‘I believe they were. Maybe it referred to the elegant way the ship danced across the water,’ said Powerscourt feebly.
‘I knew it. I knew it.’ Simkins had risen from his chair and looked round the room.
‘Other people lose their spectacles all the time. I keep losing my steps. My steps to get up there to the top row of my files. Now where can they have got to?’
‘There is a pair of steps leaning behind that revolving bookcase,’ Powerscourt suggested hesitantly, unsure how many pairs of steps might be in play.
‘No good. Too short. Couldn’t reach.’
Powerscourt wondered if his mission was about to fail for want of a tall pair of steps. He looked about more keenly. ‘I think that might be a pair over there in the corner.’
‘Which corner?’ Simkins turned round quickly. ‘Ah, this corner. Now we are in business, Lord Powerscourt.’
Simkins placed the rickety steps against a wall and began to climb. ‘My filing system has become more confusing as the years pass. More confusing to me, I mean. I began filing everything under the name of the ship many years ago. By the time I got to F for Fearless I realised that wasn’t going to work. Tried filing it all alphabetically after that. No good, that only got as far as D for Denmark. Then I tried filing under the name of the First Sea Lord, but that didn’t seem to work either. Are you any good at filing, Lord Powerscourt?’
‘Hopeless Mr Simkins, absolutely hopeless.’
‘Here we are.’ Simkins tottered uncertainly down his steps. ‘We’re fortunate that both Bacchante and Britannia begin with B. If they’d begun with T or V you might have had to come back next month. Now then.’ Simkins filleted the first file expertly. ‘Britannia. 1876-1879. Captain Williams. He didn’t last very long – most of them stay there for years and years. . . My goodness me. My goodness me.’
Simkins looked up at Powerscourt with new respect. ‘You might be on to something here. For your book, I mean. Every single officer on board left at the same time as Captain Williams. Every single last one of them.’
‘What does that suggest to your expert eye, Mr Simkins?’
‘Clear-out. I’ve never seen anything like it. There wasn’t a war on in 1879, was there?’
Powerscourt remembered that W for War had never featured in the Simkins filing system. He wondered if entire conflicts could go unnoticed up here. What would happen to a war in Zululand? Or Zanzibar?
‘I don’t believe there was.’
‘Don’t like the look of it. Don’t like the look of it at all. Could have been a court martial. Could have been a scandal. But the whole thing was kept very quiet. One day they were all there. Next day they were all gone. That’ll be a good chapter for your book.’
Simkins handed Powerscourt a single sheet of paper. ‘There’s the names of all the officers and the last addresses we have for them. It should be up to date. And here are the names of the officers on the Bacchante. Hello, hello. You do seem to pick them, Lord Powerscourt. This file has four stars on it.’
‘Four stars? What on earth does that mean?’
‘I’m trying to remember. I invented this star system over thirty years ago.’ The archivist looked hopelessly around his long thin room, as though he might have written the key to the stars in the surrounding dust. ‘Got it. Knew I wouldn’t forget. Memory goes on the blink every now and then, rather like these new steam engines on the ships if you ask me, then it comes back. Where was I?’
‘Four stars?’ Powerscourt prompted gently.
‘Four stars? Four stars? Of course. That means two things. It means refer to the Prime Minister’s office before release. And that further files are held in other Government Departments.’
Powerscourt’s heart sank as he contemplated a guided tour of the archivists of Whitehall, each one possibly more eccentric than the one before.
‘That means you can’t have those names. The ones from the Bacchante.’
‘But my letter comes from the Prime Minister’s office in the first place.’
‘What letter? Did you say you had a letter? Who did you say the Prime Minister was? I’ve forgotten it again.’
‘My letter comes from the office of Lord Salisbury, the Prime Minister.’
‘The Hatfield person?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why didn’t you say so? Of course you must have these names. Forgive me the things I have forgotten.’
‘Not at all, Mr Simkins. I am most grateful to you.’
As he left, Powerscourt was sent away with best wishes for the success of his book. Further messages followed him down the narrow passageway. The archivist’s parting remark pursued him down the stairs: ‘Make sure you get yourself a good filing system for your book. Never quite managed it myself.’
The strange fact only struck Powerscourt when he was underground. He reckoned his train was only a couple of hundred yards from Sloane Square when it shuddered to a halt. He took out the list of officers from HMS Britannia and gazed with dismay at Simkins’ handwriting. It was extremely small, written with a very thin nib.
Captain John Williams, Station Road, Amble, Northumberland. Amble. Amble. Where the hell was Amble? Then it came to him. A castle. A castle by the sea, a Percy castle, a Hotspur castle and the River Coquet twisting its way to the sea and a small fishing village called Amble. Bloody miles from anywhere.
Lieutenant James Forrest, Sea View, Greystones, Co. Dublin. Other side of the Irish Sea.
Lieutenant Jack Dunston, Borth Road, Aberystwyth. Other side of the Welsh Mountains.
Lieutenant Albert Squires, The Scores, St Andrews. Other side of the Scottish border. Christ, it’s going to be like a tour of the extremities of Britain, Powerscourt thought bitterly, if I have to go and see all this lot. And they’re all by the sea, he noticed, for yachts and boats and memories of the Navy.
And then it struck him. Surely, if they had been working in Dartmouth, Devon, they would have lived near Dartmouth. That’s what most people would have done. You would have thought that one, or maybe two of them, would have stayed down there. After all, most naval people lived in a long sweep from Hampshire to Cornwall to be near the great ports and naval establishments on the south coast. But they’d all gone. Every single one of them. It was as if they had fled. Or been told to flee. In disgrace? In shame? In exile? They’d fled to places as far away from Dartmouth as they could possibly get.
The train resumed its fitful journey into Sloane Square. Powerscourt clutched his small parcel and set off for Markham Square, home, at No. 25, to Lady Lucy Hamilton.
‘Lady Lucy, I’m so sorry I’m late. The trains, the trains . . .’ He held out his hands in supplication and excuse.
Lady Lucy smiled, a secret sort of smile for Powerscourt. ‘You’d better have some tea,’ she said, pointing to a great tray laden with sandwiches on the table in her upstairs drawing-room. Powerscourt thought he had never seen so many sandwiches for two people. There were brown ones, white ones, sandwiches with crusts, sandwiches without, ones with little sprigs of greenery on the top. Did she think he was a giant or something, with a giant’s appetite? Were they to embark on some sandwich eating competition, all proceeds to the poor and needy?
‘I thought,’ she said defensively, ‘that Robert should join us. He was going to bring a friend but his friend isn’t allowed out at the moment.’
‘Is he ill – the friend, I mean?’
‘Not exactly, no. Something to do with broken windows, I think.’
‘Ah,’ said Powerscourt solemnly, ‘so he’s temporarily confined to barracks. Good behaviour ensures parole at a later stage.’
‘Exactly so.’ Lady Lucy smiled her smile again. ‘But even at seven years old they can eat an incredible number of sandwiches. Robert will just have to manage as best as he can on his own.’