‘I have no brother to compare him,’ answered Hew. ‘But if I were to have one, I should like it to be Giles.’
Sir Andrew sniffed. ‘You are not pious, as I hope? More than the proper, commonplace?’
‘I do not think so,’ Hew demurred.
‘That is to the good. I do not want a pious man, for what I have in mind. For that might prove impediment,’ Andrew Wood said thoughtfully.
This was his second mention of a use for Hew, and Hew felt some excitement at the prospect of a task. He realised, looking at the books now spilling from his saddle bags, that he was wearying of life, from Kenly Green to college, and from college back to Kenly Green.
Sir Andrew seemed to read his mind, for his glance followed Hew’s. ‘I see you pack your bag. Were you going on a journey?’ he inquired.
‘Home to Kenly Green,’ said Hew. ‘Now Giles resumes his place, I am not needed here.’
‘In truth,’ Sir Andrew commented, ‘your aptitudes and interests have been wasted in the college, and tis high time they were put to better use. I have a proposition, that requires you to remain here for a while; therefore I suggest that you unpack your things.’
‘What proposition?’ queried Hew.
‘You will hear it, in due course. You work with Doctor Locke, your brother and your friend, who also is our visitor, who makes report to us upon suspicious deaths. Then you must trust his judgement, I suppose?’
Hew assured him, ‘With my life.’
‘With your life,’ Sir Andrew echoed him. Hew could not quite read his tone. Irony, perhaps, or frank intimidation? Or an echo, simply, to force the message home? The words had taken on peculiar significance. Hew did not regret them in the least. ‘I would trust him,’ he repeated, ‘with my life.’
‘Aye,’ said Andrew Wood, somewhat more dismissively, ‘but he is a physician, is he not? And that is what we do with our physicians; we trust them with our lives. I find it rather galling, I confess. We cannot have them charged with mis-selling us, like baxters, for promising to cure us, after we are dead. Your doctor keeps a strange collection,’ he went on to observe. ‘What is in those jars?’
‘You do not wish to know,’ Hew told him with a smile.
‘No?’ Sir Andrew snatched the stopper from a jar, sniffing at the contents. He did not recoil, as Hew had expected, but remarked appraisingly, ‘Some sort of embalming spice.’
‘He makes it to his own receipt,’ acknowledged Hew.
‘What does he with the entrails? Divinations?’
‘Giles is no magician.’
‘I am pleased to hear it.’ Wood replaced the stopper and took up another jar. ‘Is this relic human?’
‘It is the finger of the shipwrecked Flemish sailor, who died at Benet’s inn.’
Giles preserved his relics, almost lovingly, as Meg preserved the rosehips and the sloes at Kenly Green, bottled into jars and boiled in marmalades. The jar had been recorded in a ledger, with a clear note of the contents and the date.
‘Is it now? Then that is apposite,’ the coroner approved. ‘For that is what I come to speak about.’
‘Better then to speak to Giles. For I am no mediciner,’ protested Hew.
‘You are something else,’ answered Andrew Wood. ‘I have had report of you, from John Lundie of Strathairlie, an old friend of your father. He tells me you are wilful, reckless, rash and bold. You do not listen to good reason, and you overstep your place. You interfere in business that does not concern you, where your conscience moves you, upon some fickle whim.’
‘That is . . . frank,’ said Hew.
‘You do not contradict it,’ Andrew Wood observed.
‘I do not pay an old man that discourtesy.’
Sir Andrew smiled. ‘He is in his dotage, you imply.’
‘That I leave to others, sir, to judge.’
‘As we shall, be sure of it. It may well prove to your credit, that you choose not to gainsay it, for what he counts as fault in you, sits well enough with me. Such flaws and indiscretions, as are faults of youth, are curbed with careful management,’ Andrew Wood said thoughtfully. He left Hew in no doubt, that he meant to manage him. The coroner went on, ‘I heard you were a thorn in Michael Balfour’s side. You sought the killer of a Largo fishing lass, when Balfour would have let the matter rest. I ask you, out of interest, was the case resolved?’
‘In a manner,’ Hew confessed, ‘though not as I would wish. There was a boy – a fisher lad – that had some carnal knowledge of the lass, and though he was suspected of the crime, he could not be indicted, and the trail went cold.’
‘For want of proof?’ asked Andrew Wood.
‘For want,’ said Hew, ‘of witnesses. The fishermen kept close, and would not break their ranks, in giving up their own. In their own way, they settled it. The fisher lad was sent out in a boat, with Rab, the dead girl’s father, and only Rab returned.’
‘A form of natural justice, then,’ the coroner concluded.
‘I did not think it so.’
‘Then you are a man of fine distinctions. I ought perhaps to tell you, I am not Michael Balfour, content to let a matter rest for fear of awkward questioning. I would have had your fisher lad, and had him by the neck. Does that discomfort you?’
‘It does,’ admitted Hew. ‘Because there was no proof.’ He had begun to feel like one of Giles Locke’s specimens, pinned out on the chopping board; his answers were stripped down and close inspected, in a glass of careful scrutiny. It seemed that he had passed the test, for Andrew Wood resumed, ‘I wish you to investigate this Flemish sailor’s death, of which I hear disturbing, and quite differing reports, from Giles Locke and the burghers of this town. Professor Locke has written he was brought ashore alive, and suffered some pernicious rot, a gangrene of extremities, the inner cause of which he cannot ascertain. According to the surgeon who certified the death, the man was dead before he landed, and had drowned at sea. I came here through the marketplace, where I heard strange reports, of dead men walking, and a man twice drowned, that starting back to life brought devils in his wake. I hear the people talk of witchcraft, and of plague, which terrors I am anxious to assuage.’
‘They are rumours,’ Hew assured him, ‘that have no base in fact.’
‘I do not doubt it, Hew,’ the light use of the given name seemed oddly soft and intimate, a lure to draw him closer in to the intrigue. Unwarranted, as Hew reflected wryly, since he was already snared.
‘Yet I am well aware,’ the coroner went on, ‘that rumour is more dangerous than truth. And I am vexed by these reports. Tis hard enough, to keep peace for the king, in these troubled times.’
‘The king himself is not at peace, nor yet at liberty, as I have heard,’ Hew answered recklessly. The sheriff’s closer confidence had made him drop his guard.
‘What have you heard?’
‘That the king has been forced from his favourites, by the Earl of Gowrie, and is held against his will.’
‘That,’ said Andrew Wood, ‘is what you have inferred. The king has made a public proclamation to dispel this rumour; he is not coerced in this, and nowhere held and forced against his will. And that is what you heard.’
It was impossible to tell where his allegiance lay. Hew continued unperturbed. ‘And when a king makes such a public proclamation, that he is not held and forced against his will, the public draws its own conclusion. The candle snuffer fans the flame.’
Sir Andrew Wood said coldly, ‘I charge you to dispense with rumour, not to play a part in its dissemination. If you are to work for me, then you must curb your tongue, and keep your close thoughts quiet from the crowd. Let us now return, to the matter of the wreck. I wish for you to search the ship, and find out what you can. Tis likely that some papers have remained as evidence.’
‘Has that not been done?’
‘In the scramble for the windmill,’ Andrew Wood explained, ‘it seems that such procedures, as are commonsense, were sadly overlooked. There is, besides, a small impedim
ent, which I will come to in a while. I would have you seek out any document pertaining to the mill. The town council is most anxious that St Andrews should retain it, for the common good. The baxters have petitioned me to grant it to their gild. And then there is my brother, Robert Wood, with whom I understand you are acquainted?’
Hew shook his head. ‘I do not know the name.’
‘Now that surprises me. Your name was spoken to me at his house. Unless . . . no matter, though,’ the coroner broke off. ‘My brother owns the Newmill on the Kinness Burn, and clamours for the windmill to be sited on his land. The millers, in their turn, are squabbling for the working of it. It would greatly please me, if you could find a way to prove our legal right to it, that all these men’s petitions might be put before the admiral. At present, they want answers, that I cannot hope to give. The windmill sits secure upon the shore, and there must stay until we learn her fate.’
‘Yet supposing it turns out that we have no legal right to it?’ asked Hew.
‘I do not ask for perjury. Find out what you can, beginning with the ship. Go to her tomorrow, at the break of light.’
‘I can go right now,’ said Hew, impatient for the chase.
Sir Andrew Wood replied, with the small ghost of a smile, ‘That will not be possible. I mentioned, as you may recall, there was a slight impediment, or else I should have gone there first, and boarded her myself. The Dolfin is no longer beached upon the strand. The burgh council had her floated off, and towed back out to sea. She presently lies reeling in a trough, and neither sinks nor floats. She cannot last there long.’
Hew exclaimed, ‘They launched a wreck! But why would they do that?’
‘It is suspicious, is it not?’ the coroner agreed. ‘I questioned Bailie Honeyman, whose reasons were for one, a fear of hidden sickness, still lurking on the ship, for two, a fear of witchcraft, for that the wreck was cursed; and three; for fear of harm to children on the beach, for the town could not afford to mount a guard. All of which seemed plausible enough. I have hired a craft for you, tomorrow at first light, and men to help you board. Take care, and take Giles Locke. For last year, as I heard, when you came to cross the water, the boat was overturned, and you were almost drowned.’
‘Who told you that?’ Hew blushed. ‘John Lundie, I suppose.’
Sir Andrew shook his head. ‘John Lundie’s sphere of influence does not extend so far,’ he answered enigmatically.
‘Perhaps it is my horse, that you have set to spy on me?’
‘You are, I think, impertinent, which may require correction,’ the coroner observed.
‘I bow to your direction, sir,’ Hew retorted dryly.
‘It’s clear that you do not. And that is why I want you,’ the coroner replied.
They set out at for the harbour at first light, to find the lighter waiting on the shore, with an expert pilot to steer them to the ship, and a small fleet of fishing boats to follow in their wake. The Dolfin had drifted out north of the bay, listing badly to the stern.
‘We will steer alongside her, as close as we may, and grasp at her with clips,’ the pilot said.
‘There is a hempen ledder at her side; tis fortunate they let it doon, for she is someway higher than the waterline. Do you reckon you can climb her?’
‘Possibly,’ said Hew, with a covert glance at Giles.
‘I widna count your chances wi’ yon burding at your back,’ the pilot answered bluntly. ‘I’ll send a lad or twa to scale her from the side, and we can fix a timber board across. We’ll hold her as we can; she is too great for us to steady her for long, or to tow her back to shore, yet we have ropes and hooks, if ye want to tighten her.’
‘What does he say? Do we have to climb the ladder?’ ventured Giles. He had taken off his cloak, and unbuttoned his vast britches at the knee to let the legs flow loose like sailors’ slops.
‘He will send a boy across to make a bridge.’
‘Thank God for that. I feared I’d have to scale the rigging like a brigand, with my dagger clenched between my teeth.’
‘You might stay below, and witness from the lichter craft,’ suggested Hew. He felt a wave of warmth and affection for his friend, who stood willing in his makeshift slops to set aside his fears.
‘And let you broach a sinking ship alone? I do not think so, Hew!’ Giles scoffed. ‘You suffer mal de mer in the ripples of a bath vat, and are already queasy from the bumping of the boat.’
Hew grimaced, for the charge was true enough, and he was trying not to notice it.
‘Besides which,’ Giles went on, ‘I am intent as you in looking at the evidence.’
They climbed aboard the ship, between the sagging ropes, and crept into its carcase netted like a fish, that cracked its toothless maw against their bones.
‘Tread soft,’ the sailors warned, ‘else she will rift.’ To spit them out or swallow them, thought Hew, like Jonah in the swill. ‘Is there no light?’ he whispered.
Giles had brought a tinderbox, and lit the clutch of lanterns swinging from the rafts. He cut one with his pocketknife and handed it to Hew, casting yellow moonshine on the decks.
Hew found his way towards the capstan, gaping down into the innards of the ship.
‘Ye canna go down there,’ a sailor said. ‘The hold is filled wi wattir.’ And like a belly full of bilge, the swollen timbers groaned.
‘Can it not be pumped?’ asked Hew.
The sailor shook his head. ‘Too much stir will sink her. There is a crack in the hull.’
Hew set the lantern down upon a plank and dropped down to the lower deck. He called to Giles, ‘Let down the light!’
Giles passed the lantern through the hatch. ‘Will I come down?’
‘Not for a moment. Set lamps upon the ladder rungs,’ instructed Hew. He moved towards the wooden door that opened to the hold. The water had begun to seep up through the joints, and the timbers were sodden and soft like a sponge. He felt the surface shift, a restlessness beneath his feet, that threatened to let loose the flood upon the upper decks. He hung his lantern on a hook above his head, where it flickered and dipped dangerously. Someone had done as he asked; from the ladder above shone pale strips of moonlight, marking out the path for his escape. Cautiously, he undid the catch, pulling at the ropes, and opened up the entrance to the hold. The waters seeped insidious, lapping round his feet. Hew peered into the void, where he saw nothing but a chasm of black bilge, slopping like the belly of a fish.
‘Come away,’ he heard cried faint above. ‘You cannot go down there.’
Hew took down the light, and lay flat on his stomach at the entrance to the hatch. He lowered down the lantern to the water’s edge, and allowed its light to flicker round the hold. He felt the timbers sagging, and a cold and creeping dampness leaking through his clothes. The darkness held its force, and Hew saw nothing but the yellow light repelled; then gradually, its brittle shards made holes, like pinprick moths in velvet, through which daylight showed. They caught the flash and flicker of a shoal of silver fish, that darted quick and seamless through the cracks, and Hew was startled by the scuttle of a crab, that had made a rusted barrel hoop its home. The ship had been stripped bare of its cargo; a fluid film of seaweed wrapping round its husk, barrels split and siphoned, strings of onions bobbing, woollens rank and shapeless, blotted by the sea.
Hew drew up the lantern, making fast the hatch. He called up to Giles. ‘Come down, if you will. The lower deck is sound.’
The ladder creaked and swayed, and in a moment, Giles appeared. ‘What lies down below?’
‘Some ruined pelts and cloths,’ said Hew. ‘Apples, onions, little left of worth.’
‘No clue to Jacob’s death? And no sign of the rest?’
‘None,’ admitted Hew. ‘However, it is plain to see, the Dolfin had both passengers and crew.’
The passengers were quartered on the lower deck, on which they stood. Some left behind only a blanket, some a thin straw mattress, tied into a roll, and one or two more prac
tised, and of the merchant class, had pinned up sheets as curtains round the rafts, marking out their sleeping space, a cubicle no larger than the compass of a man. The sailors lay flat on the boards, with little else for comfort but the rocking of the sea. They left behind pouches and cups, lettered and carved with their names, knucklebones and dice, a second best shirt hung to dry in the sun, a battered pair of boots, streaked with salt. Giles moved among the blankets, sniffing at the cups.
‘What is you are looking for?’
‘I know not, liquor, spices, crumbs.’
‘All is spoiled or spilled. The galley was below us, in the hold.’
‘It is a pity,’ answered Giles.
They cast the lanterns one last time upon the debris on the deck, the bric-a-brac of human life, that told them all, and nothing, that had gone before. Above their heads, a sailor called.
‘The wind is getting up. We cannot stay for long.’
‘There must be something,’ Hew reflected, ‘in the captain’s cabin. ‘Tis likely that the schippar kept a notice of his wares. Then let us look aloft.’
They climbed up to the captain’s cabin, that was sectioned dry below the steerage deck, the only portion of the ship to be closed off from the waves. The room was barely bigger than the narrow wooden bunk, built into the corner of the bulkhead of the ship. Beside it were a chair, a table ledge and kist, in which Hew found the captain’s books and instruments, together with a wooden pepper pot. He called out, ‘Look at this!’
‘Hhm?’ Giles had been distracted by the captain’s box of instruments, and was busy plotting out an imaginary course. ‘What have you found? The purser’s record sheet?’
‘Letters, and a question-book, Lutheran, I think.’ Hew unfolded the papers, breaking the seal. ‘He made a fat fist, whoever he was. The letters are in Dutch, signed Papa and Copin, which is a name for Jacob, is it not? Then this could be our man, unless there was another Jacob on the ship.’
‘It is a common name,’ Giles cautioned.
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