A Swans - Eva Ibbotson

“I do not want to mulch!” cried the ballerina—and burst into uncontrollable sobs.

Cedric Fitzackerly, anxious to get rid of the tiresome old Professor for whom he no longer had the slightest use, duly sent a cable to Manaus requesting that Edward Finch-Dutton be given every assistance in securing the return of Harriet Morton, a fugitive and a minor, to her native land.

The telegram carrying an awesome Foreign Office signature duly arrived on the desk of the Prefect of Police, where young Captain Carlos put it into the “In” tray and hoped it would go away.

To have been left in charge of the police station was an honor, but it was one which put the Captain scarcely out of his teens—under considerable strain. De Silva had taken three-quarters of the city’s military police along with him on his mission; they had been gone nearly a week, no one knew where, and young Carlos (whose title of Captain was a courtesy one borrowed for the occasion) lived in dread of an occurrence with which he would find it impossible to deal.

“Here he comes again,” said Sergeant Barra—a huge muscular cabaclo with a broken nose—looking up from the children’s comic he had been laboriously trying to read.

Captain Carlos put down the mirror in which he had been studying the progress of his incipient mustache and sighed.

“I suppose we’d better let him in.”

Edward Finch-Dutton, still clutching his butterfly net, was admitted as he had been yesterday and the day before and the day before that. Though his Portuguese had not reached even the phrase-book stage which would enable him to complain that there was a fly in his soup, he had—by endless repetition of Harriet’s name, the word “England” and what he believed to be Morse code noises—managed to make the Captain understand that he was inquiring whether a cable had arrived for him from his native land.

“ Nao ,” said Carlos, shaking his head as he had done on all the previous days. “ Nada . Nothing. No.”

This had always been enough to send the Englishman away with a disconsolate air, but today it failed. Edward, still suffering from the shock of Harriet’s depravity, and from a touch of fever as he tottered from the Sports Club into the jungle on collecting forays and back again, suddenly lost control. There was no one to whom he could turn; Verney was still away, the consul was in Sao Paulo and he had not dared to mention his connection with Harriet to Harry Parker. Now his frustration boiled over and he began to shout and bang his fist on the table.

“I don’t believe you. You’re lying! It must have come! Have a look, damn you—go through those papers there and look!”

He pointed at the pile of documents in the tray. Reluctantly the Captain pulled it toward him and shuffled a few or the envelopes.

“Go on! Go right through the lot. Let me see for myself.”

Half-way down the pile Nemesis overtook poor Captain Carlos.

“There! That one in the yellow envelope. Read it!”

The Captain picked up the cable and stared at it. “English,” he said gloomily.

“Then give it to me,” said Edward, reaching across the desk.

This the Captain was naturally reluctant to do. At the same time it was dear that this irritating foreigner would now have to be dealt with, and even before de Silva’s return. He compromised.

“Get Leo up from the cells,” he said to the Sergeant.

Leo, when he appeared clanking his bunch of keys, turned out to be the gaoler, a retired Negro boxer who had once worked for Pinkerton’s detective agency in New York, spoke English and could even read.

“It’s the real thing, all right,” he said to Captain Carlos when he had perused the contents of the cable. “The British Foreign Office sent it, no mistake. They want the girl back in England and they want you to help this gentleman get her there.” And he nodded without irony at Edward before depositing a gob of tobacco spittle at his feet.

“You see!” said Edward triumphantly. “I told you.” He turned to Leo. “Now listen carefully. Tell them I want at least two men, strong ones. I want them outside the theater on Friday evening just before the performance ends, and I want a closed cab waiting too. They’re to seize the girl as she comes off stage—without hurting her, mind you—bundle her into the cab and take her down to the docks. The Gregory sails at dawn—there will be a cabin waiting for her. She must be locked in—I have spoken to the stewardess, but she will want to see your authorization—and I’ll let her out myself when we’re safely down-river. Got it?”

He leaned back, extremely pleased with himself. The plan, masterful and simple, had occurred to him as soon as the Gregory arrived—a white oasis of British calm and hygiene in the turmoil of the docks—and two cabins for the return journey had unexpectedly become available.

Leo spoke to the Captain, who nodded. It might have been worse—he had been afraid he would be expected to hold the girl in his gaol. And at least the Englishman was going with her. Not to see Edward Finch-Dutton’s long, equine face ever again had become the Captain’s most passionate desire.

He turned to Leo. “Ask him how we’re to know which girl to grab?”

“I shall of course come with you to identify her,” said Edward. “Naturally…”

Chapter Fourteen

The disaster that Simonova’s accident represented struck the Company afresh on Friday as they rehearsed with Masha Repin for the evening performance of Giselle . The Polish girl, having plotted and schemed for just this chance, was nervous and hysterical, abused the conductor for his tempi , complained of Maximov’s lifts and threw her costume at the wardrobe mistress. Simonova’s rages had been no less violent, but in a curious way they concerned—in the end—the performance as a whole. Masha’s panic was for herself.

For Harriet, Simonova’s injury had been a personal blow. As long as she lived she would never forget the moment when the proud, arched body crumpled and fell—and if she hated any human beings it was those doctors who, uncaring of the injured woman’s presence, had pronounced their horrendous verdict.

The tragedy had entirely put out of her mind her own danger. She had not seen Edward at the banquet and if she thought of him at all, it was to assume that he was still away on his collecting trip. Of Rom she did think, and incessantly. He had said he would be absent for two days, but had been away for almost a week and the city was rife with rumors of some cloak-and-dagger affair upriver in which he was said to be involved. Knowing what she would feel if anything happened to him made it impossible for her to remain in ignorance of her emotions, and she could only be glad of the incessant rehearsals which filled the day.

Not so Marie-Claude.

“Oh God, those dreary Wilis,” she complained, jamming a myrtle wreath on her golden curls.

“They’re not dreary, Marie-Claude. They’re sort of vengeful and icy and implacable, but they’re not dreary,” said Harriet.

But Marie-Claude, who had danced her first Wili at the age of sixteen, had scant patience with those specters of betrayed maidenhood who endeavor to dance to death any gentlemen foolish enough to cross their path—and two hours before the start of the evening performance, she announced her intention of going to look at the shops.