The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  “Can we start in the passenger cabins?” said Sara, sounding sick. “If we’re right…”

  “I know,” he said sympathetically. “I feel the same.”

  They went silently, almost unwillingly, up the stairs into the passenger cabins. The fighting hadn’t reached this part of the ship. Drecht had made sure to station men at the door. Honor had compelled him to protect Sara and Lia, even as a lack of honor had compelled him to start the mutiny that had endangered them.

  Arent couldn’t imagine being able to think like that. His mind must have been twisted like old rope.

  They went into Vos’s cabin first, but Arent remained at the threshold. Arms crossed, he watched as Sara searched through the receipts of passage on the writing desk, then picked an expenses ledger off the ground. She flipped through a few pages, then ran her hand down the columns.

  Finally, she thumped it shut angrily. The glance she flashed him confirmed everything they’d suspected.

  Arent’s heart fell like a rock.

  Crossing the corridor, they entered Viscountess Dalvhain’s cabin, Sara’s foot catching on the huge rug covering the ground.

  Arent immediately knelt down, touching the weave with his fingers and murmuring, “So this is how they got it on board.”

  “The wooden stick?”

  He blinked at her. “What?”

  “I was in the corridor when they tried to wedge this rug into the cabin. They broke a long, thin wooden stick that was inside.”

  “No.” His brow furrowed. “That wasn’t what I meant… Look.”

  He ran his hand across the carpet. Squinting, she realized what he’d found. It was sliced, like somebody had dragged a blade across it.

  “The damage runs the length of the rug,” he said.

  “What caused it?”

  “The murder weapon,” he said, struggling to balance the satisfaction of being right with the revulsion it caused within him.

  “That’s a big blade,” she said with understatement.

  “It had to be,” he said. “My uncle was a long way away.”

  The ship wailed, wood shrieking as the ground shifted beneath their feet. “She’s tearing apart,” said Sara, bracing herself.

  Without speaking, they hurried into Sara’s cabin, where Arent lifted the mattress off her bunk. Something about his presence near her bed caused her to turn slightly red, despite the circumstances.

  “The leper’s dagger used to kill my uncle made no sense,” he said, searching the base beneath the mattress with his fingertips. “It was too thin, which meant it was too brittle to be a good weapon. But clever murder weapons are nearly always bad weapons. Sammy showed me that. Nobody going into battle would trust the venom from a snake or a sharp piece of pottery. Murderers make their own weapons, according to their needs.”

  “And our murderer needed a weapon that could be used without anybody entering or leaving the cabin,” said Sara.

  “Exactly. My uncle died in his bunk, so I started thinking about weapons that could reach him while he slept.” He moved away, gesturing to the spot he’d been inspecting. “Here.”

  Barely noticeable in the dark wood was a narrow slit about the size of her little finger.

  “Sammy found splinters on my uncle’s chest,” said Arent. “He reckoned they were from the wooden handle of the leper’s dagger, but they weren’t. They were from this hole. My uncle’s cabin is directly beneath us, and I bet this hole appears above his bunk. It had to be thin, or he would have noticed it. Even if he spotted this, he would have mistaken it for a crack in the wood. Emily de Haviland had a long, thin blade built to fit through it. She hid it in the rug, because that was the only way to get something that unusual aboard without anybody commenting on it. She took the blade out of the rug, pulled the drawers out from underneath the bunk, drove it down through this slot, killing my uncle. When she was done, she pulled it back up, put the drawers back, and threw it out of the porthole.”

  “I think I heard it,” said Sara. “The night my husband—­” She reconsidered. “Jan died. I was tending you and heard a splash outside. When I was looking after you.”

  “She must have been glad you weren’t in your cabin,” replied Arent. “This was originally supposed to be her room, but Reynier van Schooten swapped you around because he thought this place was cursed.”

  “If all the passengers were in the great cabin having dinner when Jan was murdered and the doorway to the passenger cabins was guarded by Eggert, how did our murderer even get in here?”

  Crauwels’s cabin was at the end of the passage, and they went there now. His fine clothes were strewn across the floor, floating in the water that had splashed through his porthole during the wreck. Arent kicked through some ribbons, then pushed on the ceiling, which opened into the animal pens above, straw falling on his shoulders.

  “This is how the Eighth Lantern slaughtered the animals, and this is where the leper disappeared when I chased him after he appeared at your porthole,” he said. “The night of my uncle’s murder, the leper climbed out of the water and straight up the side of the ship to the poop deck. He used this hatch to drop in here. He dried off and changed clothes so he wouldn’t leave any trace, then collected the sword and went to your cabin.”

  Their final stop was the great cabin, where the huge table had tipped onto its side. The windows were smashed, the raging sea slate gray beyond.

  The governor general’s cabin appeared as comfortable as it ever had, though his scrolls were now scattered across the room. His quill pot was upended, the wall and desk stained with ink.

  Sara poked at the narrow slit in the wood above her husband’s bunk. “But the handle of the dagger wouldn’t fit through here,” she grumbled.

  “I know,” he said. “That’s the clever part. That’s why the candle’s flame had to be snuffed, but I’m still not sure how that was done. There was no way to do it without entering the room, and it couldn’t be done from the porthole, because the desk was too far away.”

  “I do,” said Sara, smiling. “I saw it. Then I heard it being built.”

  “I don’t—­”

  “When were you last in church, Arent?”

  “It’s been a while,” he admitted.

  “Have you ever seen those long-­pole snuffers they use to put out the candles on the chandeliers?”

  Realization washed over his face.

  “That pole I saw fall out of Viscountess Dalvhain’s rug was a candlesnuffer.”

  She went to the porthole, looking up at the three widely spaced hooks above it that Sammy had found during his inspection. “The leper was probably supposed to collect it from Viscountess Dalvhain’s room, then lay it on these hooks for when it was needed, but he didn’t know our cabins had been swapped. That’s why he was there that night.”

  “But you said it got broken. Did they repair it?”

  “No, they stole one of the handles from the capstan wheel in the cargo hold. I heard Johannes Wyck raging about it during a sermon. Then they used a carpenter’s plane to make it into a manageable size. Dorothea heard the noise when she was passing Dalvhain’s cabin, but she couldn’t place it. It was probably the only thing they could easily steal that was long enough.”

  “To think,” said Arent glumly. “If they hadn’t got their hands on that damn handle, there’s a chance none of this would have happened.”

  83

  Arent and Sara spent the afternoon together, walking up and down the beach, making their plans. They held hands and spoke in a hush, frequently glancing at the Saardam.

  Everybody left them alone.

  Most had mistaken their pacing for romance, an idea swiftly put to the sword by their expressions. Such fury they hoped never to see again.

  It wasn’t until Drecht told them that the rescue boat was ready to depart that they finally separated, each bu
rdened by their dreadful purpose. Arent sought out Larme, who was sitting alone at the far end of the beach. He had found a new block of wood and restarted his whittling. He’d been trying to make a pegasus for years, without any success.

  Upon seeing the mercenary, Larme scowled, remembering how easily Arent had gone along with Drecht’s brothel proposition, but his dismay evaporated when he listened to Arent’s idea. By the time Arent finished talking, he was openmouthed with surprise.

  “I’d have to be insane to do what you ask,” Larme said, trying to make sense of it.

  “If you don’t, everybody dies,” argued Arent. He cast a glance toward Drecht, who was growing impatient waiting by the rescue boat for him.

  “And if I do, I likely die.” Larme eyed Drecht with disgust. “But I would love a chance to piss in his hat.” He nodded. “And I reckon that’s reason enough. Where do you want me?”

  “Farthest from the left,” replied Arent. Seeing Larme’s confusion, he tapped his left hand for him. “Portside, this one,” he said.

  As Larme departed, Arent went to the cave where Sammy was murmuring on his mat. Sara had applied a poultice to his injured face and balmed it with the piss-­smelling salve from Sammy’s own alchemy kit.

  Arent picked him up from the cave floor and carried him toward the rescue boat, where Thyman and Eggert were being given orders by Drecht.

  “Ah, Arent, I’d like you to meet our volunteers,” Drecht said.

  “I know them,” said Arent, acknowledging them. “They brought Sammy on board the Saardam. We had a little disagreement about their treatment of him. Seems fitting they should be the ones taking him home.”

  He laid Sammy flat on a bench at the back of the yawl. He hadn’t woken up, and Arent was glad of it. He didn’t know what to say. He was supposed to protect him, but he couldn’t think how to do that anymore. He felt like he’d failed.

  “I’ve found a hut full of supplies in the forest,” said Arent, addressing Drecht. “Salted meat, ale, everything. Enough to feed us for a few months if need be.”

  “Truly!” Drecht’s face lit up. “That’s a grand stroke of fortune, my friend. It must be a pirate’s store. Not that I’ll turn my nose up at provisions.”

  Arent looked at the meager supplies in the boat. “I think we can spare these men a barrel more of ale and some bread. Don’t you? Their journey will be arduous.”

  Drecht considered it but nodded, happy to have Arent on side.

  The supplies had been grouped beneath the tree line near the woods, and Arent heaved a keg over his shoulder and picked up a basket of tack and dried meat, which he placed carefully into the boat.

  Satisfied that he’d given them the best chance he could, he placed his large, flat hand against the problematary’s thin chest.

  It was a coward’s goodbye, but he had little else to offer.

  Wishing Eggert and Thyman good fortune, he gripped the bow of the boat with both hands and single-­handedly pushed it into the rough ocean.

  Creesjie watched the rescue boat disappear over the horizon, overwhelmed by concern.

  Marcus and Osbert were skipping rocks beside her. Being boys, they had recovered quickly from the shock of the mutiny and the wreck, and now believed themselves engaged on some grand adventure. She hoped she could always keep them so sheltered from fear.

  Away to her left, she noticed Isabel walking toward her, a vacant expression on her face. She didn’t know the girl very well, but she liked her. Since Sander’s death, she’d taken on many of his duties, showing a zeal that would have put her master to shame.

  Crossing the slippery shoal, Isabel arrived at her side. She’d been speaking with Sara earlier on, and whatever she’d said had sent Sara away dismayed.

  “Are you well, Isabel?” Creesjie asked when the young girl didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence. She was simply standing there, staring at the Saardam.

  “Do you think Emily de Haviland died on that ship?” asked Isabel.

  “I don’t know,” replied Creesjie, unnerved by the flatness of her voice.

  “Kers took me in when nobody else would,” said Isabel. “He gave me a craft, taught me how to battle evil, but I’ve failed. I allowed him to be murdered, then Old Tom slaughtered everybody, just as Sander said he would. I’ll not fail him now.”

  “Most of the passengers died in the wreck,” said Creesjie, unsure how to console her. “I’m certain Emily would have been among them. We certainly haven’t seen any old woman with long gray hair among the living.”

  “Then Old Tom has found another host.”

  “Isabel—­”

  “Most of these men pledged themselves to its service before we ran aground,” Isabel said ferociously. “It could be curled up in any of their rotten souls.” Her eyes were wild. “I won’t let anybody else be hurt.” Her voice shook with righteous anger. Staring at her, Creesjie wondered if the wreck had shaken something adrift within the girl.

  “I failed Sander on the Saardam, because I wasn’t willing to do what was necessary,” said Isabel. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “What are you planning?” asked Creesjie fretfully, casting around for Sara.

  “Whatever I have to do. I won’t let Old Tom leave this island.”

  84

  By the time evening threw its cape across the island, two camps had been established. Drecht and the musketeers surrounded a huge pyre, jesting and drinking jugs of wine they’d looted from the huts Arent had found. The passengers had been invited to join them, but Sara had spread word of Drecht’s plan, hardening most of their hearts. As she had predicted, though, a few of the passengers had joined Drecht anyway and were happily carousing.

  The rest of the passengers had built a much smaller campfire next to the tree line, sharing ale and the roasted fish they’d caught earlier in the day. A ragged bit of sailcloth kept the swirling rain off their backs, but there was no disguising their misery. Chatter was muted, each person looking fearfully at the drunken musketeers, whose desires were revealed by the firelight.

  The passengers knew what was coming, what was always coming when the strong were given free rein over the weak.

  Only Isabel seemed oblivious.

  Much to Creesjie’s chagrin, the young woman was singing, dancing, and making merry among the musketeers, pouring their wine and letting herself be ogled.

  Since their talk this afternoon, something had shifted within her. There was a desperation to her actions that struck Creesjie as reckless, but Isabel wouldn’t hear her pleas, or allow herself to be tugged away.

  She was having fun, she claimed. More fun than she’d had in a long time.

  Hugging Marcus, Osbert, and Lia by their small fire, Creesjie could only pray she came to her senses soon.

  Her eyes caught movement. Dorothea was going to see if Sara wanted any food or ale. Her friend was standing at the water’s edge with Arent, her head against his arm. They were staring at the wreckage of the Saardam and holding hands.

  At least some good had come of all this, Creesjie thought.

  A series of thuds came from the other camp, followed by groans and cries of alarm. Musketeers stumbled drunkenly, trying to catch hold of Isabel, who skipped away nimbly.

  One by one, they began collapsing.

  Drecht staggered forward, trying to draw his sword, but he sagged to his knees in front of her, then fell over.

  Arent reached the musketeer camp at the same time as Sara and the rest of the survivors. Around the roaring fire lay dozens of unconscious bodies, their mugs spilled from their hands.

  “Are they dead?” asked Sara.

  “No,” said Isabel, nudging the body of Drecht with her foot. “I poured a vial of Sara’s sleeping draught into their wine. Could somebody fetch some rope so we can tie them up?”

  Creesjie hugged Isabel fiercely. “I thou
ght you’d lost your mind,” she admitted giddily. “But this is… You’ve saved us all.”

  “Not yet,” said Isabel sorrowfully. “But almost.”

  She stepped around Creesjie, addressing the passengers. “Old Tom delivered us to this island, thinking to doom us,” she said. “But while it was the demon’s evil that steered our ship onto these rocks, it was God’s hand that spared us.”

  Arent staggered, then fell. Some of the other passengers were moaning, the ground spinning beneath them.

  “What have you done?” cried out Creesjie as Marcus and Osbert crumpled onto the shoal.

  “Old Tom can shelter in any soul that has bargained with it,” Isabel said as Sara collapsed. “But I can’t be sure which of you that is.”

  Creesjie’s vision was becoming blurry.

  “The daemonologica taught me how to make holy fire,” continued Isabel, smiling the smile of martyrs. “I’m going to cleanse your souls one by one until there’s no hiding place left. I’m going to put an end to the tyranny of Old Tom once and for all.”

  Creesjie woke with a groan.

  She’d been tied to a piece of the Saardam’s wreckage on the shoal. The knots were tight, and the wreckage was too heavy to move. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours, because the sky was still dark and their fire bright. Everybody else, passengers and musketeers alike, were equally bound.

  “Marcus! Osbert!” she called out.

  They were nowhere to be seen, though Sara and Lia were tied up nearby. She called to them, watching them stir slowly, blinking away their confusion as they whipped their heads from left to right, trying to make sense of what was happening.

  “Marcus! Osbert!” cried Creesjie. “God, please, answer me!”

  Slowly, more people began to wake up. Creesjie couldn’t tell how many of them believed in Old Tom or not, but she knew they were afraid. An hour ago, they’d been convinced they would be raped or murdered by the musketeers. Now, they were about to be burned to death by a zealot.

  It was a bargain worthy of Old Tom himself.