The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  “Something I stumbled on while making philosopher’s wool from zinc,” he related happily. “It’s impressive, isn’t it? We laced the caulking on the orlop deck with it. I had only to touch a flame to the tar and it burned away, creating that white smoke, while leaving the wood intact.”

  From his voice, Sara might have believed he’d used it for nothing more than conjuring tricks at court. Watching Lia’s delighted reaction, she could have believed the same.

  “How long have you been doing this?” asked Arent, his voice cracking. “Committing crimes?”

  Sara could hear the rage, barely controlled. She sought out his hand under the table, but his fist was clenched.

  “I was planning murders long before I was solving them,” admitted Sammy. “My family name was destroyed, and we had nobody to support us. Emily and I survived however we could, and it turns out more people want somebody dead than care who killed them. I could tell you I carried on doing it because I was poor and starving, but I’ve lied enough for today. My gifts demand exercise, and the only thing more thrilling than unraveling a complicated murder is plotting one, then seeing it come off so perfectly, nobody even recognizes that it was a crime. Kings die peacefully in their beds. Nobles fall off horses while hunting. Beautiful heiresses commit suicide at balls. Good mysteries so rarely come along, but if you’ve got a little imagination, you can invent as many as you want. It’s proved a lucrative venture over the years. I’ve exported them to France, Germany, the Cape. They’re my spices, but unlike sugar and paprika, the nobility will never get sick of murdering one another.”

  “You really are Old Tom,” said Arent hollowly.

  “There’s no such thing as demons, Arent.” Sammy took a sip of wine, the liquid reddening his lips. “But there are always bargains to be struck.”

  Perhaps it was the wine or the dancing shadows or the flush in his cheeks, but there truly was something devilish about him, thought Sara.

  “Bargains,” she repeated slowly, hearing an offer in his tone.

  Creesjie clasped her hands and leaned across the table into the candlelight. “I told you earlier that we did all this because we wanted Jan Haan to know our fear. But we also did it because we didn’t want to be caught. Everybody on that island believes a demon killed your husband, which is exactly what we intended. That’s the story they’ll go back home and tell.” Seeing Sara’s doubt, she waved a hand. “All this we can explain away, but superstition burrows itself deep. They believe it now. They believe in Old Tom. They’ll spend their lives cursing him for things that go wrong in their lives and rubbing charms to keep them safe. Their children will believe, and so will their grandchildren.” She paused, gathering herself. “I love you, Sara.” Her eyes found Lia. “I love you, Lia. My boys love you. I want you to come with me to France as you planned. We have Jan’s treasure, which means we can live the life we always talked about, free of any obligation to marry.”

  Lia shot a quick glance at her mother, but Sara kept her gaze firmly on Creesjie. Lia was sweet and clever, but she cared little for the suffering of strangers. She wanted the life so long promised with Creesjie, and Sara knew those dark eyes would beg her for it.

  Sara didn’t know if she’d have the strength to resist. Or even if she should. For the fifteen years she’d been married to Jan Haan, she’d only dreamed of her freedom. Now she was being offered exactly what she wanted. Part of her yearned to accept, to snatch at it greedily.

  “Whatever your intentions, hundreds of people are dead,” growled Arent. “Children have lost their mothers and fathers. Husbands have lost their wives. You can’t simply walk away from that. Somebody has to be held to account.” He stared at Sammy, fiercely. “That’s what we did, Sammy. We held people to account for doing things like this.”

  “Your uncle was held to account,” said Creesjie. “And my conscience aches for the hurt we’ve done accomplishing that, but it’s assuaged by the knowledge that we prevented the Gentlemen 17 from taking control of the Folly, and through that, expanding an empire which empowers ruthless men like Jan Haan.”

  “Until you sell it to somebody else,” argued Arent.

  “We’ve destroyed it,” said Sammy flatly. “Or, at least, the two parts we recovered. The Folly was much too powerful for any king or company to possess.”

  Only Sara heard Lia groan, pained by the years of lost work.

  Creesjie hung her head. “We grieve what we set in motion, but it was Crauwels who cost these passengers their lives. We intend to save who we can and return to Amsterdam.”

  Sammy leaned forward into the light, fixing his attention on Arent. His expression was watchful, but also hopeful—­like a child making a request of his father. Sara could only curse herself for missing the resemblance between him and Creesjie earlier. They had the same-shaped eyes, the same chin. The same unnatural beauty. Perhaps that was another reason they’d ensured they were rarely in the same room together.

  “I know your nature, my friend,” said Sammy, addressing Arent. “I know it burns you to let something so unjust go unpunished, but there really was a devil, and we really did banish him from this world. The Folly would have brought untold suffering, and we’ve destroyed it. There is good in this, as there is ill. Accept our version of this story and we’ll split Jan Haan’s treasure with you and the passengers. You’ll be free, and you can choose whatever life you want. Maybe one day, we’ll even solve a puzzle together again.”

  Sara looked at Arent, trying to gauge his mood. Normally, his face was a mask, every emotion locked away. Not tonight. Fury showed through his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. It coursed through his tense shoulders and balled fists. He was ready to sink this ship with his bare hands.

  “What’s the alternative?” asked Lia, her voice quavering. “What happens if they say no? Will you kill us?”

  “No,” exclaimed Creesjie, horrified. “No, dear heart, no. If any part of me could let that happen, I wouldn’t have confessed when I thought Isabel was going to burn you.”

  “If you don’t like our bargain, you’re free to stay on the island in peace,” said Sammy, sounding genuinely pained by the idea. “There’s food enough for years, and the hunting’s good.”

  Obviously discomfited by Arent’s anger, he peered at Sara.

  “Old Tom asked you what you most desired, and you said freedom. Now we’re offering it to you. The question is: What will you pay for it?”

  Sara looked at Lia, then Arent.

  Lia’s stare was pleading. This was everything she wanted. By contrast, Arent’s huge frame seemed to fill the great cabin, his massive shoulders rising and falling, like a bull pawing the ground. Here was the Arent of the songs, implacable and unstoppable, sent by heaven to topple kingdoms. But the God he’d served had disappointed him. There could be no forgiveness.

  Sara knew that whatever she said next would decide whether Arent lived or died, and how many people lost their lives trying to stop him.

  What was her heart’s desire? And what would she pay for it?

  For a second, there was only the creaking of wood as they awaited Sara’s decision.

  “No,” she said softly. There was an intake of breath from around the table. Arent tensed, ready to spring out of his chair. “No, I’m sick of being dictated to,” continued Sara. “There’s a third way.”

  “I assure you, we’ve thought of everything,” said Sammy, eyeing Arent warily.

  “Hush, Brother,” rebuked Creesjie. “What’s your third way, dear heart?”

  “Atonement,” said Sara. “These passengers deserve recompense for all they’ve lost, and you’ve treasure enough to give them new lives, but you can’t saunter away afterward like nothing happened. Too many innocent people are dead. You have to make amends.”

  “And how do you suggest we do it?” asked Creesjie.

  “By turning Old Tom to noble purpose,” replied
Sara excitedly. “By making sure he whispers to those who deserve to hear his voice.” Sensing their gathering objections, she rushed on. “We all know there are hundreds of others like my husband who do terrible things but are so powerful they go unpunished. What if that wasn’t the case? What if the next time a noble murdered his maid, Old Tom found him and made him pay God’s price? What if the next time a king led an army to slaughter, then fled the battlefield in cowardice, Old Tom was waiting in his castle?”

  Sammy and Creesjie exchanged an incredulous glance, but Arent was smiling. As was Lia.

  “Look at the lengths you’ve gone to for your revenge,” pressed Sara. “Four years you planned this, and Arent and I solved it in a few weeks. Lia invented the Folly to fend off boredom. Imagine what the five of us could accomplish together. Imagine the good we could do.”

  “We can’t avenge every act of evil in this world,” protested Sammy, but his words were at odds with the eagerness in his voice. He wanted to be talked around, Sara realized. Here was a challenge that would last the rest of his life. She just needed the right words.

  “We don’t need to avenge every act of evil,” said Arent in a low rumble. “But we can make people terrified to commit them.” He stared at Sammy. “You’re a scheming, lying, betraying bastard, Sammy Pipps, but you were my friend until today, and I wish it so again. You blew up the Eighth Lantern because I asked you to prove I could still trust you. Now I’m asking for this.”

  “Creesjie, please,” begged Lia, reaching for her hand across the table.

  Creesjie looked expectantly at her brother. “Is it even possible?”

  “We’ve treasure enough,” mused Sammy. “A ship, an island. Not to mention cleverness and cunning aplenty. It just might be. I’d certainly like to find out for myself.”

  Tentative smiles were exchanged as a strange new contract was signed between them.

  “Then maybe it’s time a devil did what God will not,” said Creesjie gaily. She turned her inquisitive stare on Sara. “Where do we begin?”

  An Apology to History. And Boats.

  Hello, friend.

  Sorry for barging into your evening uninvited. I wanted to turn up after the plot dust had settled and have a word.

  You see, I believe a book is whatever you decide it is. The sights, the smells, the characters—­everything you believe about them, you’re right! That’s why I love books. No two readers are the same, which means no two readings are the same. Your version of Arent isn’t my version of Arent, as demonstrated by the amount of people who think Arent’s hot. Sexy bodyguard really wasn’t my intention, but who cares. If you want sexy Arent, sexy Arent you shall have.

  Equally, I don’t like pinning a genre to my stories. The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle, my prior book, was variously described as a Golden Age mystery, a metaphysical sci-­fi novel, a modern fantasy, and a horror. In every instance, they were right. It was their book, so it could be whatever they damn well pleased.

  I suspect as many genres will be pinned to Devil, and that’s fine. Except…I’m a bit worried some people might describe this as a “boat book” or a piece of historical fiction.

  At a glance, they are. Devil’s set in 1634, so it’s definitely historical. And it’s definitely fiction. And it’s definitely set on a boat. My concern is that people looking for Hilary Mantel and Patrick O’Brien are going to come looking for detail I willfully ignored. Not from arrogance, but simply because it got in the way of the story I was trying to tell.

  An Indiaman would have had dozens of officers, all vital to the running of the ship. I had three, because I didn’t want to bog the story down with that many characters, or subplots. The history that snuck into my book often happened differently, much later, or not at all. The technology is far more advanced than it should be, as are some of the attitudes—­and the speech. Definitely the speech. This is all intentional. I did my research, then I threw away the bits that hindered my story. See what I mean? This is historical fiction where the history is the fiction. Hopefully you don’t mind that. But I know lots of people will, because lots of people want chocolate, not coffee. They want the details I tossed overboard.

  This is quite a long-­winded way of saying please don’t send me critical letters about proper rigging techniques on galleons or women’s fashion in the 1600s. Unless they’re super interesting facts you’d like to share.

  I love a good fact.

  Right, I’ve kept you long enough. I truly hope you enjoyed Devil, as I’ve enjoyed our chat. Have a lovely evening. Let’s talk again in two years when my next book’s out. It’s going to be really fun, I promise.

  Bye,

  Stu

  Reading Group Guide

  1. Governor General Jan Haan refuses to heed the leper’s warning, and later, he refuses to return to Batavia. Do you think his actions are the result of disbelief or pride?

  2. Most of the characterization of Samuel Pipps comes from Arent’s memories and opinions of him. How would the story be different if Sammy’s perspective was in play more often? Do you think your opinion of him would change?

  3. Who has power throughout the book? Does all power look the same?

  4. What is the source of Arent’s loyalty to Sammy? Is it solely because of the work they’ve done together? What else might be at play?

  5. Sammy’s advice is to “hold on to what you know until you know what it means.” How does this shape Arent’s investigation? Could it have benefited him to be more candid, or would that have increased the danger?

  6. How do superstition and fear shape the action of the story? Does a superstition have power even if it isn’t “true”?

  7. What did you think of Captain Crauwels’s change of allegiance? What was his real motivation?

  8. If you were in Sara’s position at the end of the book, what would you decide?

  A Conversation with the Author

  What was the starting point for this book?

  Back in 2003, I was in Australia by accident. This used to happen to me more than I’d like to admit. I’d missed my connecting flight into Singapore and was stuck in Perth, working out whether to stay in Australia for a bit or carry on to Asia as I’d planned. The west coast of Australia has this amazing history of shipwrecks, and it seemed daft not to visit the maritime museum while I was there. Inside, I came across wreckage from a ship called the Batavia. It was a merchant vessel that was wrecked on a tiny coral island in the 1600s. One of the officers took control of the survivors and committed a litany of atrocities, before everybody was rescued. It’s a horrific story, but within it are all these other amazing stories. One of the soldiers on board led this heroic resistance. The captain navigated a rescue boat across thousands of leagues of unmapped ocean to bring back help. The story stuck with me, and when I started thinking about what I’d write after The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle, I realized it had to be this, but it couldn’t only be this. Other folks have done that already. I wanted the shipwreck, certainly. The heroism, definitely. I also wanted a big mystery. I wanted a prickly Sherlock Holmes figure and a Watson who wasn’t just asking daft questions. I wanted the occult, and superstition, because they were such parts of the period. I wanted dread and adventure and the sense of being swept along on an epic journey. Like 7½ Deaths, I wanted a lot. And like 7½ Deaths, I drove myself a little mad delivering it.

  When you write, do you begin with the truth and build secrets and puzzles around it or start with the mystery and carve your way inward?

  I start with the dead, usually. Once I know who’s dying, I can figure out who wants them dead. That’s a powerful thing, and the motivation has to make sense. Once I have my motivation, I build a character from it, then the surrounding characters. Because this is a mystery novel, everybody has to have a secret, so I try to work out how those secrets have created the characters I’m writing, and how that affects their actions in the no
vel. Through that, I begin to tie all the plots together, laying a trail my protagonists can follow to the truth, with plenty of red herrings along the way. I then write a bad book out of it, throw it away, write a slightly less bad one, throw it away, and keep doing that until I have something I like. I hope other people like it, as well.

  The setting of this book is quite the departure from The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle. How did you reorient yourself?

  I was a journalist for years, so putting down a piece of work, then starting something entirely new is second nature to me. This just felt like being given a new assignment, only it took years rather than weeks to complete it. I also ceremonially burned every piece of research I did for 7½ Deaths in a huge fire when the book was published, which was strangely liberating. And slightly dangerous.

  Your books present very complicated puzzles. Do you work on puzzles in your free time? What kind?

  Oh god no! I spend so much of my life hunched over a keyboard that when I get a free minute, I immediately hurl myself at the nearest field, forest, river, or random bit of countryside. The only puzzle I’m trying to figure out is what my two-­year-­old means when she points at the sky and says, “We way.”

  Which character(s) do you admire most? Why?

  Sara, isn’t it? Has to be. She’s brilliant. When I first started writing this book, it was Arent and Sammy’s story, then Sara started shouting at me. She was the character who got most into my head, and who I became the most interested in. I love how she’s held on to the core of herself despite this entire society telling her she should be something else. I love her bravery and her dry wit. I love the way she ends up leading this investigation. I love her relationship to Lia and Creesjie and how her feelings develop toward Arent. Basically, she’s great.

  Does Old Tom have any basis in real-­world mythology? Where did his story come from?