‘You’ll grant appearances will be much the same, sir. Some curious soul will have seen such – a quantity of vessels issuing from and arriving at a place they have no right to be, large amounts of victuals being shipped in, numbers of country ships at anchor and—’
‘Yes, yes. But where the devil am I going to find the cash for this reward, I’d like to know, sir?’
‘Others may well point out that Admiral Rodney found his way to funding it and believed the happy outcome more than recompensed him.’
‘Humph. Well, now persuade me how you’ll not be flammed by a rogue claiming to know and doesn’t.’
‘Sir, I’m to tell you I’m not unacquainted with the arts of dissimulation. Were Commodore d’Auvergne to be present, he would speak warmly of my conduct on his behalf, er, at significant events for this country of a clandestine nature.’
‘You’re admitting you’ve been acting as agent in some species of hugger-mugger operation.’
Renzi winced. ‘Not as if I’d wished to have it known, sir.’
‘Of course not, no employment for a gentleman, I can understand that. Your secret’s safe with me, Renzi.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And I’ve a mind to see this through – anything that has any sort of chance of ridding us of the vermin. What do you propose?’
Several days later, L’Aurore was due to sail within forty-eight hours, and Renzi found himself making for the Shipp Inn on Queen’s Street in Port Royal. Here, all those years ago, he had roistered with one Tom Kydd and his shipmates, who had found themselves unaccountably crew of Seaflower cutter – it was a warm thought. It would be awkward, of course, if he was recognised, but in an old-fashioned wig and spectacles he didn’t think it likely.
It had changed little and he couldn’t help but give a tiny smile as he took up solitary residence in the snug, which he had hired for the night. He sat, with an untouched pewter of stingo, and waited.
Reward posters had been pasted up all about the town, proclaiming the existence of a Mr Smith from Lloyd’s of London come to investigate the recent losses. It seemed he was offering a large reward of an undisclosed sum for information leading to an uncovering of the privateers’ nest. All dealings in the strictest confidence and prompt payment in bright silver dollars assured.
It was an outside chance, and if he came away empty-handed it would probably mean the end for his prospects of revealing the plot – if it existed. His logical mind, however, came back stoutly with the observation that, while there was at the moment no evidence in support, it did explain things better than any alternative.
At the front of the tavern sailors roared with laughter as they downed rum punch but this was to the good – he didn’t want to be overheard in his dealings.
As the evening wore on, the happy noise began to get on his nerves. He saw off four hopefuls, transparently ignorant, then called for a pie and soup, as much for a change as to fend off hunger. The pot-boy brought in the food, curious about the strange gentleman sitting alone and sober in a haunt that in former days had seen many a pirate plotting a voyage of plunder.
It was soon approaching midnight; Renzi had to conclude that if there was a clandestine base apparently no one had seen it. The idea of a secret fleet, however attractive in logic, remained just that – an empty theory.
The tavern quietened as the revellers departed. Renzi decided he’d give it until twelve and then leave. At a few minutes to the hour the pot-boy entered hesitantly, wide-eyed and holding out a folded note. ‘I’m t’ give you this’n.’
Renzi found a coin and the lad disappeared quickly.
The note was roughly written and in block capitals: ‘I HAVE THE GRIFF YOU WANTS. ITS BIGGER THAN YOU KNOW. I’LL HAVE ALL MY COBBS TONIGHT, OR NOTHING. IF YOU WANT TO PLAY, SHIFT INTO THE OTHER SEAT.’
Instantly, Renzi came to full alert, his heart thudding. This was near professional – in some way he was being put under observation as he read. Carefully he rose and went around the table to the chair he had out for visitors. It had its back to the door.
He glanced again at the rest of the note. ‘THEN DONT LOOK ROUND OR YOUR A DEAD MAN.’
He sat and waited for the blindfold. He heard the door open and soft paces, then dark cloth was fastened around his eyes. More paces around the table and the scraping of a chair.
‘Right, cully. Now we talks.’
The voice was low and had a West Country burr. The man had evidently waited until the tavern was nearly clear of customers before he had made his move.
‘I’m Mr Smith of Lloyd’s Insurance,’ Renzi said neutrally. ‘Do you have information on a privateers’ nest as will interest me, Mr … er?’