The galleon was already well out into the Channel before most of the Bluestocking realised it had actually left.
At the helm, Swashbuckled stood calmly beneath the stars with one hand resting lightly on the wheel. This was, she felt, probably unnecessary. Hedgehog and Octavia Briefcase were both exceptionally competent. The situation would almost certainly be resolved before they reached Plymouth.
On the other hand, Gosie appeared to have been arrested and one never liked to miss the start of an adventure if one could reasonably help it.
Besides, it had been high tide.
No sensible sailor would wait another twelve hours.
Somewhere overhead Batshit barked ecstatically from the rigging, “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Swashbuckled closed her eyes briefly.
Ahead of them, faint against the darkness, the lights of Plymouth shimmered along the horizon.
Meanwhile, outside Café Roma, Kevin and Steve had finally fallen silent.
The lobster had achieved what neither legal authority nor emotional appeals had managed. Both gulls were now standing possessively over the demolished remains of the enormous Maine parcel, cracking shells and occasionally slapping one another with fragments of lobster claw.
For the first time all evening, nobody was screaming about calamari.
Across the road, Charles Cross police station still glowed in the warm Bank Holiday darkness.
Hedgehog and Octavia Briefcase were sitting at the next table studying the harbour CCTV while AngleofRepose drank coffee quietly beside them.
“How on earth,” Angle asked, “did you get hold of a police laptop?”
“You’d be surprised at exactly how cooperative people become when properly cross-examined,” said Octavia.
Angle shut up immediately.
The sergeant emerged from the police station carrying several sheets of paper. “We still haven’t found a trace of Gosie,” she said. “We’re widening the search to the islands and marine structures in the Sound. Mount Edgcumbe, the Breakwater, Drake’s—”
“CALAMARI.”
Kevin said it so loudly that everybody stopped. Steve froze with half a lobster claw in his beak.
“Calamari,” Kevin repeated darkly. Then both gulls immediately returned to dismantling the lobster with renewed concentration.
Nobody spoke for a moment. The sergeant frowned slightly. “Drake’s Island,” she repeated.
“CALAMARI.”
This time Kevin almost screamed it.
Octavia was watching the gulls. “The calamari matters,” she said quietly. Then she stood up. “We’re coming with you to Drake’s Island.”
“No,” said the sergeant at once. “Absolutely not. We’ll send a launch once we’ve got the harbour team together.”
“How long?”
“It’s a Bank Holiday Sunday,” said the sergeant. “I need authorisation, marine support, somebody to physically locate half the launch crew and—”
Octavia closed the laptop.
Out beyond the harbour lights, a galleon was turning into Plymouth Sound.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’m going to see a pirate about a rescue.”
The galleon swung neatly alongside the harbour wall. Lanterns glowed warmly along the stern. Ropes creaked overhead. High up in the rigging Batshit ricocheted briefly off something nautical.
“That,” said Hedgehog, “does not sound under control.”
“It rarely is,” said Angle.
Swashbuckled stepped ashore first.
Behind her came Edith Stourton looking delighted and Brains looking concerned. Hussie carried a small leather roll of lock picks, accompanied by a resigned Hunter. RandomHypatia clutched several sheets of calculations for reasons nobody entirely understood, and MagpieComplex wore enough reflective material to constitute a minor navigational hazard.
Another heavy thump echoed from somewhere below deck.
“The Box of Distractions?” asked Angle cautiously.
“No idea,” said Swashy.
Octavia was already striding towards them.
“Gosie wasn’t arrested,” she said without preamble. “The uniforms were fake. There’s no custody record. Kevin reacted to Drake’s Island and the police are still trying to organise a launch team.”
She glanced towards the dark water beyond the harbour. “This is now a rescue.”
Swashbuckled was already moving.
“Hussie,” she said briskly, “bring the lock picks. Hunter, you’re with me. Somebody retrieve Batshit before she achieves powered flight. RandomHypatia, if any of your calculations involve tides or walls, now would be an excellent time.”
“Already done,” said RandomHypatia.
“Excellent.”
Below deck, something inside the Box of Distractions thumped ominously.
Nobody acknowledged it.
The capybaras were already moving around the deck with the air of engineers who had quietly accepted several hours earlier that this had become a marine extraction exercise.
Brains climbed back aboard with deep moral reluctance. High overhead, Batshit was delighted that she had somehow become tangled in the mainsail.
Hedgehog hauled herself aboard still carrying the police laptop.
Angle disappeared below deck to retrieve the Box of Distractions.
Octavia Briefcase stepped aboard with the assurance of an ocelot who probably owns a ship somewhere.
The capybaras cast off the final rope.
Timbers groaned softly beneath the shifting tide. Lantern light slid gold across the black water as the galleon eased away from the harbour wall.
Behind them, Plymouth glittered across the waterfront beneath the Bank Holiday night.
Kevin and Steve abandoned the lobster entirely and took flight, landing heavily in the crow’s nest.
Swashbuckled took the helm. Ahead lay only darkness and Drake’s Island.
“Let’s go get Gosie.”