knows how, but he did.”
“And you killed him for it,” I said.
“Not I!” Dasher shook his head. “There was no one moresurprised than I to see him swimming through the Downs, dead as a doornail. But he was mucking about in a smuggling gang, so it's no wonder he got himself killed. They all do, those who interfere”
“Like me?” I asked.
“Not if you watch your step,”said Dasher. “Not if you give us the book.”
It kept coming back to that waterlogged book and the pages of Larson's notes.
“The dead man's secrets,”
a sailor had called them.
“See you keep them safe.”
I dreaded what might happen if I had no secrets left to keep.
“There's no hurry,” said Dasher. “There's no rush. But you won't see London again until the Haggis has that book. And that's a fact, my friend.”
He said all this with a cheerful smile that I found more unnerving than all the captain's rage. I picked myself up and wandered away, but Dasher called after me. “Where are you going?”
“Wherever I please,” said I.
The fog was not as thick as it had been, and I knew he was watching as I went down the companionway. I heard a thumping up forward, and smiled to myself at the thought of the captain – or Harry, perhaps – searching for a book that wouldn't be found. Then I hurried through the schooner, back toward the stern. I opened the door of my little cabin … and found it all in ruin. The thin mattress had been pulled from my bunk, my sea bag torn open across it. My ledgers were strewn to the deck, kicked in a heap to the corner. Even my quill had been plucked from its pot and cast across the cabin.
Someone had gone through the room in a rage. But I found a small pleasure in the sadness of the place. No one would search there again.
My tinderbox lay behind the door. A candle–broken in the middle–was wedged behind the bunk. I shoved them in my pockets and went out to the narrow, tilting passageway.
To reach the lazarette, I had to pass the captain's cabin. The door was ajar, held by a hook and eye, and in the motion of the
Dragon
it rattled open and shut, with a sound like shaken bones. Through the gap I saw the captain, standing at a porthole. As I had seen him once before, he was talking to no one at all. Or talking to the ship. He touched the porthole gently, as he would a woman's face. So intent was he on this that I crept past without him seeing or hearing, and made my way to the lazarette.
The steering ropes were looser than before, and they filled the space with an eerie, almost human crying. The massive tiller groaned from side to side. I lit my candle and planted it with molten wax on the tiller and not the deck. The room still smelled of oil, and the planks were slick where my lantern had broken, what seemed like days before but was really only yesterday.
The candle, swinging with the tiller, made grotesquely whirling shadows. The ballast stones rumbled with a sound that made me think of ancient tombs. I sorted through the stack, growing more and more frantic the deeper I went. As I reached the timbers at the bottom, darkly stained with water, I knew the truth.
Larson's book was gone.
Chapter 13
A T ALE O R M URDER
W e came out of the fog a mile from shore, and the cliffs of Dover loomed ahead, huge and white, glowing in the sun. Along them lay a coil of smoke, a twisted rope woven from fires at the base and the brink.
“That's the signal,” said Dasher. “The revenue knows we're coming.”
Crowe wasn't half as calm. “Hard alee!” he shouted, and I watched the cliffs racing sideways past the bowsprit. The
Dragon
turned toward the sea. And again the fog enveloped us.
We sailed to the south for an hour or more, and then to the west. I'd lost all sense of where we were by the time the
Dragon
hove to at Crowe's command. The sails were lowered, and we drifted in the fog.
I sat on the capstan, mulling over my dilemma. If Crowe had the book, he wouldn't wait very long to settle the
“And you killed him for it,” I said.
“Not I!” Dasher shook his head. “There was no one moresurprised than I to see him swimming through the Downs, dead as a doornail. But he was mucking about in a smuggling gang, so it's no wonder he got himself killed. They all do, those who interfere”
“Like me?” I asked.
“Not if you watch your step,”said Dasher. “Not if you give us the book.”
It kept coming back to that waterlogged book and the pages of Larson's notes.
“The dead man's secrets,”
a sailor had called them.
“See you keep them safe.”
I dreaded what might happen if I had no secrets left to keep.
“There's no hurry,” said Dasher. “There's no rush. But you won't see London again until the Haggis has that book. And that's a fact, my friend.”
He said all this with a cheerful smile that I found more unnerving than all the captain's rage. I picked myself up and wandered away, but Dasher called after me. “Where are you going?”
“Wherever I please,” said I.
The fog was not as thick as it had been, and I knew he was watching as I went down the companionway. I heard a thumping up forward, and smiled to myself at the thought of the captain – or Harry, perhaps – searching for a book that wouldn't be found. Then I hurried through the schooner, back toward the stern. I opened the door of my little cabin … and found it all in ruin. The thin mattress had been pulled from my bunk, my sea bag torn open across it. My ledgers were strewn to the deck, kicked in a heap to the corner. Even my quill had been plucked from its pot and cast across the cabin.
Someone had gone through the room in a rage. But I found a small pleasure in the sadness of the place. No one would search there again.
My tinderbox lay behind the door. A candle–broken in the middle–was wedged behind the bunk. I shoved them in my pockets and went out to the narrow, tilting passageway.
To reach the lazarette, I had to pass the captain's cabin. The door was ajar, held by a hook and eye, and in the motion of the
Dragon
it rattled open and shut, with a sound like shaken bones. Through the gap I saw the captain, standing at a porthole. As I had seen him once before, he was talking to no one at all. Or talking to the ship. He touched the porthole gently, as he would a woman's face. So intent was he on this that I crept past without him seeing or hearing, and made my way to the lazarette.
The steering ropes were looser than before, and they filled the space with an eerie, almost human crying. The massive tiller groaned from side to side. I lit my candle and planted it with molten wax on the tiller and not the deck. The room still smelled of oil, and the planks were slick where my lantern had broken, what seemed like days before but was really only yesterday.
The candle, swinging with the tiller, made grotesquely whirling shadows. The ballast stones rumbled with a sound that made me think of ancient tombs. I sorted through the stack, growing more and more frantic the deeper I went. As I reached the timbers at the bottom, darkly stained with water, I knew the truth.
Larson's book was gone.
Chapter 13
A T ALE O R M URDER
W e came out of the fog a mile from shore, and the cliffs of Dover loomed ahead, huge and white, glowing in the sun. Along them lay a coil of smoke, a twisted rope woven from fires at the base and the brink.
“That's the signal,” said Dasher. “The revenue knows we're coming.”
Crowe wasn't half as calm. “Hard alee!” he shouted, and I watched the cliffs racing sideways past the bowsprit. The
Dragon
turned toward the sea. And again the fog enveloped us.
We sailed to the south for an hour or more, and then to the west. I'd lost all sense of where we were by the time the
Dragon
hove to at Crowe's command. The sails were lowered, and we drifted in the fog.
I sat on the capstan, mulling over my dilemma. If Crowe had the book, he wouldn't wait very long to settle the
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