Bone Rattler by Eliot Pattison Page A

chose to focus on pieces of the truth rather than the whole of it, when it served to make the point of their homilies. “The objects used that night,” he said. “I would like to see them. Perhaps a closer examination would—”
    Woolford raised a hand to cut Duncan off. “The crew was terrified of them. Mr. Lister and I wrapped everything in a canvas weighted with rocks from the ballast and tossed it over the stern.”
    Duncan stared at him in disbelief. “They would have told us more.” It was as if Woolford, too, was interested in only fragments of the truth.
    Woolford stroked the long scar on his neck again. It seemed to have become a nervous habit, one Duncan had not noticed before the storm. “Your pipe,” he said abruptly, remembering now the clay pipe Woolford had often carried during the voyage. “You are no longer smoking. It affects your nerves.”
    Woolford grimaced. “Someone stole my tobacco,” he admitted.
    “And burnt it in the compass room,” Duncan concluded. “I have never heard of such a ritual in the Old World,” he added after a moment.
    “There are other people,” the officer observed in a hesitant voice, “people who burn the leaf to attract spirits.”
    “What kind of people?” Duncan pressed. “Who prays to spirits with tobacco?”
    Arnold’s glance of warning was quick but obvious. Woolford looked away from the vicar, into the shadows. He seemed to struggle to get the words out. “The people of the forest.” Woolford’s haunted expression as he spoke toward the darkness caused Duncan to twist about to study the shadows. It seemed Woolford’s meaning was grasped first by something in his gut, turning it cold, sending an icy tentacle up his spine until it touched his brain. The savages. Woolford was speaking of the dreaded aborigines of the American woodlands.

    No one spoke for a long moment.
    “So tobacco was burned to gain the attention of Mrs. Evering in the next world,” Duncan suggested in a careful tone, feeling Arnold’s withering glance.
    “Most of the men partake of tobacco when they can,” Arnold interjected. “One of them stole it from the lieutenant, who was well known for having fine twists of Virginia leaf.” He paused, taking note, as Duncan already had, of the sudden melancholy that had overtaken Woolford. “Evering brought the brazier for warmth. The tobacco fell as the murderer struggled with him.”
    “I must see the professor’s quarters,” Duncan finally stated. He dared not openly express interest in Evering’s journal.
    “The captain gave his orders,” Arnold said. “You’ll not be leaving the cell deck.”
    “I must see the other letters at least.”
    “Equally impossible,” Arnold said. “You will not be permitted to tamper with the royal mails.”
    Duncan gazed at the letters in front of him. “Then surely you will return these to the mails.”
    “They have become evidence.”
    “There is but one killer. Even were it one of these men, the other is innocent.” He searched Arnold’s unyielding face. “Bring me paper and ink. I shall transcribe them. You can witness them as true copies. Surely,” he entreated, “we will not punish the innocent. When will word reach their loved ones again? A child needs his buttons.”
    Arnold cast a disappointed glance at Duncan. “Innocent, Mr. McCallum?” he asked, as if unfamiliar with the term.
    Woolford rose. “I shall make it so,” the officer said, and hurried up the ladder.
    Arnold paced around the table. “Paper and ink will provide an opportunity to commence your report,” he observed. “Lord Ramsey is fastidious about records. He will desire a quick conclusion, but a complete written account. Flavor it with your science. The army will soon know of a killing in the Company,” he added, with a
glance toward the gangway where Woolford had disappeared. “Lord Ramsey will not desire a military inquiry to be opened.”
    “It could be useful to one writing such a report,