The Hidden Cargo
In which discretion becomes essential...
The word millions acted like a starter pistol, as the entire cabin exploded into motion.
“We cannot stay here,” snapped Swashbuckled immediately. “We’ve opened the crate. We’ve touched paperwork. If they come back now we’re trapped aboard their vessel.”
On the floor, several gerbils were frantically stuffing their cheeks to bursting with loose sunflower seeds.
“No,” said Hussie firmly, hauling two of them back by the ankles. “Professionalism first. Seed worship later.”
Octavia was already moving. “Take the opened brick,” she said. “It’s evidence.”
Hussie shoved the heavy foil-wrapped brick into a canvas satchel, then swept the manifests, transfer sheets, and dock schedules in after it.
“Problem,” said Hedgehog. “We can’t leave the folder empty.”
AuntieDamsonCrumble said, “Wait,” and opened the locker under the sink. She seized Boily’s shredded nest material and thrust it at Hedgehog. “Stuff it.”
Within seconds the waterproof folder was being rapidly repacked with torn fragments of glossy marina brochures and shredded harbour maps. Hedgehog snapped the folder shut.
Hussie slammed the crate lid down while two gerbils sat on top of it to force the catches shut. One of them saluted.
“Excellent work,” said Hussie. The gerbil beamed with unbearable pride.
She placed the folder on top of the crate and reinstated the false backboard. “That should fool them long enough for us to get clear.”
“Out. Now,” snapped Swashbuckled.
The cabin emptied instantly.
The others were waiting in the shadows between the neighbouring yachts. Heads turned sharply as the boarding party emerged.
“We have to leave now,” said Swashbuckled.
“What happened?” asked EdithStourton.
Hussie glanced down at the canvas bag. “Millions,” she muttered.
There was a brief silence.
Then everybody started moving.
The marina appeared gradually. Rows of neat white yachts, polished rails, expensive canvas covers, and the sort of restrained wealth that smelled faintly of teak oil and divorce settlements.
And in the middle of it all sat The Dreadnork.
Even at distance it loomed above the neighbouring boats with deeply suspicious grandeur while lengths of dark rigging tangled upward against the sky like somebody had attempted to moor an aggressively theatrical century.
A couple carrying coffee had stopped halfway along the quay and were openly staring upward. Three teenagers were making TikToks beside the prow. An elderly man pointed repeatedly at the galleon, saying, “"See that, Martha? Oak. Real oak. Not a single piece of particleboard or cheap plastic.”
“Well,” said AuntieDamsonCrumble, quietly, “it’s become quite a landmark. Happy to board via grappling hook in the rigging if it comes to it.”
Swashbuckled sighed.
“One day we’re going to have to stop calling you AuntieDamsonCrumble.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re obviously DauntlessDamson.”
AuntieDamsonCrumble nodded.
“Yes. It does have a certain ring to it.”
As they moved closer, it became apparent that the gerbils had responded to this development with alarming efficiency. Gunwale and Galliard were supervising what could only be described as a full harbour surveillance operation.
Pairs of scouts moved briskly between pontoons carrying notebooks almost as large as themselves. One tiny figure in a striped sailor jersey was stationed atop a bollard with binoculars. Another appeared to be drawing a detailed chart of pedestrian movement near the marina café.
Gunwale stood atop an overturned bucket beside the berth with a brass telescope tucked beneath one arm and the expression of a gerbil with personal responsibility for coastal security. “No hostile boarding attempts, Captain,” she said, “but two men are approaching from the eastern walkway carrying ice creams.”
“Smugglers?” asked Swashbuckled.
Gunwale considered this carefully. “No,” she said at last. “Tourists.”
“One of them asked whether we do tours,” said Galliard. “I said no. I may also have implied the lower decks are haunted.”
“Excellent work,” said Swashbuckled, “ but we need to get back aboard before somebody attempts to organise a school visit.”
Then she turned and started down the pontoon toward the looming bulk of The Dreadnork while, somewhere behind her, a gerbil could already be heard saying sternly, “No flash photography near the portside bombard mounts.”
As NotAtMyAge, the Scandinavians, DauntlessDamson, Hussie, RandomHypatia and Edith and the dogs followed her aboard, MyrtleLion turned to Chickadee. “Take us to The Bluestocking. We need AngleofRepose’s help.”
As always The Bluestocking is only ever a few metres away from any patron at any one time. As long as they are on dry land.
Chickadee held the door, counting them in like a weary schoolteacher: Gosie, MyrtleLion, ChristmasStars, MagpieComplex, ErroltheDragon, Hedgehog, Octavia, and the rest of The Dreadnork’s increasingly irritable crew, minus the sensible twelve who had already gone back to the galleon. The remaining rabble all smelled faintly of brine and looked desperate for a chair that didn't rock.
“Bargerbil,” said Myrtle, “We’ll have the hot chocolate bowser, the swimming pool of G&T, several fathoms of tea and all of the other fripperies we’ve missed for three weeks, in whichever room AngleofRepose is in!”
Immediately, Gerbera in a miniature high-vis vest blew a tiny plastic whistle. "Library! Now! We've got a Category 5 Hot Chocolate situation in the Map Section, move, move, move!" she yelled into a megaphone, clipboard tucked firmly under one arm. Dozens of gerbils leapt into action, deploying hoses and wheeling out tea-urns.
Angle was hidden behind a tower of folders, notebooks, maps, and other loose papers balanced precariously over several tables.
As the team walked in, Angle looked up and said, “I found it.” The stacks began to lurch sideways. “I found all of it.” For several seconds papers continued sliding in every direction.
“The Plymouth symbol wasn’t local. I started seeing it elsewhere, in freight manifests, routing codes, transfer records, not to mention a highly suspicious turnip farm in Norfolk. Not obvious markings either. Tiny things. Corrections. Printer variations. Repeated irregularities.”
She was already pulling documents apart, supported by a team of research gerbils.
“They look random until you map them. The symbol belongs to Talmere Logistics.”
Silence.
Hedgehog blinked. “Talmere?”
“The Talmere?” Myrtle asked.
Angle nodded vigorously. “Talmere Logistics. International freight. Warehousing. Distribution. Shipping. Massive. Entirely respectable. Entirely legitimate. Thousands of employees. Facilities everywhere.”
“That’s not a smuggling operation,” said Hedgehog.
“No,” said Octavia. “It's worse. It’s middle management.”
Then Gosie quietly reached into her satchel and placed a bundle of recovered manifests onto the table. Everyone leaned forward. In tiny print in the footer of each manifest sat a faint symbol. A circle crossed by three white lines.
For the first time since arriving, Angle stopped talking then immediately started again. “That’s it. That’s the symbol.”
The table exploded into activity.
Gosie dug through transfer schedules and unloading records. Hedgehog started reconstructing timelines.
Across the chaos, Octavia Briefcase quietly imposed order. Customs forms. Warehousing records. Shipping manifests. Transfer authorisations. Distribution paperwork.
Neat piles appeared where disorder had been seconds before. The more they examined, the worse it became. The symbol wasn’t unique. Hidden markings appeared again and again. So did routing identifiers. Transfer codes. Reference numbers. And everywhere, directly or indirectly, the same name surfaced.
Talmere Logistics.
“I’ve got a destination,” said Gosie.
Everyone looked up. She tapped a line on one manifest. “Portland East Distribution Complex.” A second tap. “Dock Four.”
Hedgehog checked the laptop. Her expression darkened. “The cargo was processed this morning.”
Myrtle looked at the immaculate, terrifyingly organized paperwork spreading across the table, then up at the rest of the room.
“We’ve been looking for a secret hideout,” she said. “But they aren’t hiding. They own the whole bloody dock. It’s a massive, legal corporate distribution center right there in Portland.”
She leaned over the table and pointed to the corporate logo on the manifest.
“We are not breaking into a pirate cove, and we are not outrunning a frigate. We are infiltrating a 24/7 distribution operation in plain sight of the harbour. Does anyone happen to have a high-vis jacket, a clipboard, and a foolproof way to lie to a receptionist named Tammy?”