Nation

torture. Captain Samson had a mental picture of what would happen if Mrs. Samson ever found out that he had turned down the chance of her becoming Lady Samson. It didn’t bear thinking about. He stared at the man who called himself Mr. Black and said quietly: “Is something going to happen? Are you trying to prevent something?”
    “Yes, Captain. War. The heir to the throne must set foot on English soil within nine months of the monarch’s death. It’s in the Magna Carta, down in the small print or, rather, the tiny writing. The barons didn’t want another Richard the Lionheart, you see. And regrettably, since an infected waiter served the soup at the king’s birthday party, the next two living heirs to the throne are both somewhere in the Great Southern Pelagic Ocean. I believe you know it well, Captain?”
    “Ah, I understand now! That’s what’s in those boxes,” said the captain, pointing. “It’s a load of English soil! We find him, he sets foot on it, and we all shout hurrah!”
    Mr. Black smiled. “Well done, Captain! I am impressed! But, alas, that has already been thought of. There is a subclause, too. It stipulates that the English soil must be firmly attached to England. We may declare the succession overseas—even crown the man if necessary—but his presence will be required on English soil within the time period for full ratification.”
    “You know, Mr. Black, I thought I knew all of the Magna Carta, but I’ve never heard of these clauses,” said Sir Geoffrey.
    “No, sir,” said the Gentleman of Last Resort patiently. “That is because they are in the ratified version. You don’t think barons who could hardly write their names could come up with a complete set of sensible rules for the proper running of a large country for the rest of history, do you? Their clerks put together the full working Magna Carta a month later. It’s seventy times bigger, but it is foolproof. Unfortunately, the French have a copy.”
    “Why?” asked the captain. Yet another coach had pulled up on the dockside. It looked expensive and had a crest painted on the door.
    “Because if you don’t succeed in this enterprise, Captain, it will then be quite likely that a Frenchman will become king of England,” said Mr. Black.
    “What?” shouted the captain, forgetting all about the new coach. “No one would stand for that!”
    “Wonderful people, the French, wonderful people,” said Sir Geoffrey hurriedly, waving his hands. “Our allies in the recent unpleasantness in the Crimea and all that, but—”
    “Oh, we are the best of chums with the French government on this one, sir,” said Mr. Black. “The last thing they want to see is a Frenchman on any throne, anywhere. It wouldn’t do for our Gallic brethren. There are those in France who do, though, and we think it would be a good thing for all concerned if our new monarch could be brought here with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of speed.”
    “They killed the last king they had!” said Captain Samson, who wasn’t going to waste a good rage. “My father fought against ’em at Trafalgar! Can’t have that, sir, not at any price. I can speak for the men on that, sir! We’ll break the record again, sir, coming and going!” He looked around for Sir Geoffrey, but the chairman had hurried down the gangplank and was fussing around two veiled figures who had gotten out of the coach.
    “Are they…women?” asked the captain as they swept up onto the Cutty Wren ’s deck and went past him as if he were of no importance whatsoever.
    Mr. Black shook some snow off his own veil. “The smaller one is a maid, and I take it on trust that she is a woman. The tall one, whom your chairman is so eager to please, is a major stockholder in your shipping line and, more importantly, is also the mother of the heir. She is a lady indeed, although my limited experience of her suggests that she is also a mixture of the warrior queen Boadicea without the chariot, Catherine de’ Medici without the poisoned rings, and Attila the Hun without his wonderful sense of fun. Do not play cards with her, because she cheats like a Mississippi bustout dealer, keep sherry away from her, do everything she says, and we might all live.”
    “Sharp tongue, eh?”
    “Razor blade, Captain. On a lighter note, it is possible that en route we might catch up with the heir’s daughter, who thankfully was already well on the way to join her father before the plague struck. She is due to