Chapter 13
At five o’clock on Saturday evening, Kit and Wayland locked the workshop and trudged around the corner to the tavern in Princes Street that Mulligan and the men had recommended.
Kit pushed through the tavern’s heavy door. He halted and, with Wayland beside him, scanned the dimly lit, somewhat smoky space with its old and worn yet comfortable chairs, benches, and tables.
Kit continued to the bar-counter and leaned on it.
Wayland did the same. After catching the barkeeper’s eyes, ordering two pints of ale, and chatting for several minutes with the man, Kit mentioned their need of a spot to discuss business in which they wouldn’t risk being overheard, and the barkeeper suggested they use the snug, located behind the bar.
After ordering their dinners, Kit picked up his pint and, with Wayland at his heels, ducked through the low door to the snug. Kit swiftly surveyed the small space, then slid onto the bench seat that ran along one side wall.
There were only two narrow tables in the snug, each running parallel to the side walls, but he and Wayland were currently the only occupants.
“This is cozy.” Wayland settled on the bench opposite Kit and set his mug on the table. “I hope the food is as good as the men claim—I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”
Kit grunted. “You’re always hungry enough to eat a horse.”
Wayland saluted him with his mug and drank.
Kit stared into his ale. He and Wayland had kept watch in the warehouse throughout the previous night.
Doing so had required a degree of preparation.
As the only way into the warehouse had been via the doors—secured with chain and padlock—they’d had to quickly construct another entrance; if their would-be saboteur called again in the middle of the night and found the doors unsecured, he wouldn’t venture inside to be caught.
In the end, after consulting with the men, they’d decided that having only one exit wasn’t wise in any case and had opted to construct a proper escape hatch—a panel in the rear wall large enough for Mulligan to get through easily.
Shaw and the carpenters had cunningly constructed the frame on the inside, and with the hinges and bolts securing the hatch also on the inside, nothing showed on the outside of the wall to draw attention to the existence of the hatch.
Last night, after the concert, Kit had gone home, changed into older clothes, then carrying a hammock rolled up in a blanket, he’d found a hackney to deliver him back to the Grove.
Once the hackney had rattled off into the night, he’d slunk under the trees and made his way to the rear of the workshop.
As arranged, Wayland had left the hatch unlocked; Kit had used a stick to pry it open.
He’d ducked into the dark workshop, carefully closed the hatch, and slid the bolts into place.
Then he’d paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
From the gloom shrouding the design office, Wayland had mumbled, “Please tell me that’s you.”
“It’s me,” Kit had whispered. “Go back to sleep.” Once he could see well enough, he’d crossed to the front office and found the hooks he’d had Shaw install in the beams. He’d slung his hammock between, then had rolled into it with his blanket.
He’d settled and let his thoughts slide to Sylvia.
His eyes had closed; he’d smiled and, to his surprise, had tumbled headlong into dreams.
Both he and Wayland were accustomed to sleeping on ships at sea, in tight and cramped quarters and in circumstances where their assistance might be required at any instant. They both slept soundly yet lightly and would rouse at the slightest noise, ready to react, just as they would on board.
Of course, the night had passed without their would-be saboteur putting in an appearance.
Today being Saturday, the men had worked for half the day. They’d kept their eyes peeled, but no one had seen any man loitering or watching the workshop. Kit and Wayland had remained behind after the men had left, working on the design and drawings for their first yacht.
A maid finally arrived bearing two plates piled high with a rich mutton stew.
Kit and Wayland accepted the plates eagerly and set to. They hadn’t bothered with luncheon, further exacerbating Wayland’s ever-present hunger.
After clearing half his plate, Wayland grunted and reached for the platter of bread the maid had left. “I just hope that tonight, we have at least one visitor who walks on two legs rather than four. In fact, I could do without visitations from the four-legged variety entirely.”
Kit chuckled. Last night, they’d discovered that, while the workshop was secure against human intrusion, rodents appeared to have ready access. “If Miss Petty can lay her hands on those mousers she has in mind, tonight and tomorrow night will be the rats’ last chances.”
When they’d mentioned the rats that morning, Miss Petty had overheard and promptly declared she knew from just where to get three good mousers. Apparently, her brother had a farm outside the city, and one of his barn cats had had a litter only a month or so ago.
Wayland gestured with his fork. “That woman’s efficiency is frightening.”
Kit grinned at his friend. “Meaning she’s just what we need.”
Wayland snorted, but didn’t disagree.
Once they’d cleaned their plates, they pushed them aside and fell into a discussion of the subject that dominated both their minds—their plans for their first yacht and the next and the next. When it came to the future of Cavanaugh Yachts, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.
When the clock above the bar chimed seven times, Wayland grimaced. “I suppose we’d better get back.”
Kit sighed, but nodded.
They left payment and a large tip on the table—the snug was the sort of place they would definitely use again—waved to the barkeeper as they went past, then walked out into the chilly darkness that had descended on the city.
Hands in their greatcoat pockets, they ambled toward the workshop. Both were alert and watchful, but saw no one acting suspiciously. Nevertheless, they took care to use the shadows to conceal their approach to the rear of the workshop, avoiding the front and the doors secured with the heavy chain.
After they’d let themselves inside, Kit quietly tested the front doors. “Still secure,” he reported.
Straightening from setting the bolts on the hatch, Wayland gave a soft huff and went into his office.
Kit joined him there, finding Wayland perched on one of the pair of stools; Kit pulled up the other and sat.
With no light, they couldn’t see the drawings well enough to work on them; they could barely see each other.
“I predict we’re in for a long, boring night,” Wayland murmured. After a moment, he said, “Do you think we’re being paranoid imagining some blighter is going to break in and try to damage the keel again?”
Kit took a moment to consider the point, then replied, “No, I don’t. I think he’ll be back. He’s already been back a second time and couldn’t get in. There’s nothing to stop him from returning with lock picks or even a sharp file and forcing the padlock.”
“But…” Wayland raked a hand through his hair, the gesture only just detectable in the gloom. “Why?” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand it—or him, whoever he is.”
“No more do I,” Kit said. “But the fact he came back a second time makes it clear he’s not finished with us.
And if you think about it, although he succeeded in damaging our work up to Monday, given we’d only just started, the impact wasn’t all that severe—we got over it quickly, and we’ve forged on.
That can’t have been the result he hoped for. ”
As if feeling his way, Wayland said, “You think he wants to seriously damage our business? Not just cause damage for damage’s sake but to actually bring us down?”
“We can’t afford to take the chance.” Kit paused, then went on, “He doesn’t have to completely destroy the work to have a serious impact on the business.
Just think how the men will feel if the new keel is wrecked again.
We’ve inspired them to believe in their skills anew and to apply them in working on the keel—you know as well as I do that not only is the work advancing at a rapid pace but the quality’s also exceptional.
Which is just what we want to set Cavanaugh Yachts above all other yacht manufacturers.
“Yet despite all that, at this moment, our enterprise is young. We’re in the process of building the reputation we want, but right now, we’re vulnerable.
We don’t need any questions being raised about us having some ongoing feud with someone who is determined to wreck anything we build.
You know how rumors fly around a waterfront.
If our saboteur succeeds in damaging the keel again, the news will get out, and we’ll find not just other people but even our men getting cold feet—just when we need their commitment the most.”
Wayland huffed. “When you put it like that…” After a moment, he shrugged. “You’re right, but I still predict he won’t show—not tonight and not tomorrow night—simply because we’re here, and Fate likes to play us mortals for fools.”
Kit laughed and rose from the stool. “I was up late last night—I’m going to turn in.”
Wayland grunted. “It’s too dark even to play dice with myself.” He rose and, turning to where his hammock was slung across the end of his office, waved Kit off. “Sleep tight.”
Smiling, Kit ambled into the workshop. His eyes had adjusted and rendered the scene in shades of gray. The keel taking proud shape in the nearest of the three bays sat still and silent. Throughout the workspace, nothing moved, nothing stirred.
Satisfied, he went into the front office, picked up his blanket, and rolled himself into his hammock.
They’d checked and established that quiet sounds inside the workshop didn’t carry outside. As Kit settled to stare up at the ceiling, he heard Wayland murmur, “I feel like we’re boys again, out on some silly adventure-cum-lark.”