ them what used to be guards?’
‘I am all for it,’ said Bonvilain. ‘It builds character.’
Spog smiled, his teeth like gateposts in his mouth. ‘I’ll make you proud, Yer Worship.’
The marshall winced. ‘Let’s stick with Marshall, shall we?’
‘Yessir, Yer Worship.’
Billtoe’s senses were swirling around in his head like spirits in a witch’s cauldron, but still he managed to get the gist of what had transpired.
‘I’m… I’m an inmate now?’ he gasped, hauling himself on to the bed.
Bonvilain patted Spog’s shoulder. ‘Handle your prisoner, Mister Montgomery,’ he said. ‘I don’t deal directly with criminals.’
Spog’s eyes glowed with vengeful malice. ‘Yessir… Yer Worship. My pleasure — you might want to avert yer eyes.’
Bonvilain folded his arms. ‘Perhaps. But not right away.’
Billtoe backed away from his new gaoler, deeper and deeper into the cell till his elbows knocked mud from the walls, revealing blocks of diagrams and calculations.
The coral’s green glow traced the dawning horror on Arthur Billtoe’s face. The misery he had visited on so many others was now to be his.
Bonvilain winked at Sultan. ‘As I said. Poetic.’
Forlorn Point

Due to the night’s activity, not one fight but two, Conor got no more than an hour’s sleep. And that sleep was filled with dreams of prison guards with blades for hands and diamonds for eyes. There was something else, though, leaping up and down in the background, seeking attention. A small memory of Conor and his father rowing across Fulmar Bay when he was nine.
Watch the oar’s blade, Declan Broekhart had said. See how it cuts the water. You want to scoop the water, not slide through it.
Then in the dream Declan said something that he had never said in real life.
The same theory applies to the blades of a propeller. That might get your aeroplane off the ground.
Conor sat up in bed, instantly awake. What was it? What had he been thinking? Already the dream was fragmenting. The oar. Something about the oars. How could an oar help to fly an aeroplane?
It was obvious really. The oar had a blade, just like the propeller.
See how it cuts the water…
Of course! The oar was not bashed flat into the water, it was presented at an angle to reduce drag and maximize thrust. The same ancient principle must be applied to the propeller. After all, the propeller was really a rotating wing. When the aeroplane eventually flew, the propeller would have to absorb the engine’s power and overcome the flying machine’s drag. It must be treated like a wing, and shaped accordingly.
Flat propellers are of no use, thought Conor, hurriedly pulling on his clothes. They must be angled and the blades shaped to provide lift.
By the time Linus negotiated the stairs with bacon, soda bread and hot coffee, Conor was chiselling the second blade on his new propeller.
‘Ah,’ said Linus. ‘A new propeller.’
This pronouncement stopped Conor in mid-motion. ‘You are blind, are you not? How can you possibly know what I’m doing.’
Linus laid the breakfast tray on a bench. ‘I have mystical powers, boy. And also you’ve been talking to yourself this past hour. Lift, drag, propulsion, all that interesting stuff. We blind folk ain’t necessarily deaf you know.’
The scientist in Conor wished to continue to work, but the ravenous young man dragged him away from his precious propeller to the delicious breakfast.
Linus listened to him tuck in with a cook’s satisfaction.
‘I picked up the bread fresh in the village. The folk down there are all a-frenzy over stories about this Airman creature. Apparently he slew twenty men on the island last night.’
‘I hear he’s ten feet tall,’ said Conor, around a mouthful of bread.
Linus sat beside him at the bench.
‘This is no joke, Conor. You are in danger now.’
‘No need to fret, Linus. The Airman’s short career is over. No more night flying for me. From this day on, scientific flights only.’
Linus stole a strip of bacon. ‘Perhaps you might think of finding yourself a girl. You are of an age, you know.’
Conor could not help but think of Isabella. ‘Once, there was a girl, or could have been. I will think of females again when we reach America.’
‘When you reach America. I plan to stay here and conspire against Bonvilain. There are others who think like I do.’
‘You mean it,’ realized Conor sadly. ‘I had hoped you would change your mind.’
‘No. I lost friends. We both did.’
Conor had no desire to rake over the coals of this familiar argument.
‘Very well,’ he said, pushing away his plate. ‘The tower is yours, and there will be abundant funds too. But I am going. In America there are airmen like me, eager for the sky.’
‘I see. And when will you go?’
‘I had planned to leave today, but now I am impatient to test this new propeller. She is a thing of beauty, don’t you think?’
Linus Wynter tapped the velvet sleep mask that he now wore over his ruined eyes.
‘I’ll take your word for it. I had this mask sent from the Savoy. Did I ever tell you that I once stayed there?’
‘Let us make a bargain,’ said Conor. ‘Today I transport my aeroplane to Curracloe beach. It will take two days to assemble and another to test. When I return we will ship my equipment to New York and go by ferry and train to London. We will live like kings for one week in the Savoy, with no talk of revolution or science, then review our situation.’
‘That is a tempting offer,’ admitted Linus. ‘Some of the suites have pianos. My fingers twitch at the thought.’
‘Let us agree then. One week for ourselves, then back into the world. Separately perhaps, but I pray that we will be together.’
‘I pray for that too.’
‘Then we are agreed. The Savoy.’
Linus extended a hand. ‘The Savoy.’
They shook on it.
Bonvilain and Sultan came ashore incognito, faces shadowed by broad-rimmed toquilla hats. Their Saltee uniforms lent them no authority on the mainland and they were unlikely to attract attention dressed in civilian clothes. Local rowdies are far less likely to trouble dangerous-looking strangers than they are soldiers off their patch. In fact, some of the Kilmore lads knocked huge sport from taunting Saltee Army boys who were under strict orders not to retaliate. Bonvilain and Sultan were restrained by no such orders. They made no overtly hostile gestures and were the very definition of gentility, but still the local harbour boys got the impression that to trifle with this odd pair would lead to immediate and lasting discomfort.
They strolled down the quayside and into the smoky depths of the Wooden House.
‘I have visited taverns all over the world,’ confided Hugo Bonvilain, ducking under the lintel. ‘And they all have one thing in common.’
‘Drunks?’ said Sultan Arif, toppling a sleeping sailor from his path.
‘That too. Information for sale is the common factor I had in mind. That wretch for example…’
The marshall pointed to a solitary man, elbows on the bar, staring at an empty glass.
‘A prime candidate. He would sell his soul for another drink.’
He sidled up beside the man, and called to the innkeeper for a bottle of whiskey.
‘Do I know you?’ asked the innkeeper.
‘No, you don’t,’ replied Bonvilain cheerfully. ‘And I recommend you keep it that way. Now leave the bottle and make yourself busy elsewhere.’
Most good innkeepers develop an instinct about their customers and their capabilities. The proprietor was no exception. He would ask no more questions, but he would check the load in his shotgun just in case the oddly familiar broad-beamed customer and his grinning companion unleashed the trouble that they were surely capable of.
Bonvilain opened the bottle, turning to the solitary, glass-gazing man.
‘Now, good sir, you look like a gent that could use a drink. I certainly hope so, because I have no intention of imbibing one drop of this ripe spirit, which by the smell of it has already been passed through the stomachs of several cats.’
The man pushed his glass along the bar with one finger. ‘I’ll do you a favour and take it off your hands.’
‘Very noble of you, friend,’ said Bonvilain, filling the glass to the rim.
‘We ain’t friends,’ said the man, grumpy in spite of his sudden good fortune. ‘Not yet.’
Half a bottle later they were friends and Bonvilain steered the conversation as though the man had a rudder fixed to the back of his head.
‘Stupid gas lamps,’ said the man. ‘What’s wrong with candles? A candle never ruptured and exploded. I hear a gas explosion destroyed an entire city in China, ’cept for the cats what are immune to gas.’
Bonvilain nodded sympathetically. ‘Gas. Dreadful stuff. And as for foreigners buying our buildings…’
‘Stupid foreigners,’ blurted the man vehemently. ‘Buying our buildings. With the big smug heads on them. Do you know the English own one hundred per cent of the big houses around here? If not more.’
‘And don’t they just love living in towers, lording it over the rest of us.’
‘That they do,’ agreed the now-sozzled man. ‘We got us a right scatterfool at Forlorn Point. Takes on a blind musician to cook and clean for him.’
Bonvilain was extremely interested in this scatterfool. ‘A boy like that shouldn’t even own a tower,’ he prompted.
More whiskey was slopped into the glass. ‘No! Blast it. No, he shouldn’t. Boy like that. Should be out cutting hay like the rest of us at that age. But what does he do? Buys reams of material. Sends off for all sorts of mechanical parts. What’s he building up there? Who knows. Like Doctor Frankenstein he is. Whatever he’s doing, the noise coming out of that tower at night is enough to waken a dead pig.’
The man downed his drink in one, its harshness shocking his system from stomach to eyeballs.
‘And don’t tell me lobsters aren’t getting smarter. I caught a lobster last month and I swear he was trying to communicate. With the clicking claws and the pointy head yokes.’
The landlord rapped the bar with a knuckle. ‘You can shut up now, Ern. They’ve gone.’
‘Don’t matter,’ said Ern, clutching the bottle protectively to his chest. ‘I don’t like fellows with hats anyways. Never trust a hatter.’
The landlord was tactful enough not to point out that Ern himself sported a jaunty cap.
It took mere minutes for Bonvilain and Sultan Arif to find Forlorn Point. The old British Army marker stone by the roadside helped quite a bit.
‘The place is well named,’ noted Arif, placing his shoulder satchel on a tree stump. From inside he selected twin revolvers and a selection of knives, which he arranged on his belt.
‘I presume we are not sending for help.’
‘As is occasionally the case, Sultan, you are correct,’ said Bonvilain. ‘This is a Martello tower; we could have a battleship off the coast and still not gain entry. We proceed cautiously. Diplomacy first, then guile, and finally violence should it become necessary.’
They stepped over the ruined remains of the wall and across the yard, careful not to snag their boots on treacherous creepers that snaked from the rocky soil.
‘It doesn’t look much,’ said Sultan, picking moss from the tower wall.
Bonvilain nodded. ‘I know. Clever, isn’t it?’
A quick circuit of the tower confirmed that there was indeed only one doorway, above head height and plugged with a wooden door.
‘I’ll wager that door is not as flimsy as it looks,’ muttered Bonvilain.
Sultan placed his cheek against the wall. ‘The stones vibrate from a generator, Marshall,’ he noted. ‘I can hear classical music. It sounds as though there is an entire orchestra in there.’
‘A phonograph,’ said Bonvilain sourly. ‘How very modern. Conor Broekhart always liked his toys.’
‘So, how do we get in? Throw stones at the doorway?’
This is the Airman’s tower, thought Bonvilain. He enters and leaves from the roof.
‘I throw stones,’ he said to his captain.
‘You always had a good arm for stone throwing. What can I do?’
‘You can search in that bag of yours and see if you brought your crossbow.’
Sultan’s eyes glittered. ‘No need to search. I always bring my crossbow.’
Linus Wynter was enjoying Beethoven’s Ode to Joy while he fried up some traditional Southern grits on the pan. His secret ingredient was cayenne pepper — of course, Conor’s limited galley did not have any pepper so he was forced to use a pinch of curry powder instead. It may not be quite up to his normal culinary standards, but it was unlikely that Conor would complain after two years of Little Saltee food. At any rate, Conor had left for Curracloe beach not more than five minutes previously, and by the time he returned the grits would be no more than a distant memory.
That phonograph was a scientific wonder. Conor had explained how an orchestra could be transferred to a wax cylinder, but in all honesty Linus hadn’t made much of an effort to understand. The sound was scratchy and the cylinder had to be changed every few minutes, but it was sweet music all the same.
In spite of the crackling music and the sizzling grits, Linus heard the muffled voices outside. At first he assumed it was the local lads poking about, but then he heard the word Marshall, and his mild curiosity turned to a ball of dread in his stomach.
Bonvilain had found them.
Wynter had never been much of a marksman, but all the same he felt a little comforted once his thin fingers closed round the stock of the repeater rifle concealed beneath the worktop.
Just let Bonvilain open his mouth and I will do my utmost to close it forever.
Seconds later, a rock thumped against the door, followed in quick succession by three more. The last ringing against a steel band.
‘I thought as much,’ said a voice. ‘A reinforced door.’
Linus checked the breech with his thumb, then shouldered his way along the wall to a gun port.
Loaded and ready. Say something else, Marshall.
Bonvilain did. ‘Conor Broekhart. Why don’t you come down so I can finally kill you. May as well be blunt.’
Linus sent six shots winging towards the voice.
Perhaps God will favour the virtuous, he thought as the gunshots echoed around the tower’s curved walls and the discharge smoke sent his windpipe into spasms.
‘So,’ called Bonvilain. ‘Conor is not at home and the blind servant pulls the trigger. Just so you know, blind man, you just grievously wounded the pillar I was sheltering behind.’
Or perhaps the devil looks after his own, Linus concluded, covering his nose and mouth with a wet cloth from the sink.
I must warn Conor. He must not be taken. I will fire the emergency flares.
Conor was worried about Linus alone in the tower, in spite of the fact that the American had survived wars and prison for fifty years without his help, and so he had rigged a series of emergency flares to the roof. The fuses trailed down to various spots throughout the tower and were capped with sulphur sleeves. It was only necessary to yank off the sleeve to light the fuse. The fuses were linked so if one sparked, they all sparked.
The nearest fuse was in what they jokingly referred to as the lounge, a collection of chairs clustered around the fireplace, which Linus was using as a gin still.
Fifteen steps from the rifle slot to the lounge. One step down. A bench by the wall. Nothing I don’t pass by a hundred times a day.
Linus coughed the last of the rifle smoke from his lungs and began his short walk carefully. What a shame it would be to come unstuck from a twisted ankle. There was plenty of time. Bonvilain would be reluctant to enter through the front door, as there could be any number of guns pointed at that target.
Walk slowly but surely.
Linus was thrown into turmoil by a series of gunshots, each one clanging against the door, setting the metal ringing like a bell.
Wynter dropped to all fours, puzzled.
Has the marshall grown stupid? The door is reinforced; he said it himself. Why shoot at it?
The answer was obvious, and occurred to Linus almost immediately.
He is not trying to kill me, he is trying to distract me. The marshall is not alone…
Something cold, sharp and metallic pressed against Linus’s neck.
‘You left the roof door open, old man,’ said a voice in heavily accented English. Linus knew immediately who it was. Sultan Arif, Bonvilain’s deadly second in command.
‘You of all people should know,’ continued Sultan, ‘that sometimes trouble comes from above.’
The fuse. I must ignite it.
Linus made a lunge for the lounge, suffering the blade at his neck to gouge deeply, but there was no escaping Sultan Arif. The captain grabbed him as though he were a struggling pup and hoisted him to his feet.
Keep your bearings. Know where you are.
It was a difficult task with such distractions to his senses. There was pain in his neck and wet blood down his back. The gunshot echo had not yet faded and Sultan swung him around. Linus was utterly disorientated.
Concentrate. Where are you?
In the end, Sultan made it easy for him.
‘Let’s go down and meet our master, shall we?’ he said, pushing Linus across the room. Wynter heard the door bolts scrape back and the gush of cool air against his face.
I am in the doorway, he thought, fingers questing for the frame.
Sultan’s voice was loud by his ear. ‘I have him, Marshall,’ he called. ‘The blind man is alone. There is a rope ladder here, I shall tie it off.’
‘Don’t be so tiresome, Sultan, throw him down,’ said Bonvilain. ‘Nothing is more amusing than watching a blind man fall.’
Sultan sighed, this was a task without honour, but honour was not a quality greatly prized by the marshall.
‘Relax, old man. Tight bones are broken bones.’
The leather in his coat creaked as he bent his arm to push. Linus waited for the right moment, and as Sultan propelled him into space he screamed. Loudly enough to mask the sound of a sulphur sleeve being ripped from a fuse running along the doorframe.
Linus cried as he regained consciousness, for as his head had struck the earth he had seen something. A flash of light – just for a moment – now all was dark again. His breathing was restricted by the weight of a boot on his chest.
‘I remember you,’ said Bonvilain. ‘You played piano for the king. Very clever, a blind spy. Well, old boy, your piano-playing days are over. Your spying days too, come to think of it.’
‘Damn you, Hugo Bonvilain,’ rasped Linus valiantly. ‘There is a special pit in Hell reserved for your ilk.’
The marshall laughed. ‘I have no doubt of it, which is why I intend to delay my departure from this life as long as possible. Your departure, however, is imminent, unless you answer my questions promptly.’
Linus’s own laugh was bitter. ‘Just kill me, Bonvilain. Your prison couldn’t break me, and neither can you.’
‘Do you know, I think you’re right. I believe that you would resist me with your final breath. I shall never understand you principled people. Sultan has a few principles, but he can ignore their berating voices when the situation calls for it. I don’t really need you at any rate. Broekhart will be back and I will be waiting, simple as that.’
‘Perhaps not so simple,’ said Linus.
At that moment, the linked fuses sent half a dozen flares rocketing into the sky. They exploded pink and red, their light reflected on the bellies of dark clouds.
Bonvilain watched their slow descent with catty dismay.
‘Warning flares. How this young Broekhart wriggles. I swear, sometimes it seems I have been trying to bury him for his entire life.’
‘Help is on the way,’ gasped Linus. ‘The fire brigade will be called.’
Bonvilain thought briefly, knocking his knuckles on his forehead, then called to Sultan. ‘Fetch me pen and paper from the tower. I will nail a special invitation to this man’s head.’
‘I am not eager to murder a blind man, Marshall,’ said Sultan calmly.
‘We have talked about this, Captain,’ hissed Bonvilain, in the tone of a parent who does not wish his children to hear. ‘In your soldiering days you had no such morals.’
‘That was war. They were soldiers. This is a blind old man.’
‘Fetch me the pen,’ insisted Bonvilain.
‘I did not unfurl the ladder.’
‘Unfurl? Unfurl? Are you William Shakespeare now? Fire another bolt then, climb up another rope.’
Sultan nodded towards the village. ‘That will take several minutes. I do not believe there is time.’
Bonvilain scowled petulantly. ‘This is really too much, Sultan. I fervently hope this old man is the one who puts a knife between your ribs. I will lean over your dying body just to say I told you so.’
Sultan bowed low, to show his continued loyalty.
‘Too late for bowing now, my good man. I am very disappointed in you.’
‘My apologies, Marshall.’
‘Yes, of course, apologies. How useful. At least do me the kindness of tying this spy to the pillar.’
‘Of course, Marshall.’
Linus was hoisted upright and thrust roughly against the gate pillar. Bands of rope crossed his legs and torso, cinching tight enough to burn. Sultan’s footsteps circled round, making him dizzy.
Dizziness without sight. Darned unfair.
But at least it seemed he was to live, though with Bonvilain involved there would definitely be a condition.
‘Very well, blind man,’ said the marshall’s voice to his left, low and mocking. ‘You have earned yourself a reprieve. Deliver this message to the Airman. Tell him that I am hosting a gathering tomorrow night. A small dinner to celebrate the life of Conor Broekhart, which I find amusingly ironic. It will be the third anniversary of his death. Family and friends only. Wine will be served for a special toast, a potent vintage. Very potent. It will seem as though the rebels have managed to infiltrate the kitchen. Tragic.’
Linus did not have the breath for insults.
‘Be sure to tell Conor that I am going to all this trouble because of him,’ continued Bonvilain, fingers digging into Linus’s shoulder. ‘If he had remained where I left him, then none of this would be necessary, but because he escaped and then stole from me, his brother becomes an orphan. You know, perhaps I will make the infant my ward. Raise him as my own. A little marshall.’
Bonvilain chuckled, enjoying his own twisted sense of humour.
‘How the people would love me. Noble Bonvilain adopts another man’s child.’
Linus managed a short sentence. ‘No one loves you, Bonvilain.’
‘You’re right,’ said the marshall. ‘And you would think that might bother me, but no, I seem to find all the fulfilment I need in material wealth.’
Sultan moved, bowing, into Bonvilain’s line of sight. ‘Marshall, those flares could attract attention.’
Bonvilain was disappointed. No doubt the villagers would come to investigate the flares. No more time for gloating. A pity – he enjoyed it so, and there were all too few occasions. Ah well, poisoning the queen and the Broekharts was something to look forward to. And with any luck Conor would throw himself into the pot too. And, even if he did not, Bonvilain would soon be prime minister and nothing anyone said would be able to change that.
Time for one last word with the blind man.
‘I suppose the Irish will untie you,’ he said. ‘But, even so, do not run away. Remain here and deliver my message, or your master will not have the chance to kill himself attempting to foil my plans.’
Bonvilain slapped Linus hard across the cheek. ‘After that, spend the rest of your life wondering when I will kill you. As we know, you will not see me coming.’
Linus kept his lip stiff and his frown in place, but he was breathing hard through his nose, and had the ropes not held him he would surely have collapsed.
I hate myself for feeling this terror. I have seen war and plague. I have lived in darkness with the ever-present fear of pain. But terror? Never before, until now.
‘Damn you, Marshall,’ he sobbed defiantly. ‘The devil take you.’
But he knew by the hollowness of the air and the drift of his voice that he was alone. Bonvilain had gone to make preparations for his celebration.
I should be happy, Conor Finn thought. My plan has succeeded and I am a scientist again, with funds to continue my experiments far into the future. I should be at least content.
But he could not escape the knowledge that this was not his life. He was skirting the borders of it as though banned from entering. And somewhere, just beyond his reach, another true life was waiting.
Further away will be better. How can I start again when every time I raise my eyes I see the Saltees on the horizon.
Conor was steering his horse and cart down the coast road to Wexford, and from there to Curracloe beach, five miles on the other side. It was already noon, as it had taken longer than expected to winch the wings down the side of the tower. He would have to sleep on the beach for an extra night, perhaps two, depending on conditions.
The journey too would take longer than expected. They had travelled less than a mile from Kilmore, and already the horse tired from such a load. Wings, engine, tail, body and of course his new propeller. It was a heavy burden for an old horse. He would see about trading the beast in on the Wexford docks.
He thought of Linus, and laughed aloud.
My mind compares Linus to an old beast. He would not be happy to hear that.
With Linus Wynter on his mind, he glanced over his shoulder to check for flares, as he had a dozen times already on this trip.
As if Linus needs me. As if Linus needs a…
The flares were up. All of them it seemed. Pirouetting to earth, leaving pink trails like the spokes of a ghostly umbrella.
Linus was in trouble.
It must have something to do with last night’s encounter. It could not be coincidence.
Conor pulled the cart off the road, driving it deep into a wooden copse. The horse complained, shying away from low branches, but Conor drove her on, wedging the cart tight between two trunks. The trees shook raining pine needles down on man and horse.
In seconds, Conor had unhitched the horse and was urging her back along the coast road. With this animal there were two choices. He could run her short and fast, or slow and long. Conor chose fast, something told him that long would be too late.
?

Conor arrived at the tower to find his only friend tied to the pillar, his face and neck rent with contusions. His first thought was, Dead. I have lost him again. But then the old man coughed.
‘Linus!’ he said, taking the American’s weight. ‘You’re alive.’
Wynter seemed surprised. ‘Conor. I didn’t hear a horse.’
‘She collapsed outside the village. Her heart I imagine.’
He quickly sliced through the rope, sliding his friend down along the pillar.
‘You won’t die today,’ said Conor, conducting a quick check for broken bones. ‘But there’s not a piece of skin on you that isn’t bruised. Your blood is blue, you’ll be delighted to know. I always suspected you were royalty.’
‘Listen to me, Conor,’ said Linus, his throat raw and ropeburned. ‘It was Bonvilain.’
Conor actually fell backwards to the grass. ‘The marshall himself? Here?’
‘Him and his bloodhound, Arif. I left the roof door open, to clear the cooking fumes. Stupid old man. They only left because they thought the villagers would come to investigate the flares. I could’ve told them that you’ve been firing up flares and God knows what for weeks now and the locals are bored rigid watching them. I could’ve told them that, but I didn’t.’
‘What did he say?’ Conor demanded. ‘Tell me, Linus.’
Linus sighed deeply. His face scarred by pain and sadness. ‘He knows you are the Airman, Conor. He plans to murder your family, Isabella too. Poison most likely, at a dinner tomorrow night. A dinner for Conor Broekhart.’
Conor squatted on the grass, dumbstruck by these tidings. It was the worst possible turn of events.
He plans to murder your family.
What can I do? What can be done?
Linus read his mind. ‘You must forget America now, Conor. It is time for action.’
‘I know. Of course. But what must I do?’ asked Conor.
‘It’s a puzzle,’ replied Linus. ‘Bonvilain knows you are coming. Exactly when and where. They will be watching sea and sky, waiting for the Airman.’
‘I could surrender myself,’ blurted Conor, desperation large on his features. ‘Then the marshall would have no need to kill anyone. His secrets would be safe.’
Linus disagreed vehemently. ‘No! It’s too late for that, Conor. Bonvilain doesn’t know who you have spoken to or what army you may have gathered with your stolen diamonds.’
‘But why does he tell me about the dinner? To torment me?’
‘To ensnare you,’ corrected Linus. ‘All of his enemies die in one night and the Airman is their murderer. Blaming you for murder is a tried-and-trusted method for Hugo Bonvilain.’
Conor sat still as a statue, staring at the stones as though they would yield up the solution to his terrible dilemma. A breeze funnelled through his fingers, and sunshine warmed his crown, but what could these normal things mean to him. Would a normal life ever be his?
‘Conor?’ said Wynter, crawling forward, one hand reaching ahead, patting the air. ‘Conor? Are you all right?’
Conor made no sound but shallow breathing and Linus realized that he would have to take charge.
‘We must leave the tower,’ he said, attempting to sound brisk and businesslike. ‘We load what we can on to the cart and leave here tonight. Even if Bonvilain sends soldiers to hunt for you, they may not know to look for Conor Finn.’
There was a rustle of grass and cloth as Conor climbed to his feet. If Linus could have seen his young friend’s eyes, he would have been struck by the sudden determination burning there.
‘Conor Finn?’ said the Airman. ‘Conor Finn is dead. My name is Conor Broekhart and I need to speak to my father.’