“But you’ll do,” she said, her voice almost a caress. “Pity about that collar. It’s not often one meets a handsome young clergyman—they always seem so old—but I’ve always thought the white collar and black cassock something of a challenge… .”
Mr. Henry Raymond, who had been listening, came to my rescue. “Padre, I warn you,” he said between good-humored puffs of his cigar, “Mrs. Wells finds all men a challenge, particularly those who appear to be beyond reach. Isn’t that right, Count?”
That rigid gentleman stiffened even more, but said nothing. He had been busy with the port and brandy, which oddly enough loosened him not at all. Inadvertently I turned to Sister Carolina and found her glaring at me from beneath her hood like the grim reaper. All she lacked was a scythe.
The captain had risen and was speaking.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “Please attend me. I am Captain Radley, and on behalf of the American Steamship Line I welcome you all as we begin our crossing of the main. We must anticipate a stormy voyage, as we are the last to cross this season, but I assure you we shall make landfall in good order on Monday week.
“For your interest, we are carrying thirty passengers in the first cabin and forty-two in the third cabin, along with our ship’s complement of twenty-four. Our cargo includes fifteen hundred tons of machinery.” This was all delivered in a loud but invariable tone.
“Now, let us enjoy a brief concert by our ship’s orchestra, with solos by our guest, the renowned Norwegian violinist, Herr Sigerson.”
A rattle of applause, and the small band took up a nautical ditty I’d never heard but sounded appropriate for seagoing. It was charming, although it seemed to discomfit our young couple of indeterminate gender. They frowned and whispered at each other all the way through the piece.
“The latest thing from the London stage,” Mr. Raymond smiled, leaning over to us during the applause. “The overture of a play called H.M.S. Pinafore. It’s enchanted the entire capital. You should see it.”
This was followed by Sigerson, the violinist, a spindly man with a sheaf of white hair that looked like a tree formed by the prevailing winds. He stood quiet for a moment, then slowly embraced the violin and stroked it lovingly through the most tranquil theme I’ve ever heard—a song without words by Mendelssohn. It calmed the company into a trance, and even Sister Carolina had a sad smile on her face, while outside the cabin the wind relaxed its constant roar as if in sympathy with the music.
As we applauded, Mrs. Wells murmured her admiration. “What a musician! Such hands, such long, lovely fingers.”
The violinist then plunged into a Paganini caprice that flew past like lightning, but stripped of its Italian humor and infused with a strange Nordic foreboding.
“Rattling!” said Mr. Raymond, pounding the table. “Remarkably good. What a performance! The man ought to be playing at Boston Museum.”
After the concert we all excused ourselves for the night and made our way back to our staterooms. I tried to mollify Sister Carolina over my comportment with Mrs. Wells, but she muttered a few things at me about the instability of the human heart and shut her door decisively. “Good night, Father,” she said.
There was something different about my own room. Surprisingly, I didn’t notice it right away. After all the room was so small I could barely lie down with any security, but there on my bed was an envelope. A small piece of note paper inside contained one line of plain writing in some kind of code:
Numeri 8, 6, 1 – 8, 26, 25 – 16, 46, 32 – 2, 32, 2 – Actus 21, 2, 14
Of course I recognized the words from the Latin Bible: Numeri is the book of Numbers and Actus the book of Acts. But I had no idea what the numbers meant. I understood two numbers—chapter-and-verse—but I had never seen three numbers before in a scriptural citation. Puzzling over it, I thought perhaps it might refer to page numbers, but that made no sense at all. Perhaps it was some arcane numerological code based on the Bible. I had heard of such things, but who would present me with a message I could not possibly read?
Unfortunately, I had no Latin Bible at hand, so I could not break any code that depended on it, but I did have in my trunk the little old Douai Bible in English that goes everywhere with me. Baffled, I opened it to the book of Numbers and positioned the message next to it on my bed, hoping to connect the two somehow.
Each trio of numbers was set off with a dash. “8, 6, 1 – 8, 26, 25 – 16, 46, 32 … . Three numbers and a dash,” I muttered to myself. “Three numbers and a dash.”
Then it came to me. I remembered the alphanumerical code in the Klan document that Holmes had deciphered. Perhaps the first two numbers represented the chapter and verse, and the third number a word within the verse.
“Numbers 8:6, first word: TAKE. Numbers 8:26, twenty-fifth word: CARE.” I knew I was on to it. “Take care” of something.
“Numbers 16:42, thirty-second word: WROTH. Numbers 2:32, second word: IS. Then the book of Acts 21:2, fourteenth word: ABOARD.
Take care wroth is aboard.
Chapter 13
I didn’t sleep. The ship vibrated like an old tree as the wind scraped at it without ceasing, whining through the rigging all that night. I was haunted by the message left so starkly on my bed: if I had deciphered it correctly, Holmes’s “Moriarty”—the arch-criminal Adam Worth, or Wroth—was on the ship with us!
Just as alarming was the realization that someone else on board knew of our entanglement with Moriarty. Who could it be? Certainly not Sister—she was as oblivious as I and could not have left the note in my room. Mrs. Wells? She was the only other person on the ship with whom I had any acquaintance at all, as slim as it was. But what could she know of us?
Not for the first time, I wished that Holmes had made the journey with us. He had insisted on remaining “in the lair of the beast himself.” “If you do as I instruct,” he had said the night before our departure, “you will soon find the Tarleton murders solved and the entire affair safely concluded.”
“But what of Moriarty?” I had asked.
“You will be pursuing the foxes. I must pursue the wolf.”
I pointed out that getting embroiled with the Klan was hardly as innocuous as fox hunting, but Holmes would say no more. His instructions were simple enough, and his assurances straightforward; yet here I was alone with my charge in the middle of the Atlantic apparently caged up with the wolf himself.
Once it was light I invited Sister Carolina to our morning mass in the passenger lounge, which, as it was Sunday, the purser had kindly permitted us to use. Wearily I went through the rites, but was gratified that a couple of Portuguese sailors joined us. Their plain faith encouraged me: Perhaps I was not so very alone after all.
I now had two tasks on my hands: to discover which of our passengers was the arch-criminal, and which one had warned me about him. My experience with the cabbie in London had taught me that Holmes had eyes everywhere—someone on board must be part of his small but effective organization—perhaps an officer of the ship, a steerage passenger, one of my fellow travelers, or even the Portuguese sailors. At the end of the service I shook hands warmly with them, fancying them already my allies.
I went to breakfast hesitantly, as my stomach was a little off from nerves, but then the piles of sausages, puddings of all kinds, and even fresh eggs and excellent tea overpowered my anxiety. The Americans do a far better job of an English breakfast than the English do.
Still, each face in the breakfast room could belong to our antagonist, so I searched each one I encountered for any sign of recognition. I found none. They were all equally strange to me. I decided I would try to employ Holmes’s methods to see if I could ferret out Moriarty from the crowd. Surely such an evil genius could not completely suppress his nature—the mark of the beast must reveal itself in some detectible way.
Sister Carolina and I were seated at table with two others, both Americans—a weal
thy, sad-looking lady, a Mrs. Miller, and her son, a ravenous and disrespectful little mope who sneered at me through the entire meal. She told us she was returning home after her year in Italy where she had lost a daughter to “Roman fever.” Whether this was an actual or a figurative fever she did not say, and I did not probe. It was not unusual for young Anglo-Saxon females to be agitated to death by Italy, or more precisely, by the men of Italy.
“May we join you?” I looked up to see the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger and his wife shining down upon us with benevolence. His bald head and big red cheeks, freshly shaven, glowed in the early light, and he took a seat next to the mournful Mrs. Miller. I thought this a blessing, as perhaps he might be able to comfort her, or at least take some of her son’s spiteful gaze off me. Then it occurred to me—could this hale clergyman be Moriarty?
There was something unsettling about him—a pitilessness in the mouth. And when he turned, I noticed his left ear was frightfully mangled, as if a cruel dog had chewed on it. Holmes would see much more, but even I could detect a scent of criminality in him. What was attracting this man to our presence? Twice he had taken a place at our table. It could not have been a desire to consort with other religious—after all, the Protestant clergy I had known could hardly bear the odor of “popish priests.”
I tried to think of some innocuous way to draw him out, and then I remembered Holmes’s saying that Moriarty was obsessed with mathematics. I waited for an opportunity in the conversation. When Mrs. Miller commented that the morning seemed unusually fine for late autumn, I spoke up. “It is unusual. The law of averages is surely against it. And talking of mathematical laws, I happened to read some interesting news the other day about the binomial theorem.”
Everyone, including the Rev Dr. Shlessinger, stared at me uncomprehendingly. The Miller boy’s mouth hung open full of pudding.
Annoyed, Sister Carolina shushed me and we finished our breakfast. My effort had failed. Perhaps it was too obvious. On the other hand, perhaps it had worked and Shlessinger was innocent—after all, he was doing a fine job of cheering up Mrs. Miller with his resonant talk of the gospel. She was clearly taken by him.
The squally night had indeed given way to a placid morning, so we walked on the deck after breakfast and watched the icy green sea streaming past. I took the opportunity to study carefully our fellow passengers, who were coming at last into the sunshine like small animals peeking out after a storm. A flock of children from steerage played out their pent-up energy, running and squealing, annoying the first-cabin passengers while their pale and peasant-like mothers tried to gather them up again. It was whispered that they were all Mormons, members of an impoverished sect from Scandinavia making their way to their promised land in Utah. I doubted I would find Moriarty among them.
At length we lounged on chaises brought out by the crew. Sister Carolina went to work as silently as always, weaving away at her rosaries like one of the Fates. The ocean light, though hazy, was bright and permitted me a good look at others as they strolled past. Stuffed with sausages and contented at the weather, the gentlemen in their gray morning coats bowed to me, or rather to my collar, while their more devotedly Protestant wives gave me the slightest possible dip of the chin. To my disappointment, or relief, none of them looked very evil.
I had hopes of seeing Mrs. Wells again, but she did not put in an appearance.
We heard singing, and out of curiosity I walked to the common area below the smokestack where the Mormons were holding a service. The men were sturdy, the women stark and unadorned, and the children on the verge of squirming out of control. A plain man who looked like a dairy farmer led the singing, which was in some Nordic tongue, and then began a sermon from his holy book. Although I understood none of it, I sensed a stern candor in this preacher with the beard and smock of a stolid workman. His directness commanded respect, and even the wriggling children calmed down and listened to the story he told, whatever it was. I thought perhaps the earliest Christians might have met like this.
Returning to my lounge chair, I found that an American couple had taken up places next to us. The gentleman, who looked considerably older than his beautiful companion, introduced himself as Mr. Adam Verver. The youthful lady was his wife Charlotte.
Adam! The name chilled me. Verver? Could this man be “Adam Worth”? Had Holmes’s arch-villain sought me out to toss me overboard? To take me by surprise and rid himself of a troublesome priest?
If so, he was awfully slow about it. We exchanged a few pleasantries about our European tours and the man buried himself in newspapers while his wife, the very picture of doom, stared out to sea. One of those melancholy ladies, I thought, grand in a suit of gray as soft as a bird’s breast, and unhappy in her uneven marriage to money—for the couple had the air of money all about them. It didn’t take a Holmes to discern that.
By contrast, her husband had all the appearance of a self-satisfied baron of industry. I studied him carefully, trying to be subtle about it. A small diamond pin fixed his cravat, diamonds linked his cuffs, and a diamond stud held his collar in place. Gloves, soft fedora, cane—everything about the man was immaculate, although I guessed at a severe sort of dissipation in him. “Steel” was the word I would use to describe his complexion.
“You observe me closely, sir,” Verver spoke from behind his newspaper. I flinched. I hadn’t thought I was being so obtrusive.
“I, um, I thought perhaps I’d seen you before, Mr. Verver,” I lied.
“It is possible,” he said. “We have both been recently in Italy, and may have moved in similar expatriate circles.”
I agreed, stammering. “What were you … why were you visiting Italy?”
“I have acquired an Italian prince as husband to my daughter, so we have been stopping with them. And you?”
“On a pilgrimage to Rome with my cousin here, Sister Carolina.”
“I’m a bit of a pilgrim myself,” Verver put down his newspaper and lit a cigar. “In search of valuables. I’m a collector, you see, and I’ve been scouring Europe for beautiful paintings, old Persian carpets, an extraordinary set of Oriental tiles …”
“A prince for your daughter?”
Verver smiled. “I suppose that is a prime sort of acquisition.”
“What about antique cameos?” I dared to ask.
“Do you have any?” Verver looked interested. I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or not.
“No, I just enjoy looking at them. I admired many beautiful examples in the Vatican Museum in Rome.”
If he was guilty of stealing the Vatican cameos, he showed no sign. “Ah, a museum. In fact, that is the aim of my collecting,” he said. “I am planning a museum in America, to bring the treasures of the Old World to the New. The great American working classes need a little refining.” He winked and added, “And it won’t hurt if I can make a dollar off the mugginses who come to gawp at my cache, will it?”
“Not at all. Everyone benefits. You must be blessed with great resources to do such a great work.”
“Father Simon, I’m an unapologetic worshiper of Wall Street. An acolyte of the mighty dollar.”
“You are on the side of the robber barons?”
“I would rather put it this way,” he leaned towards me. “They are on my side.”
“God has been good to you, then.”
“I don’t know about God. My life is about machinery, the antidote to superstition.”
Ignoring this dig, I ginned up some courage and threw out more bait. “I too am interested in science … mathematics, actually. I was just reading something interesting about the binomial theorem.”
“The what?” Verver examined his cigar. “My own interest in mathematics is purely practical. ‘If I bid on two Gainsboroughs instead of one, will I get a discount?’ or ‘How much does that iron shutter weigh?’ That’s my business, you know—iron.”
Iron shutters
. Was this a reference to a prison history? Or a threat? Was he going to kidnap us? Imprison us behind iron shutters? Was he being enigmatical or literal? I couldn’t tell.
A warm haze had set in, and Mrs. Verver in her pigeon-gray suit nearly disappeared into an outline on the far side of her husband. A lovely acquisition indeed. The scene reminded me of one of Mr. Whistler’s gauzy studies. One felt stark futility emanating from her, a woman buried alive within iron shutters; as for Mr. Verver, I got the impression that the cloud was his native element, although a metallic spark of lightning could strike at any moment.
Despite the haze and her enormous bonnet, too much sunlight was penetrating Mrs. Verver’s skin. She moaned, “I need my calamine lotion.” Verver stood with the help of his cane and bowed to us. “Siesta time!” he announced and took his wife’s arm. As I watched them withdraw, I was quite sure I had found my man.
The unsettling thing: He had also found me.
Chapter 14
Oh joy, oh rapture unforeseen,
The clouded sky is now serene,
The god of day—the orb of love,
Has hung his ensign high above,
The sky is all ablaze.
With wooing words and loving song
We’ll chase the lagging hours along,
And if we find the maiden coy,
We’ll murmur forth decorous joy
In dree-ee-ee-eamy roun-dee-lays.
The duet was enchanting, and the diners managed to get their feet to applaud despite the rolling of the ship. Our sixth night out, we were used to it by now. Sister and I had become pretty well acquainted with our table party, now raucously clapping for the two artistes who had delighted us with several after-dinner songs. Sigerson piloted the orchestra with a firm hand on the helm of his violin.
Henry Raymond, Mrs. Wells’s friend with the big black whiskers, asked the waiter to invite the singers to our table, and “Charlie and Bessie” came right over. They were the couple who had shown such irritation at the orchestra on our first night. Intriguingly, Charlie had sung the soprano part and Bessie the tenor.
The Tarleton Murders Page 10