The Ghost of the Mary Celeste (37 page)

“As you’ve determined, it’s a book,” she said when he was seated. “Before he died, George asked me to deliver it to you. ‘And don’t just put it in the mails,’ he said. ‘If it goes in the mails some factotum will find it first and consign it to oblivion. You must put it in his hands and give him my fond regards as you do.’ ”

Doyle studied the bold lettering of his name. “And now you’ve accomplished your husband’s mission. And very cleverly, I might add.”

“I’m flattered to hear
you
think so.” She raised her cloudy eyes to the portrait, as if to bask in her husband’s approbation. “Oh, I do believe George would be proud of me.”

“Do you know how he came by the book?”

“I do,” she said. “And George wanted you to know it as well. He found it under the mattress of the captain’s bed on the
Mary Celeste
.”

“Good heavens,” said Doyle. “Shouldn’t he have turned it over to the authorities?”

“I suppose he should have. But he didn’t.”

“Does it bear on the fate of the crew?”

“Really, sir. I think that will be for you to say.”

One of the canaries warbled gleefully and his companion joined in. Doyle gripped the package, conscious of a visceral reluctance to open it before the blind eyes of Mrs. Blatchford and the dead eyes of her seagoing husband, who sent, from beyond the grave, his fond regards. As if she sensed his diffidence, Mrs. Blatchford neatly closed the interview.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Dr. Doyle,” she said. “As you’ve observed, I’ve done my duty. It has left me very tired.” And indeed her little frame sagged in the chair. “And I believe your cab is waiting.”

“Of course,” he said, leaping to his feet. “Shall I take the tray back for you?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “You are so very kind. Annie will be home soon and she’ll take care of it.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll just have a little rest here in my chair. If you don’t mind, I’ll ask you to see yourself out.”

He stood before her feeling enormous and useless, a distinctly unusual sensation. He had been eager to leave, but now he was uncertain how to “see himself out” gracefully. Even the package in his hand felt tentative; it was a slim volume, whatever it was, and his fingers gripped it tightly to keep it from slipping away. He offered his hostess a quick awkward bow. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blatchford.”

She roused herself, extending her hand, which he gently caressed in his own. “I’m honored by your visit,” she said. “And so would my husband be, if he were here.”

“Please give my regards to your niece.”

“I certainly will,” she said.

He turned toward the hall, pausing in the doorway to ask a final question. “Does this book contain the solution to the mystery of the
Mary Celeste
?” he asked.

She smiled, nodding her head contentedly. It was the question she’d been waiting for. “Let’s just say it deepens it,” she said.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, he heard the bleat of the train whistle, and by the time the horse had turned onto Dennington Park Road, staggered clutches of pedestrians appeared, plodding along the pavement from a narrow lane that must have been a shortcut to the station. He imagined that Miss Briggs might be among them and pressed his back against the seat, averting his
face from the window, for the thought of seeing her—waving to her from the window—had no appeal to him. He remained rigid and aloof as the cab wove through the blocks of increasingly large and respectable houses. “A fool’s errand,” he thought, sliding the package onto the seat beside him. He would have a look at it when he was in his room at the club.

On arrival at this safe haven, he found two messages waiting for him: one from Bennett inviting him to come round for supper, and another from her, a brief billet-doux, expressing her joyful anticipation of their meeting on the morrow. Amid lively fantasies, some charming, others perhaps grave, but with honorable conclusions, he climbed the carpeted marble steps to his room, where his bed was made up, the linen clean, the curtains drawn, and a pitcher of water waiting on the corner table next to a decanter of claret. He dropped the book on the desk, opened the curtains to let in the cool, damp, not particularly fresh air, poured out a glass from the decanter, and sat down to his task. As the breeze lifted the curtain liner and the sound of a distant piano drifted into the room, he had a moment of deep satisfaction with his lot. He adored his family, his house, his position, but it was also a delight to be alone, in his room in the great city, as free of cares as a bachelor, and with the promise of a romantic encounter with one—a most beautiful, talented, adoring, and patiently devoted one—whose chaste kisses would leave him both exhilarated and sick with love.

He took up the package and loosened the ribbon, which came free at once. The paper sprang open, and there was the book, a black cloth cover, with a red ribbon marker and gilt edging across the top—a plain, masculine-looking journal, such as he occasionally used himself. There were pale stains marking a rectangle neatly centered on the cover, as if a label had been pasted there and fallen away. A purplish smudge near the lower outside edge looked, upon examination, more like jam than blood. He opened the cover to the marbled end pages, which were lightly foxed with age. It did appear to be an old book.

But, he thought, anyone could buy such a book for a few pence at a street market, and if it looked as if it had been lying in a storeroom for years, that was because it probably had.

He turned the page and read the designation, written in brown ink in a round feminine hand.

As if a fierce skirmish were imminent, a battery of defenses rushed into place. The peculiar Miss Briggs, who wrote pretty stories, the elaborate device to get him to the outskirts of town, the complex explanation of the provenance of the book, the presupposition that he must take an interest because a seafaring man who admired him thought he must. Was it possible that the book he had before him was an original document, squirreled away for twenty-six years by a captain who had failed in his duty to deliver it to the proper authorities?

Or was it simply another hoax, the desperate ploy of a poor, ambitious young writer, just as he had been, who schemed, just as he had schemed, to captivate the fickle attention of the public by tying a painter to the taffrail of a famous mystery ship?

He turned the page and read:

Benjamin laughed when he saw the title I had pasted on the cover of this book. “Will you be needing the sextant,” he asked, “or are you set on dead reckoning?”

“No,” I replied. “I leave all that to you. This is the log of the little world belowdecks, where the sun never shines and no reckoning is of use.”

He looked up at the skylight, eight panes of pale gray interrupted by the slash of the boom. “Surely some light will filter into your principality.”

I followed his eyes. “It is to be hoped,” I agreed.

In fact, my principality, as he called it, is spacious compared to some quarters we’ve shared, especially on the
Arthur
, where we couldn’t both stand together in the space outside the berth and B. had to duck to pass into the wardroom. The previous owner of the
Mary Celeste
had her refitted from stem to stern. As he planned to take his wife and young son aboard, he expanded the captain’s quarters, which are raised above the deck. We have not only the skylight, but windows on three sides, through which we will have a fine view of sailors’ legs. She’s not a grand ship, but as B. observes, neat, in good trim, and her hull is fresh-clad. The Lord willing we will have a safe and speedy passage, though all agree November is not the best month for an Atlantic crossing.

It was fair when Sophy and I made the trip down on the steamer. She’s a good traveler, though she wants to climb over everything and everyone in sight. As the crew is not yet aboard, we spent this morning in a fine explore of the ship, which delighted her, as she was allowed to run up and down the decks and peer into every closet and cubby in the forecastle. It’s pleasant to stroll on the deck amidst the forest of masts in the harbor, a little town made of ships all coming, going, or, like us, waiting. In the afternoon B. helped me get my sewing machine and the melodeon set up so we will at least have some songs and I won’t die of boredom.

B. is off to the registry office this morning. Sophy’s teeth kept her (and us) awake half the night, but now she is napping peacefully. I had hopes of some shopping and visiting here, as the loading progresses and B. is less occupied with paperwork, but alas there is horse disease in the city and the horse cars aren’t running. One can hire a carriage but the price is prohibitive, so it looks as though Sophy and I shall be thoroughly familiar with our quarters well before we sail.

As the present is without event, I’m thinking of the past, and especially of my dear father, who passed away two months ago today, and also of B.’s father, Captain Nathan, who, having weathered a lifetime of perilous voyages at sea, departed this life in his own parlor, struck by a lightning bolt that came through the window. On past voyages we wrote letters to these progenitors, but now we are without them and the world feels smaller, and duller.

They were both proud, occasionally thunderous men, willing and eager to cast the pearls of their wisdom widely. They were solid friends and enjoyed each other’s company until the war came and they fell out for its duration. Captain Nathan thought all wars were a waste of daylight and energy, as well as human lives, and recommended that the government could save the nation untold grief if
they would simply purchase all the slaves and set them free. My father advocated a complex blend of Old Testament justice and New Testament mercy. This “quarrel of the patriarchs,” as Olie called it, was resolved once the slaves were freed and the union reunited. One summer morning Father vowed he would no longer live in enmity with his brother-in-law. He marched over to Rose Cottage and knocked boldly on the door. Captain Nathan, who was standing on the piazza—which he calls the “quarterdeck”—saw him there. He came down, threw the door open, glowered at Father for a moment, and said commandingly, “Walk in, sir.” And that was that.

This afternoon our officers came aboard to settle in and be introduced to one another, and, most important, to the captain’s wife and daughter.

Mr. Albert Richardson, our chief mate, arrived first, followed by a rough-looking boy he’d enlisted to haul his sea chest to his quarters. Fortunately for him he is a man of small stature, as his berth is tight. He sailed with B. on the
Sea Foam
some years ago and proved a reliable officer, so B. was pleased to get him. I found him pleasant enough, respectful of B., very neat in his dress, even foppish. He was wearing a blue satin waistcoat embroidered with little green fish, which Sophy was mad to touch. Her enthusiasm clearly made Mr. R. anxious, though he tried mightily not to let on, as it wouldn’t do to slap away the sticky fingers of the captain’s daughter on first meeting. Poor Sophy has a head cold and is not at her most winning.

Mr. Richardson is recently married and very keen to mention “Fanny, my dear wife,” every other sentence. His father-in-law, the great Winchester, owns us all, and it’s doubtless through dear Fanny’s influence that her dapper bridegroom has got his post. Later, when I expressed my amusement at Mr. R.’s prudish manner and fancy attire, B. said, “He’ll loosen up, once we sail.”

He has an absurd, pencil-thin mustache, like a theater villain, and his hair pomade, generously applied, smells of lard.

Mr. Edward Head, our steward, came aboard next, followed closely by Mr. Andrew Gilling, our second mate, neither of whom could be accused of personal vanity.

Mr. Head is not taller than Mr. R., but has three times his girth, a rotundity of a man with wispy light hair and sparkling light eyes in a fleshy, florid face. His manner is respectful but not obsequious, frank, and open. He blinks rather more than seems necessary to refresh the eyes. Mr. Gilling is sallow and chinless, with flat, lifeless eyes and a mass of springy, mouse-colored hair that put me in mind of the Spanish moss we saw in the trees in New Orleans, which the citizens there use to stuff mattresses. Once this comparison came to me, I couldn’t look at him without conjuring silly names like Mate Mattress-Head, or Mr. Bedding, or Mate Mossy Top. He might wonder why I smile when I look at him, or perhaps he won’t, as he appears perfectly vacant, without interests or humor. B. has heard of him that he lacks ambition and will never rise above his present rank, which suits him, as he is at ease neither with the common sailors nor with the officers, but the sea has been his life and he wants no other.

Mr. Richardson will share space with us here in the stern. Mr. Gilling has a decent little room in the forecastle and Mr. Head has a berth of his own in the galley, where the stove will keep him warm while we are not.