‘Not quite,’ confirmed Conor.
Wynter smiled, smoke leaking from between his teeth. ‘I was playing in Dublin in a nice alehouse. Then I began to hear rumours of a baker, flying up to the moon on a balloon.’
‘It was a butcher, and he never got anywhere near the moon, believe me.’
‘So I thought to myself, all Victor ever talked about was balloons, and young Conor was his student. Coincidence? I think not. So, I began taking the train from Westland Row to Wexford once a week or so, hoping you would show yourself. I was beginning to think you hadn’t survived.’
‘I almost did not. It is a miracle that I sit here today.’
Linus patted his violin. ‘You remember The Soldier’s Return?’
‘How could I forget? I committed large sections to memory.’
‘Ah, you found my notes.’
‘I used the space for my own diagrams. Did you know that the coral was luminous?’
Linus tapped his temple. ‘No. Blind, don’t you know. Dashed inconvenient in the area of luminous coral and such. It gave me comfort to trace the notes with my fingers, helped me to remember. There was also the danger that I would die in that place and my music would be lost forever.’
‘Well, Linus, your notes shone. It was something to see.’
‘My notes always shine, boy. A pity the rest of the world doesn’t see it.’ Wynter took a deep drag on his pipe. ‘Now to business – do you have a plan? Or would you like to hear mine?’
‘A plan to do what?’
Wynter’s puzzlement showed in the lines between his ruined eyes. ‘Why to ruin Bonvilain, naturally. He has robbed us of everything, and continues to destroy lives. We have a responsibility.’
‘I have a responsibility to myself,’ said Conor harshly. ‘My plan is to collect all the diamonds buried on Little Saltee, then begin a new life in America.’
Wynter straightened his back. ‘Hell’s bells, boy. Bonvilain killed your king. He killed our friend, the incomparable Victor Vigny. He has torn your family apart, taken your sweetheart from you. And your answer to this is to run away?’
Conor’s face was stony. ‘I know what has happened, Mister Wynter. I know something of the real world now too. All I can hope for is to leave this continent alive, and even that is unlikely, but to attack a kingdom alone would be lunacy.’
‘But you are not alone.’
‘Of course, the boy and the blind man will attack Bonvilain together. This is not an operetta, Linus. Good people get shot and die. I have seen it happen.’
Conor’s voice was loud, and attracting attention. Bonvilain was not a name to be bandied about even on the mainland. It was said that informers took the marshall’s coin in every country from Ireland to China.
‘I have seen it happen too,’ said Wynter in hushed tones. ‘But lately I have not seen it and have had to imagine it instead, which is far worse.’
Conor had imagined death many times in prison, and not just his own. He had imagined what Bonvilain would do to his family if they ever found out the truth of Nicholas’s murder.
‘If I fight, he will kill my parents. He will do it in the blink of an eye, and it will cost him not a moment’s sleep.’
‘Do you believe that your father would thank you for making him the marshall’s puppet?’
‘My father thinks that I had a hand in the king’s murder. He denounced me for it.’
‘All the more reason to tell him the truth.’
‘No. I am done. I love my father and hate him too. All I can do is leave.’
‘And your mother,’ persisted Linus Wynter. ‘And the queen?’
Conor felt his melancholia return. ‘Linus, please. Let us enjoy our reunion. I know that we were only cellmates for a few days, but I see you as my only friend in the world. It is nice to have a friend, so let us avoid this topic for the moment.’
‘Don’t you want to clear your name, Conor?’ persisted Linus. ‘How can you let your father live with the idea that you have murdered his king?’
The idea would eat Declan Broekhart from the inside, Conor knew, but he couldn’t see a solution.
‘Of course I want to prove myself innocent. Of course I want to expose Bonvilain, but how can I do these things without endangering my family?’
‘We can find a way. Two brains together.’
‘I will think about it,’ said Conor. ‘That will have to be good enough for now.’
Linus raised his palms in surrender. ‘Good enough.’
Wynter turned his face towards the window, feeling the sun on his face. ‘Can you spy a clock, Conor? I can’t read the sun from in here. I need to return to Wexford for the train.’
‘Forget the train, Linus Wynter, you are coming home with me.’
Wynter stood, his hat brushing the ceiling beam. ‘I was so hoping you would say that. I do hope the beds are comfortable. I stayed in the Savoy once, you know. Did I ever tell you?’
Conor took his elbow, leading him towards the door. ‘Yes, you told me. Do you still dream of the water closets?’
‘I do,’ sighed Linus. ‘Will we have privacy in this house? We must have privacy if I am to hatch my schemes.’
‘All the privacy in the world. Just you and I, and a small company of soldiers.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘Well, their ghosts.’
Linus plucked his violin strings in imitation of a music-hall suspense theme.
‘Ghosts, indeed,’ he drawled. ‘It seems, Mister Finn, that once again we are destined to share interesting accommodation.’
CHAPTER 14: HEADS TOGETHER
Linus quickly settled into his new digs, and Conor was happy to have him. Usually his thoughts stayed inside his head so it was a relief to let them out. They sat on the roof together, and while Conor tinkered with the skeleton of his latest flying machine Linus worked on his compositions.
‘A lute here, I think,’ Linus would say. ‘Do you think a lute too pastoral? Too vulgar?’
And Conor would reply. ‘I have two main problems. Engine weight and propeller efficiency. Everything else works; I have proven that. I think, I really think that this new petrol engine I have built will do the trick.’
So Linus would nod and say. ‘Yes, you are right. Too vulgar. A piccolo, I think, boy.’
And Conor would continue. ‘My engine needs to supply me with ten horsepower at least, without shaking the aeroplane to pieces. I need to build a housing that will absorb the vibration. Perhaps a willow basket.’
‘So, you’re saying a lute? You’re right, the piccolo simply does not command the same respect.’
‘You see,’ Conor would say, chiselling his latest propeller, ‘there is no problem we cannot solve if we put our heads together. We need to bump skulls, as Victor used to say.’
They were reasonably happy days. The spectre of Marshall Bonvilain watched over them from the islands, but both man and youth felt a sense of camaraderie that they had not known in years.
Of course they argued, most notably when Conor set the steam fans whirling in preparation for his second flight. Linus Wynter climbed the ladder from his bedchamber, shouting over the steam engine’s noise.
‘Hell’s bells, boy. What do you need engines for at this time of night?’
And so Conor told him, and the musician almost fainted.
‘You are going to hurl yourself into a windstorm, so you can fly into a prison? Why don’t you write that sentence down and read it? Then perhaps you would realize how insane you are.’