Читать книгу Loving A Lost Lord - Mary Jo Putney - Страница 13

Glasgow

Randall gazed out the post chaise window as they rattled through the dense and teeming city. “I didn’t know Glasgow was so large.”

“It’s not so big as London, but the city is home to some of the greatest merchants and manufacturers in Britain,” Kirkland said. “And busier than a hive of hungry bees.”

“Your accent is sliding toward Scottishness,” Masterson said with interest.

“’Tis only natural,” Kirkland said with deliberate broadness. “But if you think I sound Scottish, wait till you hear the average Glaswegian. You won’t even know they’re speaking English.”

Randall smiled a little at the byplay between his friends. On the whole, it had been a silent trip up from London. They’d hired the post chaise and set off to Scotland at the fastest speed possible. Though being cooped up in the carriage with minimal halts had been hell on his wounded leg, they’d made good time. But if it hadn’t been for the wound, he would be back on the Peninsula now and he would have learned of Ashton’s death weeks after the fact.

He had lost friends on campaign, both in battle and to vicious fevers like the one that had brought Will Masterson home to recover. But friends who were back in England were supposed to be safe. They weren’t supposed to be getting themselves blown up in bloody bedamned steam-powered ships.

As they rumbled over the Clyde River on a vast, crowded bridge, he thought what a relief it was to finally be here so they could do something. “Do we know where Ashton’s shipyard is?”

“Somewhere in Port Glasgow, west of the city proper,” Kirkland replied. “It won’t be hard to find the right yard. Glasgow has more than its share of engineers, and projects like Ashton’s would be discussed at every tavern and coffee-house in the city.”

Masterson remarked, “You seem to know Glasgow well.”

Kirkland shrugged. “I spent a fair amount of time here as a boy. My unfortunate fondness for my mercantile relations helped get me sentenced to the Westerfield Academy. For which I am eternally grateful.”

Masterson chuckled. “I should love to know all the reasons that students ended up in Lady Agnes’s hands.”

“The ways a boy can deviate from civilized standards are legion,” Randall said dryly. “And we discovered most of them. How long until we get to Port Glasgow?”

“At least an hour.” Kirkland studied Randall narrowly. “It will be near dinnertime by then. I suggest we book rooms at an inn and get a good night’s rest before we start searching for information about Ashton and the Enterprise.”

Randall nodded. His impatient mind wanted to start investigating immediately, but his abused body needed a rest. The time wouldn’t be wasted. If he knew Kirkland, a master of intelligence gathering, by morning they’d know where to start their search.

Randall’s guess was right. When he met his friends in the taproom of the Crown and Sail to break their fast the next morning, Kirkland had the address of the chief engineer of the Enterprise. Archibald Mactavish lived in a pleasant house on a quiet street not far from the bustling waterfront. The men were admitted by a shy little maid who took their cards, then whisked off to tell the mistress of the house that a trio of gentlemen were calling.

Mrs. Mactavish was a tired-looking young woman with a toddler in tow, and she was not pleased to have three hulking gentlemen in her sitting room. “I’ve no time for entertaining,” she said bluntly. “Are you here to see my husband?”

“If we can,” Kirkland spoke, a Scottish lilt clear in his speech. “We’re friends of the Duke of Ashton, and we’d like to learn more about the accident that took his life.”

“It wasn’t Mactavish’s fault!” she said vehemently.

Masterson, ever tactful, said, “We are not looking to cast blame, Mrs. Mactavish, only to understand what happened. We all went to school with Ashton, and he was very dear to us. We’d like to know more, if your husband is well enough to talk.”

“Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll see if he’s willing.”

She left the room with the child, returning alone several minutes later. “He’ll speak with you. But mind you don’t tire him. He was lucky to survive.”

She led the way upstairs to a bedroom that looked out over the waters of the Clyde. Mactavish was a lean man in early middle age with thinning red hair, a large collection of bruises and bandages, and an expression of deep misery. His wife propped him to a sitting position with pillows, then consulted the visitors’ cards. “Your visitors are Kirkland, Masterson, and Randall. I’m not sure which is which.”

Kirkland, taking the lead again, said, “I’m Kirkland.” He stepped forward to offer his hand, then stopped. Mactavish’s right arm ended in a bandaged stump.

The other man’s mouth twisted bitterly as he raised the stump. “Aye, ’tis not much of an engineer I am now. What do you want to know?”

“How and where Ashton died,” Randall said before the silence could get too awkward. “We’re hoping that if we can determine the site of the explosion, we might find his body to take him home for burial.”

Mactavish’s expression softened. “That’s what friends do, though the sea might not cooperate. He was a good man, Ashton. Ye would hardly know he was a duke.”

“He will be missed,” Masterson said quietly. “Do you know what caused the explosion? Steam engines are tricky brutes, but in his letters, Ashton indicated that the project was going well.”

“Aye, it was.” Mactavish made a fist of his left hand and struck the bed angrily. “We had a good long run all the way down into the Firth of Clyde. The engine was singing like a nightingale.”

“That’s quite a distance,” Kirkland said, startled.

“It was indeed. With enough fuel, we could have sailed her all the way to Liverpool. We had just turned back when the boiler exploded. It was like being struck by lightning.”

“Could that have happened?” Masterson asked. “If there was a storm…”

The engineer shook his head. “It was a bit misty, but there were no storms.”

“Where was Ashton when the boiler went up?” This time Kirkland asked the question. “Were you with him?”

“I was up on the deck trying to reckon how far we’d come. I had just decided we were near Arran Island when the boiler blew. I was thrown into the water.” Mactavish looked at the ugly stump. “I don’t even remember how my hand was crushed. Lucky for me, Davy, the pilot, is an ace swimmer. He caught hold and got me to shore on Arran, which wasn’t far.”

“Did you see Ashton in the water?” Kirkland again.

“Saw not hide nor hair of him,” the engineer replied. “Likely he was below decks in the engine room. He spent a good bit of his time there.” He touched his bandaged head. “My wits were scrambled and I don’t recall seeing anyone but Davy. I was surprised later to learn that two of the others also made it to shore.”

Randall geared himself up to ask the hardest question. “Have you heard of any bodies washing ashore in that area?”

“There are so many islands that a body could end up in a thousand places and never be found,” Mactavish said. “But my best guess is that Ashton’s body was trapped in the wreckage of the ship.”

It sounded likely. Randall asked, “How many casualties were there altogether?”

“Four, including Ashton. One body washed ashore near Troon, the mainland opposite Arran.” Mactavish sighed heavily. “So far as I know, the others are still lost.”

And might never be found. Randall went back to what the engineer said earlier. “Since the Enterprise was close to shore, is there any chance of salvaging the wreckage?”

Mactavish looked thoughtful. “’Tis possible. I’d be right interested to find out why the engine exploded.”

“We’d need a salvage ship with a good strong crane and an experienced crew,” Masterson said. “Do you know who might be capable of a job like this?”

“Jamie Bogle in Greenock is the man to see. He’s got the best salvage equipment in Scotland.” A spark came into Mactavish’s eyes. “I should like to see the salvage.”

“That could be arranged.” Kirkland regarded Mactavish narrowly. “If you’ll be looking for a new job, my Uncle Dunlop has a shipyard and is looking for engineers with steamship experience.”

“You’re nephew to George Dunlop?” Mactavish looked startled, and his wife, sitting quietly to one side, sucked in her breath. They must be worrying about money now that Mactavish’s job had blown up, leaving him crippled. The engineer glanced at the stump where his right hand used to be. “I…I canna be doing the work I did before.”

“Hands can be hired. My uncle is interested in a man’s mind and experience. I’ll let him know that he might hear from you.” Kirkland reached inside his coat for a small notebook. “Now, what are the names of the other survivors, and do you know where they’re to be found?”

By the time they left, Mrs. Mactavish was happy enough with her visitors to have served them tea and cakes. Back in the carriage, Randall asked, “Is your Uncle Dunlop really looking for engineers with steamboat experience?”

“If he isn’t, he will be,” Kirkland replied. “He became one of the best shipbuilders in Britain by hiring good men. He’ll be happy to have this one.”

Randall settled back in his seat. They might not be much closer to finding Ashton, but at least someone had benefited today.