An Unscheduled Boarding
In which the smugglers are surprised...
@DauntlessDamson went over the rail first, landed silently on the aft deck and tapped the shoulder of the man in front of her. He startled, turned round and stared at her with the wounded indignation of someone who had been interrupted by the wrong genre of visitor.
His confusion lasted approximately three seconds. “Who the hell—” he began, reaching for his phone.
“Hands visible,” said DauntlessDamson, and she quickly relieved him of the device.
A hatch opened nearby. @Thehorticulturalhussie emerged onto the deck carrying a ring of keys. “Found these,” she said.
“But you’ve only been aboard for seven seconds,” said the smuggler.
“Busy seven seconds.”
The others began to board. The gerbils were in a tight, purposeful cluster while the serious Scandinavians moved like a diagram in a seamanship manual. @EdithStourton looked as though boarding smugglers’ yachts was an entirely ordinary part of her day. Batshit trotted excited circles around her as Brains headed straight for the cabin.
From the companionway came a second smuggler, half an arm into a waterproof jacket and fully committed to disbelief. “You can’t just board us.”
“We just have,” said Edith.
“That’s not—”
“It is, obviously.”
The third smuggler took a step backwards and discovered his way blocked by one of the Scandinavians. He opened his mouth. DauntlessDamson looked at him. He reconsidered whatever he had intended to say.
One of them asked Edith, “Are you Customs?”
“No. Worse.”
Had this been a normal raiding party, the smugglers might have expected shouting, confusion and perhaps one heroic lunge. Instead they faced a crew who knew where to stand, which lines to secure, which hatches to watch and how to make a yacht feel suddenly much smaller.
The Rustler’s engine was killed. The wheel was secured. The hatches were covered. The sea slapped politely against the hull, as if applauding under its breath.
DauntlessDamson looked around once. “Yacht secure.”
By the time Gosie, Octavia Briefcase and @Hedgehogforshort came aboard, the Rustler had changed character completely. It was still white, expensive and trying too hard, but now its decks were occupied by competence. The smugglers sat in a line under guard, hands zip-tied, expressions arranged somewhere between resentment and dawning professional respect.
Finally one of the smugglers gathered enough courage to speak. “Do you have a warrant?”
“No,” said Octavia.
The smuggler brightened immediately. “Then this is illegal.”
“Noted,” said Octavia. “Now, about this smuggling operation.”
The gerbils began their search of the cargo.
“Crate one,” announced Gadget, peering into a box packed with straw. “Contains six hand-carved mahogany humidors. Labelled Bulk Stationery.”
Graft and Grind reached another crate. They prised it open with a surgical precision that made one of the smugglers wince. Inside, packed with excessive cushioning, were dozens of panes of stained glass, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
“Ah,” said Graft, consulting the manifest. “These are supposed to be Greenhouse Panes.”
“Inefficient,” observed Grind, shaking her head. “They would shatter at the first sign of a summer storm.”
The gerbils nodded.
The bow compartment held rare, hand-labelled orchids, each stem meticulously sleeved and rooted in damp moss.
Within minutes, Geometry had deconstructed the cardboard packing inserts and reconfigured them into a miniature Dutch windmill. The yacht’s motion powered the sails, while the orchids were repurposed as the surrounding landscape: a yellow blossom as livestock, a white one serving as the local parish church. The drainage canals, fashioned from excess scraps, were particularly impressive.
“Ingenious,” Gossamer noted. “Especially the canals.”
The search continued as the sun rose behind the lighthouse. Octavia Briefcase sat at the saloon table, her paws folded over a stack of manifests. Hedgehog sat opposite her, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. She was currently dissecting a ledger with the intensity of a pathologist, comparing the figures with details highlighted on her tablet.
The circle-and-three-lines symbol appeared repeatedly. Octavia organised documents into neat piles. Invoices. Delivery notes. Shipping instructions. Insurance documents. Labels. Envelopes.
Kitty had been watching the chaos from the safety of a particularly comfortable cushion on one of the saloon benches. She stood, stretched until her back formed a perfect arch, and then hopped onto the table.
She walked over the scattered manifests, her paws landing with disdainful precision. Eventually she sat beside Octavia, settling on a single spreadsheet and refusing to move. Octavia reached for it. “Excuse me.”
Kitty remained where she was. Octavia tugged. Then tugged harder. It tore. Rows of payments covered the page. “Accounts,” she noted. The paper disappeared into a larger pile.
“I found some antique silver tea services,” called out Girdle. “Listed as Replacement Plumbing Fittings on the manifest.” Several gerbils gathered around.
Gasket lifted a teapot, “Good weight,” she said.
Gimbal collected six cups, “Excellent handles,” she agreed.
The tea service was halfway to the galley when Octavia looked up from the table. “Evidence,” said Octavia.
The procession stopped. Gasket looked at the teapot. Then at Octavia. Then at the galley.
“Evidence,” said Octavia.
“Ooh look,” chirped Glissando. “These are silk tapestries from Turkiye. Though it’s conveniently marked Canvas Dropcloths on the outside!” She unrolled a corner. “This would improve the Bluestocking theatre enormously.”
“Evidence,” said Octavia.
Glissando looked down at the tapestry. “Temporary evidence?”
The Rustler travelled toward Portland under escort from The Dreadnork. The smugglers had entered the reflective stage of defeat. One stared at the sea. One stared at the deck. One admired the windmill diorama.
Octavia eyed the piles of paper in front of her. The symbol appeared on most of them. Between them she and Hedgehog had uncovered enough records to prove the organisation was still active. But Aurelia had disappeared as thoroughly as if it had never existed.
EdithStourton entered the cabin and surveyed the documents. “We know they couldn’t prove Aurelia so this must be something else.”
“We are missing something,” said Octavia, “but I don’t know exactly what.”
“Still,” said Edith, “we have intercepted a shipment, identified three smugglers and handed Customs enough evidence to keep several people busy for months. That’s not nothing.”
Octavia nodded, but her eyes returned to the documents. It was not nothing. It was simply not the answer.
When The Dreadnork finally tied up in Portland, the saloon emptied quickly. Documents were gathered, evidence boxed and smugglers handed over. Within minutes only one occupant remained.
As everyone left the saloon Gosie noticed that the cat was still in exactly the same place on the table. There was a torn scrap of paper beneath her left paw. “What have you got there, Kitty?”
The cat lifted her paw. Gosie took the fragment. It was no bigger than a ticket stub.
Then she saw the symbol and the words, Donation for Chapter House Window Preservation Fund. Paid on behalf of Margrave.
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/an-unscheduled-boarding