Eleanor

by RA Williams

  ‘Crikey.’ Beedham struggled to gain his feet. ‘Can’t have any rooms. We’re packed out.’

  ‘We don’t want rooms.’

  ‘Lord, don’t tell me I owe you money?’

  ‘We’ve come for your old cannon.’

  ‘Old cannon?’

  ‘It’s over there.’ Elle pointed to the moss-covered cannon barrel buried end-up in the garden, with the young hibiscus blooming from its muzzle.

  ‘It’s just old rubbish,’ replied Beedham, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the sea. ‘A fisherman brought it up in his net.’

  Henrikson scraped moss away from the barrel with his pocket shiv.

  ‘Brass,’ he said. ‘Foundry stamp will be at the other end.’ Turning to his crew, he instructed them to dig it up.

  ‘Eh, you can’t pull up my cannon. You’ll kill the hibiscus.’

  Removing a coin from his trouser pocket, Henrikson flicked it to him. ‘That ought to cover both.’

  ‘Probably a new hotel as well,’ added Elle.

  ‘What’s this?’ Beedham held the coin up to the reception counter’s light.

  ‘An eight-escudo coin,’ said Henrikson. ‘Gold.’

  ‘Try not to kill the plant,’ Beedham crowed, rubbing the coin with his thumb.

  Spades in hand, the crewmen dug out the cannon. After a few good tugs, it slipped its sandy grasp.

  ‘British,’ Henrikson noted, pointing out the tell-tale foundry crown.

  ‘Morgan’s?’ Elle asked.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ Beedham was awake and interested now. ‘You sayin’ it’s Captain Morgan’s cannon?’

  Grasping the base of the red hibiscus, Elle gave it a tug. It came out in a spray of flying earth.

  ‘It’s just an old cannon, Mr Beedham,’ she said, handing him the plant.

  ‘Hang on – you said Morgan.’

  ‘Who did?’ Henrikson winked at Elle.

  ‘She did. The doctor.’

  ‘Nonsense. Don’t pay her no nevermind.’

  ‘You cheeky beggar. Trying to trick me with a gold coin. Have it back.’

  ‘That coin’s worth about thirty-nine thousand,’ Henrikson said.

  ‘Lempira?’

  ‘Bucks.’

  ‘You can have the cannon,’ replied Beedham, tucking the gold coin deep into his trouser pocket. ‘I’ll toss in the hibiscus too.’

  Taking the plant from his hands, Elle dropped it in the hole where the cannon had rested. ‘Where do the chambermaids wash up the linen?’ she asked, as the four crewmen heaved the cannon onto their shoulders.

  ‘Behind the ablutions shed,’ replied Beedham. ‘You don’t want to go there at this hour, though.’

  Struggling with its weight, the crew took the cannon around the side of the hotel to a covered outbuilding. An old wash table and a tap stood under the cover of its tin roof. Beedham pulled a string hanging over the table, and an exposed light bulb began to hum as its filament warmed.

  Elle understood immediately why Beedham had warned them away from the ablutions shed. Attracted by the light, giant blue damselflies dive-bombed them. Like dragonflies, they were really quite harmless, but their incessant buzzing was hard to ignore.

  Watching as Henrikson’s lads took chisel and hammer to the cannon now lying on the table, Elle turned to Beedham, touching his arm gently.

  ‘Mr Beedham, I want to tell you something.’

  ‘Gonna admit you said it was Morgan’s cannon, are you?’

  ‘What? No. Never mind that. The photograph among your Titanic collection.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘The one of you with another chap. He was your friend, wasn’t he?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘Podgy Higginbotham.’

  ‘He didn’t die alone.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, clearly confused.

  ‘I saw him.’ She nodded. ‘Rather roly-poly. Wore spectacles, thick ones with round lenses.’

  ‘He did, yeah.’

  ‘Kept a ring of keys on a chain clipped to his belt. I remember that because they jingled.’

  ‘He was a stores keeper,’ replied Beedham. ‘Always carrying a great ring of keys with him, he was. Always a moan about the slog up and down Scotland Road from the aft holds to the bow.’

  He stopped and glared at her more closely.

  ‘But how did you know him?’

  ‘I told you. I saw him.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Beedham, his eyes brightening as she had not seen them before.

  She couldn’t bring herself to now break his spirit by telling him how she’d found his best friend eviscerated.

  ‘He saved a lot of the passengers, your friend. He could have gotten away. He was already in a lifeboat – I saw him. He offered up his seat to several ladies.’ She polished his memory further by adding, ‘One of them had a baby.’

  ‘He must have saved a great many passengers. Took up half a lifeboat, old Podgy did,’ replied Beedham, sadness hushing his laugh. ‘Podgy Higginbotham was not an important man. But he lived.’

  Elle smiled. Taking his hand in hers, she gave it a comforting squeeze.

  ‘It gives me solace knowing someone remembers him.’

  ‘Where’d you get the cannon from, Dougie?’ Henrikson interrupted.

  Beedham turned to Henrikson, and after a small sniffle replied, ‘I told you, fisherman brought it up in his net.’

  ‘Yes, but where?’

  ‘In the channel. Between Roatán and here.’

  ‘This is our missing cannon,’ confirmed Henrikson, examining the gun’s breech.

  ‘That’s odd.’ Elle moved towards the cannon for a look. ‘Breech knob is sealed with iron slag.’ Looking over the cannon’s length, she added, ‘How long would you say it is?’

  ‘Bog-standard seven-foot cannon.’

  Elle spied a broom leaning against the wall of the ablutions shed.

  ‘Fetch me that, will you?’ she asked one of the crewmen.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Something I read when I was kid. Probably nothing.’

  Taking the broom handle from the crewman, she poked it into the muzzle. With a bit of jiggling, she punched the handle through the soil blocking up the barrel. It struck upon something with a thud. She looked up at Henrikson.

  ‘If this is a seven-foot cannon, why is the broom handle hitting bottom at only three?’

  ‘Plugged with sediment, I expect,’ said Beedham. ‘It sat at the bottom of the sea for centuries.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied. Lifting a pry bar from the wash table, she whacked the slag bead a few times, cracking off a fragment.

  ‘You think you’re gonna find doubloons in there,’ tut-tutted Beedham. ‘You think I didn’t look down the barrel before I put a plant in it?’

  ‘The knob end is sealed.’

  Breaking away enough slag, she turned the pry bar around and, jamming the curved chisel under the slag bead, forced the bar down and wrenched off the knob.

  ‘In a pinch, pirates sometimes sealed their most prized possessions in cannon and tossed them overboard, hoping they remained airtight,’ said Elle.

  ‘Where did you read that nonsense?’ asked Henrikson.

  ‘I was just a kid. I think it was a highly literary penny serial called The Adventures of Bluebeard.’

  The knob end fell to the ground with a clang, muddy water pouring from inside the cannon’s breech.

  ‘So much for airtight.’

  Undefeated, she crouched down and peered inside.

  ‘What do you see?’ Henrikson’s thick moustache was twitching.

  ‘Mud,’ she replied, reaching in. Her hand rummaged around before striking upon something solid. Slowly withdrawing it, she held on to a thick glob of mud.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Henrikson.

  With her hand now under the tap, the water washed away centuries of mud and silt, revealing a small, intricately engraved gold box.

  ‘Spanish,’ she said, passing it to Hen
rikson.

  ‘Valuable?’ asked Beedham.

  ‘Let’s see.’

  Cracking the lid revealed a huge diamond set in gold filigree.

  Henrikson chuckled. ‘Enough for a queen.’

  ‘You crafty geezer,’ said Beedham, trying to thrust the escudo back into Henrikson’s palm.

  ‘Take your coin back. I want my cannon.’

  Elle had already retrieved another mud-covered artefact from inside, and was washing it under the tap. A golden necklace covered in dense box glyphs was revealed.

  ‘That’s not Spanish,’ choked out Henrikson.

  ‘Most definitely Mayan,’ she replied with a wink, her hand now back in the cannon and stumbling upon something substantial. She gave it a tug, but it held fast. Using the pull of both hands, she was able to shift it, the mud’s suction releasing it with a rude noise.

  Everyone fell silent. Even covered with mud, it was plain to see what it was.

  ‘Ain’t that the bee’s knees,’ Henrikson was the first to mutter as she passed it to him. He held it under the stream of water. From under the mud emerged a prosthetic arm formed from gold.

  Elle washed her hands and took a closer look at the arm. Around its wrist was a solid gold bracelet covered in box glyphs.

  ‘Pilfered, from an armless Mayan royal, no doubt.’

  While the others crowded around the wash table for a good look, she returned to the cannon breech, her hand pushing through the sludge, fingers finding something more. It slipped through her hands. Managing to get hold of it, she carefully pulled out an old bundle of leather, blackened and slimy from centuries underwater.

  As she held it under the running water, the leather dissolved, revealing a gold amulet bejewelled in jade and emerald. Popping open the oyster case, she stared in awe at what lay within.

  ‘Now, that’s the bee’s knees.’

  A friendly game of poker. Skipper, Beedham, Gunny Schadowski and Elle. The celebration had started out over a bottle of rum, and by five in the morning, empty bottles rolled the length of the bar. Despite losing hand after hand, Henrikson remained in high spirits, using gold escudo coins as chips. Beedham and Gunny had already taken a small fortune off him, but there was no chance he’d run out.

  Elle left the game early, propping the bar up, head muddled.

  An idea had come to her. Fiddling with the amulet, she popped open the oyster case and removed the hand-blown glass vial within, which was held in place by the finest of metal prongs. Without realising it, she must have wondered out loud what it was she could see rolling lazily around within the emerald-tinted glass, because at that instant Henrikson launched up from the poker table, shouting for her to leave it be before swatting it away. The vial ricocheted off her cheek, its gold-filigree-adorned glass stopper drawing blood, before pinging across the bar counter and bouncing around the legs of her stool.

  Smitten and drunk, Gunny took it upon himself to defend her honour, unholstering his .45 pistol and shoving it in Henrikson’s face.

  ‘Holster your weapon, for Chrissake!’ Elle shouted, knocking aside Gunny’s .45.

  ‘Skipper hit you?’

  ‘No, he just knocked this out of my hand,’ she replied. ‘It bounced off my cheek.’

  Cooler heads prevailed.

  ‘What did you say, Skipper?’ she asked, as Gunny tucked his pistol away, mumbling some sort of apology.

  ‘I said, don’t open it.’

  ‘After that. What was it you said after that?’

  ‘Was that before or after Schadowski shoved his mohaska in my face?’

  ‘Before,’ she and Gunny said as one.

  ‘I said, it’s cwicseolfor.’

  Recovering the vial from the bar floor, she watched the aubergine-coloured globs inside rolling from end to end. ‘Quicksilver,’ she said with a nod, before securing the vial to the metal clips within the amulet.

  Silently, she stared at the now familiar apophthegm inscribed around the periphery of the oyster case. There could be no doubt of its connection to Balthasar Toule.

  ‘Expecto resurrectionem mortuorum,’ she said, so quietly that the others didn’t hear.

  ‘The hell is that?’ asked Gunny.

  ‘Cwicseolfor,’ Henrikson repeated. ‘It’s what buccaneers called it, anyway.’

  ‘Quicksilver,’ said Beedham.

  ‘Flüssigmetall.’ Elle stared at the globs again, captivated. ‘Herr Frisch called it.’

  ‘Hell’s he got to do with it?’ asked Henrikson.

  ‘What the hell is Flüssigmetall?’

  ‘Mercury,’ she told Gunny. ‘In German.’

  ‘Why would anyone in their right mind carry a vial of mercury?’ Gunny asked, his face exhibiting confusion.

  ‘It had importance to someone,’ Henrikson replied, removing a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to Elle’s bleeding cheek. ‘The amulet containing it is of considerable value.’

  Elle agreed. ‘Important enough to seal it in a cannon’s breech and chuck it overboard, hoping to recover it later.’

  ‘But why would anyone wanna wear poisonous mercury round their neck?’ asked Gunny again.

  She turned to him. ‘Say again?’

  ‘Why would anyone wear a vial of mercury?’ he repeated.

  ‘You said “poisonous”.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You did,’ said Beedham, counting up his escudos, calling it a night.

  ‘Shit,’ said Gunny. ‘I’ve forgotten what I’m forgetting.’

  ‘Poison.’

  Working her thoughts backwards, Elle thumped herself in the head with her closed hand. ‘God, aren’t I the fool?’ She looked around the room at all of them. ‘Venenum.’

  ‘Venom?’ asked Henrikson.

  ‘Yes.’

  The cogs in her head now spinning madly, she turned to the shuttered French doors, spears of dusty moonlight seeping through the slats. Throwing them open, she let in the early morning breeze. Adel’s mast light winked at her from offshore. She could just make out the glow of cigarette cherries on deck. Gunny’s marines. Heavily armed. Just in case Herr Frisch’s Huns got clever.

  She inhaled deeply. It would be dawn in another hour, and the air was cool and sweet.

  ‘Dose of poison,’ she said, recollecting her conversation with Dr Mauss. She raised the amulet she held in her hand, staring at it. ‘Dosis.’

  She turned to the others, holding the amulet for all to see. They all looked at her with differing levels of confusion. ‘It’s Greek. For “gift”.’ She laughed. ‘Is it so simple?’

  Henrikson shrugged.

  ‘The Gift,’ she continued. The vial contained poison for killing Siobhan. Going back to the bar counter, she had a sudden urge to get inelegantly shit-faced. She poured herself a glass of whatever was open. Port, by the legs of it. Raising the glass to the air, she said, ‘To Dr Mauss. Genius.’

  Elle stood on the beach, waiting for the launch to take her to Adel. In the days since Henrikson had cracked Griffin’s hold, he had brought to the surface a haul too vast even for the schooner. Another visit would be required to recover the rest. Of more significance, though, were the stelae. All nine had been recovered. A new chapter in history was about to be written. How it would fit in with her own theory was as yet unknown.

  ‘You’re off then?’

  She turned. Dougie Beedham stood on the beach verge in his pyjamas.

  ‘Morning, Mr Beedham,’ she greeted. ‘It’s time I got back to my students.’

  ‘Job’s not done,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a new day.’ Looking to Adel, she saw the first hints of daylight unfolding behind the ship’s masts. ‘I’m a hired hand. My part in this adventure is over.’

  ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and woman merely players: they have their exits and their entrances.’

  ‘Apropos,’ she replied.

  ‘One man in his time plays many parts.’ He produced a black leather-bound book from under his arm, offerin
g it to her.

  ‘My gift to you.’

  Taking the book, she squinted in the pre-dawn to make out the gold lettering embossed on it: US Commerce Committee Investigation into RMS Titanic.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, immediately leafing through the pages.

  ‘I was called to give testimony before a senate subcommittee in Washington, DC.’

  He looked to Adel as the darkness fled.

  ‘If I wanted to know something about a passenger,’ he continued, ‘I wouldn’t go looking in his cabin.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Why, in his baggage, of course.’

  ‘Which is now, somewhat inconveniently, at the bottom of the North Atlantic.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘White Star kept meticulous records of every passenger’s baggage. Both those delivered to staterooms and those in cargo holds.’

  She looked up at him from the ledger.

  ‘Titanic’s cargo manifest is itemised in its entirety. If Balthasar Toule had baggage or cargo, you’ll find it in those pages.’

  Elle closed the ledger slowly, stroking the cover almost intimately. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Just think of my friend Podgy now and again, as I do.’

  ‘I shall.’ She stepped towards him, planting a kiss on his cheek. ‘I’ll remember you too.’

  ‘Ahoy!’ Henrikson waved from the approaching launch. ‘We’ve a good blow. Time to make sail.’

  ‘Off you go,’ said Beedham. ‘My regards to Corky O’Shea and your pop.’

  ‘I’ll tell them.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing more to say. Farewell, Eleanor.’

  She waded away through the beach break as the launch drifted towards her. Handing Henrikson the ledger, she climbed in as the boat turned around, and they started making for Adel.

  ‘All right?’ he asked.

  She nodded, looking over her shoulder at Dougie Beedham standing on the beach. He waved. She waved back.

  ‘Let’s go home.’

  ❖❖❖

  27 APRIL 1929

  ST DUNSTAN’S,

  BLOOMFIELD HILLS,

  MICHIGAN

  It had not yet begun raining when she alighted from the Royal Palm steam liner from Miami, but the darkening skies were ominous. Transferring to the interurban, she watched cracks of lightning arc in the angry skies, as the electric trolley crept north along Woodward Avenue.