The Last Spaniard

31

The Last Spaniard

    Possibly if Lavinia Formby Yates had not accepted Commander Lucas Henderson’s proposal of marriage subsequent events might not have proceeded as they did.

    Mr Rattle, it might be remembered, had always considered Lash to be a fine figure of a woman. He congratulated the Commander quite genuinely on encountering him in the town, wringing his hand most sincerely. Later, however, when Mr Hartshorne was encountered in the Elephant and Castle, he passed some very obscure remarks in which a reference to the late Admiral might have been discerned, if possibly not perfectly understood, by their puzzled audience, refused a rum, and stumped out.

    Had it been later in the day he might never have noticed the man on the beach and events would have taken a very different turn. But as it was he looked doubtfully at what seemed to be, in the twilight, a dark pile of nothing very much, and then went over to it. There was money, if very little, even in old rags, after all.

    It was not a pile of old rags, it was a man. He was rather damp and Mr Rattle’s first assumption was, naturally, that he had come off a boat. But the weather was fine, in fact very warm for the time of year, and apart from Commander Carey’s recent accident with his yacht, there’d been no reports of wrecks on this part of the coast for a long time—not, in fact, since the tragic day of Joe Formby’s death.

    “Jumped ship,” concluded the sapient Mr Rattle under his breath. “Pressganged, dessay. Ahoy!”

    The huddled pile of rags didn’t stir, though the man seemed to be breathing, so he squatted down and pulled at his shoulder to turn him round. At this the fellow whimpered, threw up a hand to shield his face and shrank away.

    Mr Rattle said something under his breath; the man’s forehead bore a nasty gash which was oozing blood.

    “You’re safe now, shipmate, don’t be a-feared,” he said kindly.

    Muttering something incoherent, the man shrank again.

    “Pressgang, was it? Don’t ’old with it, meself,” the old sailor grunted. “If a man wants to go to sea, well and good, but no pressganged feller didn’t never make no decent sailor. I’ll see you safe ’ome, lad.”—He appeared scarce more than a lad, certainly: it was a round, youthful face with very round dark eyes.—“Not from these parts, are yer? Where yer from, then?”

    This question appeared to make no impression, so concluding the knock on the head had dazed him he added very slowly and clearly: “What’s yer name?”

    The question had been repeated several times and all Mr Rattle had got in reply was a confused babble of syllables, likewise to the enquiry where it hurt. Scratching his head, the old sailor knelt back on his heels. “Ah. Think ’e might be a furriner,” he advised himself. “Come orf a furrin ship out in the Channel, most like. Well, dessay they pressgangs their lot, too. Froggy, maybe. –All right, now, don’t be a-feared, but I better see if you got any papers,” he said kindly to him. “Dunno ’oo’d be safe to take ’em to, mind,” he muttered, gently searching his person. “Oh—lumme,” he concluded. The search had yielded nothing but a small coin which was definitely not English and definitely not gold or silver. Had he been robbed? Robbed, bashed on the head and flung into the Channel?

    Scratching his whiskery chin, Mr Rattle decided it was more than likely, but whatever the rights and wrongs of the case it wouldn’t do no good to involve anybody official. And unless the feller was on his last legs, which he didn’t seem to be, only very dazed and confused, there was no call to involve Dr Kent, either.

    “Come on, upsy-daisy,” he grunted, getting a shoulder under his arm and heaving him upright.

    After a few steps it dawned the man was so shaky he could scarce stagger, so he hauled him along to his own little shelter and got his damp clothes off him. The undergarments were not wet, so he couldn’t have been in the sea after all; well, perhaps bashed and robbed on shore and flung on the beach regardless of where the tide might be? Mr Rattle’s lips tightened. He didn’t think there were any fellows in Waddington-on-Sea who were that bad, one Jake Baker having long since been taken off by the pressgang and Mr Patch having disappeared around the time that Mrs Patch produced her sixth child, but there were certainly enough over to Brighton that’d think nothing of knocking a poor foreigner on the head and leaving him to die on the beach. He wrapped the man in the good warm rug that Mrs Julia had given him and forced him to sip a mixture of his own: oyster soup with some porter added.

    To his relief the fellow started to look less blue and a lot less frightened and tried to smile as he said something that sounded like “Gracious.”

    “Ah. Furrin,” decided Mr Rattle firmly. “Don’t worry, lad, I know the very person what can talk furrin back to yer.”

    At this the fellow clutched at him and said something about preemy or something.

    “Ah. Dessay. Sort it out termorrow, hey? Dessay you’ll be feeling better then, too. You sup a mite more o’ that and then take a nap.” Forcing the cup firmly into his hand and making encouraging gestures towards the mouth, Mr Rattle added a few more pieces of driftwood to his brazier and settled down to watch over him for the night.

    In the morning he still seemed very confused, but not so dazed. “Ah,” said Mr Rattle, having examined him carefully and found no wounds but the one on the head and a few bruises on the shoulders, ribs and shins. “Bashed and kicked, eh? Some wicked fellers over to Brighton. Now, never mind no bash on the ’ead, you don’t strike me as the brightest feller I ever met, furrin or not. Acos that cook over to Sunny Bay, well, ’e can’t say no more’n two words of English together, but yer take one look at ’im and it’s plain as the nose on yer face ’e’s a bright feller. Only you got that same look as Tom Bodger always had, not ’is uncle, the one that’s two shilling short. Ah. Dessay as you never saw ’em coming. Let’s get some breakfast into you and see if you can walk.”

    This experiment was duly carried out, the conclusion being “a bit.” Mr Rattle sniffed, informed his unexpected guest they were going in the boat, and got him into it. The fellow seemed quite willing to trust him, in fact awarding him several wide, vacant smiles, the which more than confirmed the likeness to Tom Bodger, had the willingness to get into a perfect stranger’s boat after being robbed and left for dead not already done so.

    Mr Rattle shoved off and tested the wind with his finger. “Ah. Might ’ave to tack a bit.” Forthwith he hoisted the little brown sail, leaned back at his ease at the tiller, and put his pipe in his mouth. He was out of baccy, the which might have suggested to a lesser man he should take the foreigner over to Mr Loowis Ainsley at Sunny Bay. But Mr Rattle, having made up his mind to the best course of action, least likely to land the poor foreigner in more trouble than he might be in already, steered in the opposite direction entirely.

    By the time they pulled in to the little cove where Commander Henderson’s new yacht was moored the foreigner seemed more revived and in fact, though not steady on his pins, was able to walk with Mr Rattle’s support. It was only a short distance and there was an easy track down to the cove. He got him up it with frequent rests and deposited him under a bush while he reconnoitred. As he had thought, there was a clutch of workmen beavering away on the Commander’s house. Mr Rattle eyed them sardonically from the shelter of a clump of overgrown shrubs, finally spitting into a tangle of brambles and retreating noiselessly whence he’d come.

    “Windy frames,” he reported to his foreigner. “This side. Looks like ’e’s given up on t’other side, so that ’Artshorne, ’e can put it in ’is pipe and smoke it! Ah! Come on: not far.”

    And, hoisting him up, he set off again: not for Wardle Heights itself, nor indeed Wardle Heights Farmhouse, but the next house along the road.

    “Pretty,” he explained, panting, in the lee of the neat shrubbery. “Got roses an’ stuff, too. Pretty. They got a ’en what’ll answer the back door. Better try the front, hey? You ’ang on.” Prudently leaving him in the shelter of the shrubbery, he went up to the front door.

    To his huge relief it was opened by the person he’d come for.

    “Got a furriner for yer, Cap’n Cutlass, deary,” he said to her surprised face. “Sailed round to the Commander’s cove: ’t’ain’t no distance. Should of tried it afore this.”

    “It’s easy if the tide’s right,” replied Captain Cutlass weakly. “Did you say you’ve got a foreigner for me, Mr Rattle?”

    Kindly overlooking the pinkness of the cheeks, Mr Rattle replied affirmatively: “Ah. Found ’im on the beach last night. Been bashed, I think. Robbed, most like. Ain’t got no papers. Don’t seem to speak no English.”

    “He’s not one of the servants from Sunny Bay, is he?”

    “No, I seen all them. There’s a couple of new fellers what Mr Loowis Ainsley brung, only I know them. Think this feller might be a bit daft. You wanna take a look at him?”

    “Um, yes. Have you got him here?” said Captain Cutlass dazedly.

    “Aye, thought it best. Ain’t got no papers,” he repeated.

    “Oh, I see: you mean he might have jumped ship?”

    “That’s it, aye,” agreed Mr Rattle with approval, leading the way. “Uh—dang me. Passed out, I think,” he discovered. “Shouldn’t of made ’im walk,” he said, very crestfallen.

    Captain Cutlass fell to her knees beside the man and examined him anxiously. “Um, no, I think he’s asleep, actually,” she said limply.

    “Eh? Well, did strike me as a bit dim, but yer mean to say ’e’s been and gorn and fell asleep in a strange gent’s garden?”

    “Yes. I think perhaps it’s the sleep of exhaustion, Mr Rattle.”

    “Dessay. Well, he’s ’ad a bite and a sup. Slept all right last night. Bit o’ muttering.”

    “I see,” she said, smiling up at him. “When a person has been through a lot and suddenly feels himself safe, I think falling asleep isn’t unusual.”

    “Right,” he said in relief. “Well, get ’im upstairs then, deary?”

    “Yes. Hold on: I’ll get Tom Bender to help carry him.”

    “Right you are, lovey,” agreed Mr Rattle, standing guard beside his foreigner as she rushed off towards the stable. “Been through a lot, I dessay. Dicked in the nob with it, if you ask me,” he muttered.

    With the sturdy Tom Bender’s aid the foreigner was soon in bed, in a clean nightshirt belonging to Mr Piper-Fiennes, Mr Bender assuring them somewhat redundantly that she’d never know.

    Captain Cutlass then examined the man’s shirt and undergarments carefully.

    “Fine linen, that shirt be,” noted Mr Bender.

    It was very crumpled and grimy, but the quality was unmistakable. “Well, yes,” she agreed. “Was he wet, Mr Rattle?”

    “’Ad to dry is ’coat and breeches, aye. Didn’t ’ave no waistcoat. Dried the shirt, too, it was a bit wet. ’Adn’t been in the sea, though, Cap’n Cutlass: ’e weren’t wet through.”

    “Robbed and left on the beach, most like,” opined Mr Bender.

    “Ta, I did work that out for meself!” retorted Mr Rattle with perhaps justified tartness. “Don’t think ’e give ’imself that cut on the forehead, neither.”

    “No, it’s fairly clear he’s been attacked, poor man,” said Captain Cutlass quickly. “You’re right about the shirt, Tom; it is fine linen. And the undergarments are very fine quality also.”

    “In that case,” said Mr Rattle quickly, glaring at Mr Bender, “they must of nicked ’is waistcoat.”

    “I think so. Watch and chain and all,” she agreed.

    “Fobs, most like,” offered Mr Bender, eyeing the old sailor in some amusement.

    Glaring, Mr Rattle felt in the pockets of the discarded breeches. “This is all what ’e ’ad, Cap’n Cutlass,” he reported, firmly ignoring Mr Bender.

    She looked dubiously at the copper coin.

    “Not English,” said Mr Rattle helpfully.

    “No… I don’t know what it is.”

    “Can’t be worth much or they’d of took it,” opined Mr Bender.

    “Yer don’t say!” retorted Mr Rattle, quick as a flash.

    Oh, dear! Biting her lip, Captain Cutlass said: “Well, I think the man will probably sleep for some time, so perhaps we should leave him to it. Come downstairs, Mr Rattle, and have a hot drink and a bite, and we’ll discuss what to do about him.”

    “Best tell Mr Piper-Fiennes,” put in Tom Bender officiously.

    “Yes, thank you, Tom,” said Captain Cutlass on a firm note. “It is his house, so I had no intention of keeping the matter from him. I think you’d better go back to your work: didn’t Mr Piper-Fiennes ask you to clean the carriages this morning? And thank you for your help.”

    “Right you are, Missy,” he agreed on a glum note, touching his forelock and retreating.

    “Pesky feller, that,” noted Mr Rattle as they went slowly downstairs in his wake.

    “Nonsense, Tom’s a very good fellow and in fact a tower of strength,” replied Captain Cutlass firmly. “It’s just that he likes to be in the know and, well, is a trifle, um, nosy.”

    “Ah. Pesky,” he replied with satisfaction. “Seen ’is sort afore.”

    “’E ain’t wrong there, Captain Cutlass,” agreed Nunky Ben, appearing from the back regions. “Pesky’s a good word for ’im. What in ’Ell’s going on? You been hauling furniture upstairs?”

    “No, but as we’ve finished hauling it’s quite safe to emerge,” replied his great-niece blightingly.

    “That was a wisty one,” noted the old man drily. “’It ’ome, that one did.”

    Obligingly Mr Rattle gave a snigger.

    “You’d better come and sit down and hear all about it,” decided Captain Cutlass heavily. “I dare say you could help Mr Rattle get round a bite of something, too.”

    Uncrushed, Nunky Ben chirped: “I wouldn’t say no!” and led the way eagerly into the little salon.

    “Lumme,” he said, scratching his head, at the end of the report. “Whatcher reckon we better do about ’im, then?”

    Captain Cutlass had left the two old men to it while she went out to the kitchen to ask Mrs Biggs for refreshment for Mr Rattle and to report on the unexpected addition to the household. She came back at this point and said: “We’ll just have to wait until he wakes up. I don’t know that I’ll be able to talk to him, mind you, but at least I’ll be able to tell if he speaks French or Spanish.”

    “Or Greek,” noted Nunky Ben.

    “I don’t think so: according to Dr Adams modern Greek is nothing like the ancient tongue,” she replied calmly. “He once met a Greek sailor and was most disappointed to find they could not communicate.”

    “Useless, then, ain’t it?” replied the old man pleasedly.

    “No, the world’s greatest literature and philosophy were written in Greek,” returned Captain Cutlass, unmoved. “Mrs Biggs says to say there’s porter or tea or hot soup, Mr Rattle.”

    “’Ot tea with a drop of rum, and tell the woman not to be so danged mean, she ain’t working for Ma Mountjoy now!” snapped Nunky Ben.

    “Don’t be silly: she would have offered a drop of rum but somehow, I know not how, the rum bottle is empty.”

    Promptly Mr Rattle want into a gasping, cackling fit, smacking his knee ecstatically.

    “Look, give ’im a drop of Piper-Fiennes’s brandy, then: the feller’s dragged this blamed foreigner all the way over ’ere for yer!” snapped the old man.

    Flushing at the last phrase, his great-niece managed to ask Mr Rattle if he’d fancy that and, the offer being accepted on the understanding the brandy would brighten up the soup, bustled out to fetch it.

    In her wake silence fell.

    “’Oo the ’Ell can ’e be?” said Nunky Ben at last.

    “Dunno,” replied the old sailor stolidly.

    “Don’t give me that!”

    Mr Rattle scratched the whiskers slowly. “Does look a bit like them Spaniards at Sunny Bay,” he owned.

    “Then why bring ’im over ’ere?”

    “Thought it best.”

    Nunky Ben ruminated on it. “Right. Gotcha. Well, can’t ’urt, anyroad,” he conceded.

    Mr Piper-Fiennes was somewhat stunned, on returning for his midday meal, to find a foreigner installed in one of his bedrooms, but agreed that since the man was merely sleeping they had best wait until Miss Calpurnia could speak to him before deciding what to do about him. By suppertime it was fairly clear that he was, indeed, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, so, Mr Rattle having volunteered for guard duty, he was settled in a big chair by the foreigner’s bedside, well wrapped in a rug.

    “Will he be warm enough?” worried Mr Piper-Fiennes, following Miss Calpurnia in a sheep-like way to her room.

    Captain Cutlass smiled at him. “Of course. Your house is very much warmer than his little shelter on the beach, sir, even with his brazier going!”

    “Aye, aye, I suppose that’s true. –Miss Calpurnia,” he said in a lowered voice, “could we not do somethink for ’im?”

    Wiser heads than Mr Piper-Fiennes’s had considered the problem of Mr Rattle—though possibly not kinder hearts, recognised Calpurnia Catherine silently. “No, well, he’s happy, you see. He doesn’t want to live in a house or go to the workhouse.”

    “Not the work’ouse!” he said, shocked. “But, well, offer ’im a cottage?”

    “I’m afraid he’s too proud to accept charity, and besides, he likes to live outdoors. But you could try, of course.”

    Shaking his head dubiously, Mr Piper-Fiennes bade her goodnight, remarked that it was a sad case, and retired to bed.

    Captain Cutlass did not think it was as sad as all that, for she knew Mr Rattle was content in his mode of life. And—though High Mallows was the loveliest house she had ever been in, beautifully proportioned, charmingly appointed and very cosy as well—she did not think that living in a house was necessarily the be-all and end-all of existence. Nor that it should be expected to be. Nevertheless she went to bed smiling and reflecting that back in the days when Mr Piper-Fiennes had merely been one of Pa’s “unspeakables” who pestered Trottie True in the shop they had had no notion of his innate goodness and kindness, and had been doing him an injustice all these years.

    She did not sleep very well and in fact got up several times to check on the foreigner. But he was still blissfully asleep, though Mr Rattle opened a wary eye each time she tiptoed in.

    Towards dawn the reflection occurred that Mr Piper-Fiennes was not the only gentleman who had been done an injustice by one of the Formby family. Her cheeks got very red and though she tried to tell herself crossly that only a mouse or—or someone as ineffectual as a Bingley would have let himself be put off, so, this had no effect and she did not manage to get back to sleep.

    Mr Rattle was sitting up awake when she tiptoed into the spare bedroom at around a quarter to six. He did not remark on the fact that her eyes were suspiciously red but merely reported: “Been muttering. Think ’e’s waking up.”

    She went over to the bed and looked at the man carefully, then feeling his forehead.

    “’Ot?” asked Mr Rattle.

    “No, he has no fever. Did you catch anything he said, Mr Rattle?”

    “Sounded like ‘preemy’. Said it afore, too.”

    “Preemy… No. –Wait: it was not ‘primo,’ was it?”

    “Could of been.”

    “Primo is the Spanish for cousin. Male cousin,” said Captain Cutlass, swallowing. “One would refer to a man or a boy as ‘primo’, but to a lady or a girl as ‘prima’.”

    “Ah,” replied Mr Rattle thoughtfully, scratching the whiskers.

    She swallowed hard. “Mr Rattle,” she said in a lowered voice, “if he is a gentleman, as the quality of his garments would certainly indicate—”

    “They ’ad the boots orf ’im,” he reminded her.

    “Mm. That must indicate they were worth stealing. Um, if he is a gentleman and that was ‘primo’, then don’t you think it’s likely that he is Mr Ainsley’s cousin?”

    “It’s possible, aye. I’d say it was likely, Cap’n Cutlass, only what’s a young gent like that a-doing wandering round these parts without no valet nor carriage nor nothing?”

    “I don’t know. We must just wait and see.”

    They had to wait until after breakfast. The man in fact had slept the clock round by the time he woke. At first he appeared frightened—scarcely surprising, waking in a strange room to find himself being watched by an entire household. Mrs Biggs had come upstairs on the flimsy pretext of seeing if he might be ready for his breakfast yet, and young Harriet Stutt, her niece and assistant, had come upstairs in her wake on no pretext whatsoever. Mr Piper-Fiennes was possibly there ex officio. Captain Cutlass and Mr Rattle of course were jointly in charge, and Nunky Ben was presumably there because he didn’t want to be left out. Why Tom Bender was there was not clear to anyone except perhaps Mr Rattle, who had growled “Pesky,” under his breath on sighting him.

    “Don’t be frightened,” said Captain Cutlass. This had no effect. She had no idea how to say it in Spanish, as she’d picked up only a few odd words and phrases from Sir Harry’s servants, but she thought she’d heard the word for friend: perhaps she might say “We are your friends.” Um, the French word was ami, so… Ah! Amigo! Bother, was the plural amigos? Yes, that seemed correct, but how did you say “we are”? “I am” was “soy”—at least, Spanish had two verbs for “to be”, but… Finally she said feebly and a-grammatically: “Soy amigos.”

    This had an amazing effect: the foreigner burst into a babble, beaming at her, grasping at her hands, and finally kissing the hands and bursting into tears—though smiling through them.

    “Dicked in the nob,” said Mr Rattle sotto voce to Nunky Ben.

    “Shilling short: aye,” agreed that worthy, eyeing the stranger’s vacuous grin.

    “He may be merely a poor foreigner,” offered Mr Piper-Fiennes weakly.

    “No, I think they’re right,” said Captain Cutlass. “He hasn’t grasped that I know very little Spanish and don’t understand him. –Sí, sí,” she added limply in answer to the further babble. This gallant effort resulted in more tears, ever more fervent kissing of her hands, and a babble in which the words “mi primo” were discernible.

    “Yes—sí. Hush,” she said limply. “I don’t know the Spanish word for ‘hush’,” she explained limply to the onlookers.

    “You must of told that Hooly-oh and them to ’ush often enough!” objected Mr Rattle.

    “Oh—yes. –Be quiet,” said Captain Cutlass carefully to the man in Spanish.

    “Phew!” concluded Nunky Ben as the babble died away and the man looked up at her obediently. “Lovey, ’e is a shilling short, yer know.”

    “Yes. And I think he must be the Ainsleys’ cousin, for I have a vague recollection that Mr—Sir Harry once mentioned a cousin who was backward.”

    “Ask ’im that, then,” prompted the old man.

    “Nunky Ben, I’m not sure of the words. I know some cookery words and a few simple phrases, but that’s all.” She thought—not easy with them all staring fixedly at her—and finally came up with the phrase: “Are you the cousin of Mr Luís Ainsley?”

    She had an idea she’d used the wrong form of the verb “to be”, but he must have understood, for there were more beaming smiles, more babble, more kissing of the hands and another burst of tears.

    “Yes,” reported Captain Cutlass limply.

    Nunky Ben choked and Mr Piper-Fiennes protested weakly: “My dear Miss Calpurnia, he must of said more nor that!”

    “Well, yes, but I understood very little of it,” said Captain Cutlass, now very flushed. “He said ‘cousin’ a lot and I think the word for ‘aunt’, though I am not sure why, for if he is their cousin his aunt is dead. Um, unless he is a relation on Mr Ainsley’s late wife’s side. Um, perhaps she was his aunt, only then he would refer to the husband as tio— Oh, dear,” she ended feebly as the Spaniard burst into speech again.

    “Hang on!” said Nunky Ben excitedly. “‘Tio ’Arry!’ It were, weren’t it?”

    “Tio ’Arry!” cried the Spaniard, bursting into renewed babble.

    “You’re right, Mr Huggins,” approved Mr Piper-Fiennes. “Now, Miss Calpurnia, my dear, just ask him slowly if this uncle be the father of his cousin and then I think we’ll ’ave it straight.”

    “Eh? No, we won’t!” objected Mr Rattle.

    “Er—no, the father of a cousin would be an uncle,” said Captain Cutlass feebly.

    “Put the names in, Captain Cutlass,” said Nunky Ben, his shoulders shaking slightly.

    “H’exact, my dear,” agreed Mr Piper-Fiennes seriously. “Put it like this: ‘Is your Uncle Harry the father of your Cousin Lewis?’”

    “Yes, but…” Captain Cutlass muttered to herself, scowling. “I know it doesn’t seem likely, but there are two words for ‘is’ in Spanish!” she explained on a despairing note.

    “Well, ’e may be slow, but you’d have to be really slow not to get it if you use the wrong one, so give it a go,” urged Nunky Ben.

    “I am not at all sure of the interrogative form… No, very well, I can but try.” She duly tried.

    To her astonishment he beamed and replied quite clearly: “¡Sí, sí, mi tio ’Arry es el padre de mi primo Luís!”

    “Yes,” she said faintly, sagging.

    Promptly Mr Piper-Fiennes put a supporting arm around her waist, ordering Mrs Biggs crossly to get downstairs and make a pot of tea immediate, and take that lass with her—Miss Stutt forthwith disappearing—and Tom Bender to stop a-crowding the company and go and wait in the hall until wanted.

    “I’m all right,” said Captain Cutlass limply. “I was beginning to think we’d never get any sense out of him!”

    “Indeed,” he agreed courteously. “Well, there can be little doubt that this is Mr Ainsley’s h’unfortunate cousin, and as to ’ow he got ’ere, we shall leave that for another time! Can you tell him that there’ll be breakfast for him in a little, Miss Calpurnia?”

    “I—all I can think of is chota huzzree, which is ridiculous, because it’s one of Rita’s ayah’s Indian words!” she said with a mad laugh.

    “Overset,” said Mr Piper-Fiennes to the two old men. “Mr Rattle, if you would be so good h’as to keep an eye on the Spaniard, I’ll take ’er downstairs and get ’er sat down with a cup of tea. –HOY! Primo fellow! Shush!” he added loudly, laying a finger to his lips, as the babble had broken out again.

    To everyone’s surprise this universal gesture worked, and Mr Piper-Fiennes led Captain Cutlass firmly downstairs.

    Nunky Ben and Mr Rattle looked at one another cautiously.

    “Ah,” said the old sailor at last.

    “Mm. Well, they’re all a bit mad over to Sunny Bay, dessay ’e’ll fit in,” allowed Nunky Ben drily.

    Gratifyingly, Mr Rattle at this went into a prolonged wheezing fit.

    “Wonder if ’e’s ’ere legal, like?” Nunky Ben then wondered. “Oh, well, ’oo cares? Right, now, ’oo’s gonna stop Piper-Fiennes from taking over the ’ole thing, is all we got to worry about now. He’s got three carriages out in that there carriage house of his, ’tisn’t just the trap, by no means, and what’s the betting he’ll get over to Sunny Bay himself and she won’t never even get to speak to ’im?”

    Mr Rattle did not appear to have any difficulty in sorting out this confusion of personal pronouns, for he replied stolidly: “I done my bit. Up to you.”

    Nunky Ben took a deep breath. “Right, then! If ’is ma can boss the pants orf ’im and Captain Cutlass can boss the pants orf ’im and even Ma Biggs can ditto, dessay I can give it a go!” Forthwith he stumped out, looking grim.

    “Ah,” said Mr Rattle thoughtfully to his foreigner. “Aye, preemy and all that,” he added kindly as the fellow broke out again. “Right, Loowis an’ all,” he agreed, discerning what might possibly be those syllables in amongst it. “Oh, lumme,” he muttered as the noise flowed on and on. “Shush!” he hissed, with the gesture.

    It worked, and Mr Rattle sat back with a sigh.

    Astoundingly, Nunky Ben did not have to boss Mr Piper-Fiennes after all. The master of High Mallows announced regretfully that much as he would like to get over to Sunny Bay himself, he did not think he ought, for he was needed on the property. Then, while they might write a note, he was doubtful of its having the intended effect of informing and not alarming unduly.

    “Aye,” said Nunky Ben quickly. “We’d best get on over there ourselves, Captain Cutlass.”

    “But I—I don’t think the man’s fit to travel, Nunky Ben. And if he isn’t their relation we’d have to bring him all the way back again.”

    He had slept for twenty-four hours solid and Mrs Biggs had just reported that he was tucking into a plate of good English kippers like nobody’s business, but the old man replied promptly: “No, just you and me. Make sure they understand that it’s probably their dim cousin but might not be after all, hey? And that he’s been attacked but don’t seem too bad for it.”

    “Mm.”

    “Um, didn’t get his name in all that racket, did you, lovey?”

    “No,” she said heavily. “At least, he did say something, but— Well, it was not any of the Spanish names I know. And then I thought he said his name again, but—but it was something different, Nunky Ben!”

    “One could of been ’is surname and t’other ’is Christian name, but on the other ’and, ’ow dim is ’e? All right, lovey, you tell me ’ow to say ‘What’s yer name?’ in Spanish and I’ll give it a go.”

    She looked dubious but told him—at least, as she couldn’t remember “name”, how to say “Who are you?”, and after he’d repeated it and she’d approved it he headed upstairs…

    “If yer wanna know,” he reported bitterly, “first ’e raved on like a loony and then ’e said One! So yer pays yer money and yer takes yer choice!”

    “Oh. I—I thought he did say that at one point, but then I thought he said Nito,” she faltered.

    Nunky Ben shrugged. “’E’s a heathen loony and I ’ope as you’re up for telling Mr Ainsley and ’is blamed pa that, acos I don’t think I am!”

    Mr Piper-Fiennes at this looked uneasily at Miss Calpurnia but she said firmly: “Someone has to tell them, after all. Let’s go, Nunky Ben.”

    And the horses were put to by the helpful Tom Bender, Mr Bender in person mounted onto the box, and they went.

    Captain Cutlass had been very quiet all the way over, the which had not improved the state of Nunky Ben’s nerves. When they got to the pink house the bright blue front door was opened by a dark-looking, yellow-faced fellow in conventional livery, who bowed very low.

    “’Oo’s this, then?” demanded the old man on a cross note.

    “I don’t know,” said Captain Cutlass weakly. “I’ve never seen him before.”

    Firmly Nunky Ben repeated his phrase of Spanish.

    Bowing again, the man said something, and Nunky Ben looked dubiously at his great-niece.

    “That was Something Juarez. Um, Juarez is the surname of some of the servants.”

    “Sounded like Rude-Word Wah-reth to me,” replied the old man flatly.

    It had to Captain Cutlass, too. She bit her lip.

    “Can you tell ’im we want to see his master?”

    “Um… no. I can ask where he is, though.”

    “Go on, then!”

    Feebly Captain Cutlass said “¿Donde es, um, tu, um, no, um, donde es el padrón?” reflecting not for the first time this very trying morning that she had been a blind, prejudiced fool to think that Mr Ainsley’s note had been childish: for expressing yourself in a foreign language was of all things most difficult, and he spoke several languages with ease and fluency! And also beginning to envisage vaguely, this for the very first time, how very, very difficult life must have been for Sir Harry when he first found himself penniless on the Continent.

    The man bowed yet again and made a short speech in reply, but perhaps he did understand that the callers wished to see his master: at any rate he vanished, leaving the door ajar.

    “Gorn to get someone,” deduced Nunky Ben.

    “Mm. Must it not be terrible,” said Captain Cutlass, swallowing, “to be in a strange country where you can’t understand a word of the language?”

    “Aye. Mind you, that Rattle never seems to of taken no mind of any sort of heathen tongue the natives spoke when he were ashore in the Indies and Africky and all them hot places.”

    “No, but then I think the sailors would always have gone ashore together, in a bunch.”

    “Right. And I dessay a tavern’s a tavern anywheres you go.”

    Captain Cutlass thought dubiously of the two retired Indian servants, Mr Murty and Mr Veekay, who would not touch any form of alcoholic liquor—greatly disconcerting Little Joe, who had, though noting that they wouldn’t know what Christmas was, presented them with a bottle of rum last year—but nodded kindly.

    “Dang me, couple of brats!” noted Nunky Ben as two little boys then appeared.

    “Yes. Buenas dias, Julio,” said Captain Cutlass to the little page.

    Beaming, Julio greeted the Señorita Calpurnia.

    “This is Julio Juarez, who is the pageboy. But I don’t know who the little one is. He’s not one of the Mendoza children—the head groom’s children.”

    “Dessay they all breed like rabbits,” replied Nunky Ben on a disagreeable note.

    “Er—not that fast,” said Captain Cutlass, eyeing the chubby, dark-eyed toddler dubiously. One might have called him cherubic, except for the smears of jam on his cheeks. “Oh—here he is,” she said in some relief as a taller figure appeared behind the children.

    “No, ’e ain’t, not unless ’e’s been changing ’is clothes!”

    “No. Who are you?” said Captain Cutlass feebly in Spanish. He did look very like the footman, true.

    “’Nother Wah-reth?” hazarded Nunky Ben, as the speech in reply had seemed to contain those syllables.

    “Yes. He—I think he said he’s Mr Ainsley’s valet. His name is Jésus Juarez,” she gulped.

    The Spanish pronunciation of his Saviour’s name of course meant nothing to Mr Huggins and he merely replied: “Uh-huh.”

    “¿Habla ingles?” said Captain Cutlass to the man. “—No,” she reported to Nunky Ben.

    “Hey?”

    “He doesn’t speak English. –Nunky, he must be the bigamist,” she croaked.

    Promptly Nunky Ben went into an awful spluttering fit, gasping: “’Course ’e must! ’E don’t look it, eh? I tell yer what, though, I wouldn’t say Mr Ainsley’s claim that ’e never did get a single brat on any one of the three wives was wrong, though!”

    “Ssh! –Um, I think there must be something wrong. I mean, normally a valet wouldn’t come to the front door.”

    “’Oo said that this lot were normal?” replied the old man, fast lapsing into a rollicking mood.

    “Ssh. Where—is—Mr Ainsley?” said Captain Cutlass loudly and clearly in Spanish.

    The valet and the pageboy both burst into speech.

    “This is ridiculous! I’m almost sure that was something about shirts!”

    “Tell ’em we want to see Mr Ainsley.”

    “I can’t, I don’t know the verb ‘to want’.”

    “In that case we could stand ’ere wittering for hours or go on in,” said Mr Huggins drily. “Oy, stand aside, you lot, I’m coming in!” he said loudly, suiting the action to the word.

    Limply Captain Cutlass followed him. “That’s the sitting-room.”

    “Empty,” discerned the old man. He headed down the passage, finding a good-sized kitchen with evidence of preparations for a meal, but no bodies.

    “It’s like that blamed poem of Ned’s,” he noted. “‘Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink’. Only this ’ere’s ‘Dinner, dinner everywhere, nor any ruddy Spaniard to eat it!’”

    “Mm. Can Sir Harry have had another accident? I think we’d best check upstairs.”

    “Yell out, anyway,” said Nunky Ben, ambling back to the front hall. “HOY!” he bellowed. “Anybody upstairs?”

    “HULLO!” came a loud reply. “Who the Devil is that?”

    “Mr Smith. Sir Harry Ainsley, I should say,” Nunky Ben corrected himself with frightening dryness. “—Well, go on, yell out,” he advised his great-niece, as the valet and the children were just standing there watching them.

    “Don’t you think there’s been enough yelling?” Looking grim, she mounted the stairs.

    Shrugging, Nunky Ben followed her. “Hold on, Captain Cutlass!” he said as it dawned that the little page was accompanying them but that the toddler was having great difficulty mounting the first stair. He scooped him up, smiling at him reassuringly and, faute de mieux, repeating his phrase of Spanish.

    “Crumbs, ’e knows ’is name! Soytony, or some such,” he reported.

    “Soy means ‘I am’. Tonio is his name,” said Captain Cutlass.

    “Tony?”

    “No: Tonio. Buenas dias, Tonio,” she said, smiling at the little boy.

    “¡Buenas dias, señora!” he piped.

    “Talks like a book, hey?” said Nunky Ben on a proud note. “Puts me in mind of Little Joe at that age. Talked faster nor any brat in the ’ole of the Old Town. That’s right, laddie, boney days and all that stuff, hey? Come on, let’s see what’s up with the old feller, hey?”

    And they went upstairs together, the little boy beaming from the old man’s shoulder and chirping phrases of Spanish to which Calpurnia Catherine could offer very little response.

    Sir Harry was discovered sitting up in bed, scowling, in a very blue nightshirt. He did not speak, as Julio was uttering a speech of introduction.

    “¡Sí! Yes! I see them! And speak English!” he said irritably.

    Bowing, Julio produced: “Callers for you, Mees-tair Smeeth.”

    “We have deduced,” said the baronet, scowling horribly, “that he believes ‘Mr Smith’ to be the English for señor, and how in God’s name we’re to get him out of it is beyond me! –I beg your pardon, Miss Calpurnia; Mr Huggins. Pray excuse my receiving you in my demned bed like demned feu le roi Louis. I am reduced to these straits owing to the howling incompetence of the so-called washerwoman my fool of a son insisted on hiring from the village!”

    There was a short silence.

    “I get yer,” said Nunky Ben calmly. “Over-blued the ’ole wash, did she?”

    “Every scrap of linen I own!” he shouted terribly. “My neckcloths are ruined!”

    “Right. Could still get up, even in a blue shirt,” he noted.

    “I think he must have ordered them to rewash everything,” said Captain Cutlass weakly.

    “Exact,” said the baronet sourly. “Gave the order and then realized— Go on, laugh!” he shouted as Nunky Ben collapsed in cackles, so much so that he had to set the little boy on the bed. “Sí, sí, venga aquí, Tonio,” he said on a tired note as the child scrambled over to sit on his knee. “—Doesn’t know a word of English, and Luís is hopeless, jabbers Spanish all the time, barely said a word of English since he came home! I keep telling him, all the brats have to live in England, what’s he think he’s up to, it ain’t helping!”

    “Um, no,” agreed Captain Cutlass, swallowing, as the silence indicated he might be expecting some sort of response. “Thank you for your letter, sir.”

    The baronet gave her a pathetic look. “Nothing’s gone right since you deserted us. They can’t remember a word of English—Manuel even forgot ‘shrimp’ t’other day, and I thought at least that had sunk in! And damned Luís turned up with Jorge Juarez as well as Jésus, neither of ’em speaks a word of English and they’re encouraging t’others to lapse!”

    “Mm. It’s understandable, sir,” she ventured in a small voice. “It’s very difficult to speak in a foreign language.”

    “As we just learned today,” noted Nunky Ben sardonically.

    He sniffed. “She’d only picked up a few phrases: got no ear for languages. Learns intellectually, but can’t grasp the vernacular speech.”

    “No,” said Captain Cutlass glumly. She took a deep breath. “Sir Harry—”

    “So, am I forgiven?” he said hopefully.

    Oh, dear! Of course he must think that was why they’d come! Somehow Captain Cutlass, though still cognizant of the rightness of her stance, found she could not state her position vis à vis the undesirability of a member of the nobility’s usurping the humble rights of the lower classes to an elderly man sitting up in bed in an over-blued nightshirt.

    “For the thing itself, and for any injury to my feelings—yes,” she said heavily.

    “But?” replied the baronet, licking his lips.

    “But as you have apparently lived the most of your adult life in some silly rôle, it would be asking too much to expect you to seize any ethical point which might be made about this last one,” she returned calmly.

    After a moment Sir Harry admitted sourly: “Look, I do seize your point, and if y’must have it, me wife would’ve torn a strip off me for letting it go on so long and fooling poor Mrs Lumley and the whole street, but y’get to the point where you don’t care!”

    The last syllable had been very loud: Mr Huggins looked doubtfully at Captain Cutlass but refrained from speech.

    “Mm. I see,” she said in a stifled voice. “But your son is back now, sir.”

    “Uh—well, dare say that was a factor, yes. Didn’t want to go back to Spain with them, mind. Um, insisted on staying on and, um, well, you see, Luís has inherited his mother’s sweet nature. Saw the silly old man was busy with what seemed a harmless amusement, decided to humour me, where a harder or less caring fellow would have put his foot down. Or, I suppose, a more conventional fellow, like his brother—both of his brothers, come to think of it. Paul ain’t too bad—he’d have talked me out of it, but done it kindly—but Bungo’s damned unbearable. Used to be a merry little fellow. Should never have sent him to a damned English school. Added to which, takes after me damned father, never saw that in him when he was a little chap. Not that I’ve barely laid eyes on him since he was ten years old,” he finished moodily.

    Oh, dear! Captain Cutlass and Nunky Ben exchanged dismayed glances.

    The silence lengthened, and Captain Cutlass was again about to broach the purpose of their visit, when Sir Harry asked gloomily: “Didn’t happen to notice whether Manuel was around, did you? Been shouting for the fellow for hours, but all that happens is damned Jorge creeps in—I cannot abide a servant what creeps,” he noted by the by—“and tells me the meal ain’t ready yet! And they can’t all be putting the wash out!”

    “Could be, if yer told ’em to redo the ’ole of the linen cupboard,” noted Mr Huggins stolidly. “There weren’t no-one downstairs but the bigamist and the footman with the rude name.”

    Sir Harry stared at him.

    “What you said,” he prompted.

    “Jorge—” Suddenly Sir Harry went into an alarming spluttering fit. “By God, that’s a good one!” he gasped finally. “He’s done his share of whoring, too, in his time, the demned scoundrel, like all the Juarezes! –I do beg your pardon, Miss Calpurnia,” he added lamely.

    “Never mind that! How do you spell it?” she replied tensely.

    “J,O,R,G,E. –I have explained about the Spanish J,” he reminded her on a dry note.

    “Yes. The G as well? Help. Um, then what is One?” she asked.

    “Hey?”

    “A Spanish name that sounds like One.”

    “One? Oh! Juan?” ventured Sir Harry.

    “Yes, One.”

    “Beans in ’er ears,” the baronet muttered sourly.

    “Whuh-what?” stuttered Captain Cutlass.

    “You’ve got beans in your ears, girl!” he shouted. “The name is JUAN! JUAN!”

    “Harry, stop it,” said his son’s voice from the doorway.

    “Where the Devil have you BEEN?” he shouted terribly. “I’m STARVING!”

    Luís came in. “Please don’t shout. –Good-day, Miss Calpurnia. Good-day, Mr Huggins. I’m very glad to see you, and I must apologithe for Pa and for my own appearance.”

    “Not blue,” said Mr Huggins sadly.

    Luís was in an elderly pair of breeches and a tired leather waistcoat over a heavy shirt of woollen homespun. “No, this is a shirt of Manuel’s—the cook’s.”

    “Where IS he?” cried Sir Harry.

    “He has been helping re-rinse the linen: they have now done it six times and it is starting to look marginally less blue—and since you were shouting about shrimp earlier he has run down to the beach to see if he can get some for you. I’m sorry if you’re starving, Harry, but it was you who told the servants to forget about breakfast and get on with rewashing the linen.”

    “Oh, dear, you haven’t even had your breakfast?” cried Captain Cutlass.

    “Precisely,” said the baronet, glaring at his son.

    She took a deep breath. “Did anyone consult Señora Mendoza?”

    “Yes, it was she who said we’d best rinse it all in cold water several times,” replied Luís.

    “Is that all?”

    “Um, and let it hang in the sun for several days, but as there is not much sun in England—”

    “Foreign!” said Mr Huggins loudly to his great-niece at this point.

    “Mm. The solution in England is to let it hang out for a week in the rain, Mr Ainsley,” she said, biting her lip. “Um, the dilemma is not unique to your household, I promise you.”

    “See, we got a house full of ’ens, too,” Nunky Ben assured him.

    “Er—I see,” said Luís limply, thrusting his hand through his curls.

    The old man was about to urge his great-niece to tell Mr Ainsley why they were here when Sir Harry once more pre-empted them.

    “Manuel manages well enough if nothing upsets him! And it was you who brought them two useless Juarez brothers home—not to mention that brainless little Consuelo! –She gets poor little Tonio up before dawn like a damned peasant brat!” he said crossly to Captain Cutlass.

    “Does she?” she said limply. “Well, that is not so terrible—is it, Tonio?” she added, smiling at him. “If everyone else is up! –Will he come to me, do you think? ¡Venga aquí, Tonio!” she smiled, holding out her arms.

    Chuckling, the toddler allowed the Señorita Calpurnia to pick him up.

    “There!” she said, kissing his tiny black curls. “Isn’t he adorable? But if he is not a Mendoza, whose is he?” she asked gaily.

    A stunned silence emanated from the Ainsleys.

    “Mine, of course,” said Luís limply. “Did Pa not say? He is Antonio Luís Harold José Ainsley, Miss Calpurnia.”

    Nunky Ben cleared his throat. “You can see it, if yer look, Captain Cutlass. Got them same black curls.” He tapped the middle of his own bald forehead, at the point where both Luís’s and Tonio’s black ringlets tumbled over a widow’s peak.

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    “Which, as we’re on the subject of relations,” the old man said firmly, “—and before half a dozen of yer starts in about dinner or the wash again—we ain’t ’ere to tell you as Captain Cutlass accepts yer apologies, though she does, we’re ’ere because old Rattle’s found a Spaniard on the beach and we think he might be a relation!”

    “What?” said Luís dazedly, tearing his eyes away from the spectacle of Tonio in Miss Calpurnia’s arms.

    “Aye. Feller struck us as pretty dim, though mind you, ’e’s been bashed. Recovered all right, though: sitting up in bed eating kippers, weren’t ’e, Captain Cutlass?”

    “Yes. He does speak Spanish, but I—I couldn’t understand much he said,” she said, reddening.

    “We ain’t expecting any relations and in fact the whole pack of ’em loathe us!” said Sir Harry sourly.

    “Sí. Except for poor dear Juanito,” allowed Luís.

    “Whuh-what?” faltered Captain Cutlass.

    “Diminutive of Juan. Fellow’s a half-wit, can’t be him: couldn’t get himself from Seville to Cadiz, let alone all the way to England,” grunted Sir Harry sourly.

    “But I think that’s what he said! Not One, Onenito!” she cried.

    “Juanito!” corrected Sir Harry loudly. “Can’t be him, I just explained! Very common name in Spain, must be some other fellow. Dare say he’s a sailor that jumped ship.”

    “Sir Harry,” said Calpurnia Catherine very loudly and firmly, “please listen! This man, though his boots and waistcoat have been stolen, together with any items of value, has the linen of a gentleman!”

    “Very fine, aye,” allowed Nunky Ben. “Think them breeches might of been decent, too, afore old Rattle dried them out.”

    “Mm.”

    “Harry,” faltered Luís, going very pale: “could it be Juanito, do you suppose?”

    “NO! Are you DEAF?” he shouted. “In any case your Primo Julio would never let him travel alone!”

    Luís bit his lip. “I shall check. It would be too dreadful if— Where is the poor fellow, Miss Calpurnia? At your house?”

    “New Short Street? No; Mr Rattle sailed him over to us at High Mallows. He seemed exhausted after his ordeal and in fact slept the clock round, so we thought it best not to submit him to the journey here, in—in case he isn’t your relation,” she faltered.

    “But like I say, ’e’s sitting up like Jacky scoffing kippers, so bang on the ’ead or not, ’e’s all right,” put in Nunky Ben. “When yer look at Mr Ainsley, lovey, he does ’ave a look of him, don’t yer think? Them black curls. And the nose.”

    “Pa, that does sound like Juanito! I must go to him at once!”

    “It won’t be him. Never seen a Spaniard that didn’t have black hair—well, few dozen Hapsburg by-blows at the demned Court, can’t count them. And that nose, pardon me for mentionin’ it, is old Don Luís’s, and he didn’t hesitate to put it about, nor his father and grandfather before him: the estate’s littered with the Fernández de Velasco no—”

    “Stop it, Harry,” he said grimly.

    “It won’t be him. But go, by all means! If he is a Spaniard, dare say we can—well, not literally give him a bed, he’ll have to sleep above the stable with the Juarez boys, won’t he? But dare say Manuel can feed him—if so be,” he noted evilly, “he ever finds the time to feed anybody again!”

    His lips tightening, Luís turned his shoulder on him. “Even if the man be not a relation of ours or of our servants, I shall look to him, Miss Calpurnia,” he said on a grim note. “Did you drive over?”

    “Yes, Mr Piper-Fiennes let us have the carriage. Mr Ainsley, the man did say that his tio Harry is the father of his primo Luís. Primo is the word for cousin, isn’t it?”

    “Yes. I am sure it must be poor Juanito, and I cannot thank you both enough for coming to us. Give me Tonio, please, Miss Calpurnia,” said Luís, taking the little boy gently and managing to ignore his father’s snort of disbelief. “Julio,” he said in Spanish to the pageboy, “run downstairs and fetch Consuelo to Tonio right away. Tell her I said to come now.”

    Gasping: “¡Si, señor!” the little boy rushed out.

    “Dunno what that was, but it worked,” said Nunky Ben drily to Captain Cutlass. “The feller went on about preemies enough, aye, Mr Ainsley.”

    “How hurt is he?” he said tensely to Captain Cutlass.

    “Not badly. We didn’t think it necessary to send for the doctor. He—um—was quite loquacious. He had been hit: he was unconscious when Mr Rattle found him, and there was a gash on his forehead, but it seems to be healing well.”

    He swallowed hard. “I see. Shall we go? I should like to see him without delay.”

    And, ignoring Sir Harry’s cry of: “It won’t be him! It’s a wild goose chase, Luís, dammit!” they went downstairs.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/journeys-end.html