Miss Taciturn led the Captain and the Cabin Boy (leaving him alone with the deckhands was a violation of his apprenticeship agreement) to the lift.
She keyed in a four digit code and the lift descended with a
speed which made the Captain stagger.
‘Mr Croft doesn’t care for visitors.’
The Pirate Captain bristled ‘But he does care for pirate
eating wolves.’
‘I think he would consider them the lesser of two evils.’
‘The lesser of two evils?
How can you run a library if your reference librarian eats people? I consider myself a broadminded man (This was true, the Pirate Captain had few
prejudices and most of those he did have were against excise men, which was
perfectly understandable given the excise men’s considerable prejudice against pirates)
but I would never employ a pirate who eat pirates! Tis’ madness!’
‘It’s in accordance with the library’s equal opportunities
policy. There have never been any
complaints.’
‘Do complainers end up dead?’ The Pirate Captain could hardly fault the
library if this was the case as he himself was known to have a rigorous policy
of seabed relocation which he extended towards all who complained about his
ship or crew, but it was a little alarming to find librarians with similar tendencies.
Thankfully for Miss Taciturn’s temper, which was in danger
of forgetting there was still half an hour to go until closing time (at which
point she would be well within her rights to brain the Pirate Captain with a
handy book and claim it was an accident) the lift ground to a halt.
There was a non-descript foyer, done in that tasteful shade
of grey which envelops any hotel foyer that’s been exposed to an interior
designer for more than twenty minutes, with the standard issue ferns and a
single chair.
On the chair, beside a door, sat a small brown cat, typing
on a phone.
‘These gentlemen wish to see Mr Croft.’
‘He’s busy.’ The
brown cat didn’t look up. She just kept
typing.
The Pirate Captain had boarded many ships in his time. No pirate had ever got anywhere by waiting
politely for someone to let them on board.
No, they charged ahead with cutlasses drawn and risk assessment to hand
and boarded regardless.
So faced with a door and a refusal he did what any pirate
would do, he growled and barged ahead.
Admittedly the drama of his entrance was slightly undercut by the door
being unlocked and so the Captain’s grand charge, shoulder to the ready, saw
him falling through the door and landing on the carpet.
It was a very nice carpet.
The foyer might have been grey and uninteresting, but the
room the Captain now found himself sitting in was a perfect example of a
gentleman’s study circa 1890. There were
none of the handy room information sheets he might have found had this been a
National Trust property, but the furnishings and fittings had clearly been
selected by someone with as good an eye for detail as any retired NT
volunteer.
‘Gentlemen.’ The
voice was a threatening purr. Sitting
behind a desk the size of a small lifeboat, was a tall ginger cat. He wore a dark purple three piece suit that was probably worth more than the Griddlebone and the Pirate Captain's pension fund combined.
‘Mr Croft’ Miss Taciturn’s
tone was equal parts exasperation and fear and the Pirate Captain found himself
scrambling to his feet in case he was called upon to defend her.
‘It’s quite all right Miss Tiverton. Don’t let me detain you. I’m sure the Pirate Captain will be able to
find his own way out when he leaves.’
‘If I leave.’ The
Pirate Captain was back on his feet and had regained a little of his
swagger. A pirate’s swagger being the
first line of defence against authority figures, the Pirate Captain adjusted
his sash to a more rakish angle and stuck one hand firmly on his cutlass. ‘Your wolf…’
‘Wolfy has apprehended some members of your crew. The Mate and Cook. If it were the deckhands you’d have accepted
the vouchers and recruited some more before going on your way.’
‘Now, deckhands are valuable.’ The Pirate Captain wasn’t going to say how
valuable. He’d acquired the triplets as
the payoff for losing a game of Go Fish.
It hadn’t been his finest hour.
The ginger cat strode
out from behind his desk. He loomed over
the Pirate Captain and regarded him with a bored expression. ‘Yours
aren’t. Your jacket is old, repaired
several times – but not by anyone trained with a needle, so they’ve no skill in
tailoring. Your boots have traces of tar
from a deck that’s not been properly scrubbed and your Cabin Boy…’ The Cabin Boy hid behind the Captain for fear
of being taken apart by Mr Croft’s prying grey eyes. ‘Your Cabin Boy can’t even be left in their
company. Ergo they are not good
deckhands and are probably not worth more than a dozen or so vouchers. Now if you’ve quite finished…’
The Captain had had enough.
Professional development of the crew was his job as Captain and nobody
was allowed to criticise the poor skill base of his employees unless they’d
first completed the requisite management training. He’d
had enough enigmatic smiles and stupid deductions. Running people through was the first choice
of pirates in negotiations for a reason and he was damned if he was going to let
modern ideas about politeness and the indelibility of bloodstains stand in the
way of tradition. He drew his cutlass and charged.
