by Joan Druett
Chinoidine and opium, thought Wiki. It was exactly as Dr. Tweedie had testified at the inquest. He was silent, staring at the labels, thinking about Dr. Olliver’s last words—I killed for him!—and Grimes’s final ghastly convulsion. He remembered the dead, contorted rat that had been found under the credenza, where one of Dr. Olliver’s first lot of pills was lost—the rat that, according to Dr. Tweedie, had taken at least a week to die, and which Forsythe reckoned had been dead four days when they found it. Had it been poisoned by the pill, even though Dr. Tweedie had said that the pills were harmless?
But Dr. Tweedie had only known about the second lot of pills, the ones that Dr. Ohlsson had analyzed. The apothecary’s Scotch voice echoed again in his head: “Strychnine is a cumulative poison—with repeated applications the amount of strychnine in the body builds up until there is enough in the system to finish—”
Wiki exclaimed, “Those pills had to be finished!”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Coffin,” the steward replied in his prissy way. “The pills never ran out, not before Mr. Grimes died. I could show you, except that they were taken away for that analyst to work on. Far as I know,” Jack Winter went on moodily, as if he resented it, “he’s still holding on to that bloody bottle, and the ones with the liquid medicine, too, specially the one what turned out to be poisoned.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Wiki. “Dr. Olliver had to coat the pills with some kind of powder to stop them from sticking together in the bottle. That, apparently, is called ‘finishing.’”
“I didn’t see him do anything like that. All what I saw him do is add some powder after he’d put the dried pills inside the bottle, and shake them around.”
That was an easy way of finishing them, Wiki supposed. If enough powder was left in the bottles, the pills would remain separate, instead of sticking together. He asked, “Do you remember which powder he used?”
“Of course,” said Jack Winter loftily. He pulled out a bottle with the label
Licorice root, Wiki thought; it was as both the analyst and Dr. Tweedie had said. He had a depressing feeling of getting nowhere.
Then Jack Winter added, “That powder was for the second lot of pills.”
Wiki sat up straight. “He used a different powder to finish the first lot of pills?”
“Aye. After Dr. Olliver made up a first lot of pills, after Mr. Grimes first got sick, he added this powder to the bottle.”
And the bottle that Jack Winter picked out was labeled
Twenty-four
The inquiry into the death of Dr. Winston Olliver was held in the same small courthouse on the Praça da Constituição, and Captain Coffin’s Brazilian friends were crowded into the same alcove, with Sir Patrick Palgrave in the front. Wiki recognized several, who inclined their heads when they saw him. Even Senhor da Silva was there: he waggled his yellowed fingers in comradely fashion, obviously remembering their encounter with affection.
Then Captain Coffin was escorted into the court, flanked by two guards even though he was wearing shackles. Wiki contemplated him with misgiving, because he looked as calm and confident as ever, not at all intimidated by the circumstances and setting. They hadn’t had another chance to talk privately, even though Wiki had called at the prison several times, as his father had always had other visitors—the U.S. consul, once, and at other times, Brazilian friends. Sir Patrick Palgrave had been there at least twice, to Wiki’s certain knowledge, as he had found the two men engaged in deep discussion, which had stopped the moment he had entered the cell. Now, he wondered what they had been talking about—surely not Dr. Olliver’s gasped confession, he hoped. While he now knew how Dr. Olliver had murdered Grimes, he still had not a notion why. “I killed for him!” Him? Who? After forty-eight hours of puzzling, he had come no closer to the answer.
A door opened, and the clerk of the court rang a bell and announced the arrival of the coroner, setting the flies to buzzing in the ceiling. To Wiki’s surprise, it was Dr. Vieira de Castro. Just as before, the lean, elegant figure studied the court through a pair of pince-nez, and then, with a bow, sat down behind the bench. A long moment passed as he sorted papers, dipped his pen in a pot of ink, and finally nodded to the clerk, who summoned Lieutenant Christian Forsythe to the bench.
Forsythe’s testimony was necessary because Dr. Olliver’s corpse had been buried back at Rio Macae, on account of the tropical heat, and so there had been no postmortem. Being an officer of the U.S. Navy, he was considered the man most competent to testify to the cause of death. “He was struck over the back of the head, and bl—very hard, too,” he informed the court. “From behind. Someone approached from the back and hit his head hard with a cudgel—a lump of wood.”
The southerner was repeating himself, and speaking very loudly and slowly, as if the coroner not only had a poor grasp of English, but was deaf and mentally deficient, as well.
“Just once, or several times?” Dr. Vieira de Castro queried patiently.
“Just once,” Forsythe confirmed. “But very accurately, and very hard. It’s bl—incredibly amazing that the victim got himself any farther up the trail. Most men would have curled up on the spot.”
“You ascertained the place on the trail where he was attacked?”
“Aye, sir, that I did, not that it was difficult. There was blood on the bushes where it had sprayed from his head, and big splotches in the mud.”
“Showing the path of his struggle to the ranch?”
“Aye, sir, though the struggle was bl—entirely pointless, in my candid opinion, on account of what he was going to die, whatever,” Forsythe said flatly. “There was nothin’ in this mortal world what was going to fix that great hole in his head.”
“And was he still alive when you and the soldiers arrived in the courtyard?”
“No, sir, he was as dead as a duck.”
“So how did you determine the identity of his attacker?”
“Wa’al, when you find a man holding the cudgel what did the dirty work, and hear everyone who was present declare that the victim called out that man’s name in his last accusing breath, jumping to a conclusion is not so very hard.”
“But you were relying on the testimony of others?”
“Wa’al,” said Forsythe, and his lips pursed with a judicious air. “I guess that testimony is reliable when a whole bunch of people say the same thing?”
“They all informed you that they heard the deceased call out ‘Captain Coffin’?”
“Nope. They all told me he called out the name William.”
“Captain Coffin’s first name is William? I believe,” Dr. Vieira de Castro said with an air of great sophistication, “that the English often shorten the name William to Bill.”
Everyone, including Wiki, looked at his father. Someone in the alcove actually laughed, because the thought of calling Captain William Coffin something as common as Bill was so outrageous.
“No, sir, no one called him Bill,” Forsythe expressionlessly assured him.
“They called him William?”
“No, sir. Everyone called him Captain Coffin.”
“But they knew his name was William?”
“Aye. That’s what they told me, anyways.”
“So when they heard the deceased call out the name William, they assumed that he was referring to Captain Coffin?”
“Aye, sir.”
Dr. Vieira de Castro shook his head, his expression surprised. “But didn’t the rest of the party address each other by first names?”
“Nope, they did not; it was Mister this, and Doctor that, and Captain whoever.”
“But I’ve always considered Americans remarkably informal people, who get on a first-name basis in an astonishingly short time, usually without waiting for an invitation. This survey doesn’t sound like a very amicable affair.”
“If you mean unfriendly, sir, then you’ve hit the nail right on the head.”
“Why? What was the problem?”
“Part
ly on account of they’re scientifics—who are mighty dignified fellows, and get insulted if that dignity ain’t noticed. And then,” Forsythe added, “there was the nature of the victim, Dr. Olliver.”
“What about him?”
“He caused a lot of muttering in the ranks, partly on account of his lateness, and also because he wandered off when he’d been ordered to stay on the trail. One of us would have to go and look for him in the jungle while the others waited around, and the scientifics got all riled up on account of missing out on collecting time.”
“And this habit of wandering away irritated you, as well?”
“For me, it was a bl—a confounded nuisance, because we were forced to stop an extra night in some places, which put the schedule out of whack. Captain Coffin was even angrier about it than I was, on account of his friend Sir Patrick Palgrave, who was the patron of the survey. He had organized his friends to lodge and feed us nighttimes, and it really upset Captain Coffin when we didn’t turn up on schedule.”
“It sounds a most contentious journey,” Dr. Vieira de Castro commented. Then, after a pause in which he scribbled a great deal on his notepaper, Forsythe was dismissed and Captain Couthouy called.
“You are a shipmaster, Captain Couthouy?”
“Aye, sir, out of Boston.”
“Yet you are a scientific with the exploring expedition?”
“I most certainly am, Dr. Vieira de Castro.”
“And you heard Dr. Olliver cry out a name in his moment of crisis?”
“I arrived in the courtyard in time to hear him cry out the name William.”
“Were you aware that Dr. Olliver and Captain Coffin were on bad terms?”
“We were all on bad terms with Dr. Olliver, and I want to make it plain right here and now, Dr. Vieira de Castro, that whatever terms they might or might not have been on, Captain Coffin did not kill Dr. Olliver.”
Patrician eyebrows lifted. “And what makes you so certain of that?”
“Knowledge of human nature, Dr. Vieira de Castro.”
“Which is very extensive, I’m certain, being in the company of sailors so often,” said Dr. Vieira de Castro dryly. “So whom do you blame?”
“Cimarrons,” said Couthouy.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Runaway slaves who live in the forest.”
“I know that cimarrons are runaway slaves, Captain Couthouy. What intrigues me is why you have jumped to this conclusion.”
“We were shot at on the way to Ingetado, once, and another shot was fired at the brig at San João. Dr. Olliver told me about it—he was most agitated, as he reckoned that the party on the quarterdeck was only saved from slaughter by the fact that the first shot cut a rope, and the awning fell down on them all. It is easy to imagine one of these desperate creatures lashing out when Dr. Olliver blundered across him, and then throwing down the cudgel as he made his escape.”
“It does not require a vivid imagination,” Dr. Vieira de Castro agreed, his expression ironic. Then he dismissed Couthouy, and called up Captain Coffin.
Wiki’s father stood up with an impressive dignity that was not diminished in the slightest by the rattle of handcuffs, while Wiki watched in suspense, wondering what damage he would do to himself with his testimony.
“Your name is Captain William Coffin?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And you were a member of this surveying party?”
“I helped oversee the operation, Dr. Vieira de Castro.”
“Captain Wilkes requested you to go along as a guide, perhaps?”
“I was there at my own request.”
“Because Dr. Olliver was one of the party?”
“Not at all,” said Captain Coffin. “I simply wanted to make sure that everything went smoothly.”
“And you did not think this … smoothness would come about if you didn’t accompany them?”
“Exactly, Dr. Vieira de Castro.”
“But it did not go smoothly, alas.”
Captain Coffin heaved a sigh, and said, “Unfortunately, sir, you are right.”
“And this is why you quarreled with Dr. Olliver?”
“I didn’t quarrel with him at all, sir. He was an eccentric who liked to dominate the conversation with crazy statements, but that didn’t bother me. What was irritating was his constant confounded lateness, and the fact that he went missing all the time, which kept the rest of us waiting about. It was all exactly as Lieutenant Forsythe said.” Then Captain Coffin added broodingly, “He was also far too fat.”
“Fat?” Dr. Vieiro de Castro glanced complacently down at his trim stomach, then looked back at Captain Coffin—who was equally lean—and suggested, “And this fatness, it annoyed you?”
“The plain fact of the matter is that he was too heavy for any decent mount to carry. We managed to get him aboard a giant of a mule at the start, but a few days later the mule gave out, and we couldn’t persuade any of the others to take its place. They all took one look at him, and buckled at the knees.”
“So Dr. Olliver walked, while the rest of you rode along the trail?”
“Aye—which gave him every opportunity to disappear into the forest. We’d all pleaded and argued with him, and did our best to ride at his pace, but he defied us by lagging behind and then taking off into the trees the instant no one was looking. It was an aggravation, a nuisance, and a confounded waste of time.”
“And you are a shipmaster—a man to whom time is of the essence.”
“Exactly, Dr. Vieira de Castro.”
“So, did you devise a remedy for this exasperation?”
“I asked Lieutenant Forsythe to order him to get his lazy carcass out of bed earlier, so that we would have more time on the trail, and it wouldn’t be quite the same vexation when he went missing.”
Dr. Vieira de Castro looked at his notes, rustling papers back and forth, and then looked up and said, “And this earlier rising is what happened on the day of his death?”
“As far as I know, that is what happened.”
The coroner adjusted his pince-nez, and studied him with an air of interest. “You weren’t there?”
“No, sir, I was on board the brig Swallow.”
“How could this be?”
“According to the schedule, we should have arrived at Sir Patrick Palgrave’s estate the night before, but Dr. Olliver held us up so much that when night fell we had only got as far as the village on the Rio Macae. The brig was moored there, and I accepted Captain Rochester’s invitation to stop the night. The others stayed at a venda in the village. When I went on shore after breakfast, I was told that Dr. Olliver had gone up the trail and vanished into the forest.”
“So what did you do?”
“I went after him.”
“Alone?”
“Aye, sir. I’d done it before, believe me. This time, I left the scientifics packing their collections, and consulting with Captain Rochester about loading them onto the brig. Lieutenant Forsythe was nowhere to be seen. As I found out later, he’d gone to the office of the local justice of the peace to report that we’d been shadowed by bandits.”
Silence, while Dr. Vieira de Castro scribbled. Finally, the coroner looked up and said, “And you met up with Dr. Olliver, Captain Coffin?”
“I did not. I never saw him alive again.”
“What did you see?”
For the first time, Captain Coffin’s tone became ragged. “About a hundred yards before the plantation—where the path gets wide—I saw a cudgel lying on the ground, in the mud. The sun was starting to rise, and—and something about the cudgel’s appearance puzzled and alarmed me. I dismounted to look closer, and when I picked it up I saw that the end was smeared with blood and hair—and worse—so I ran to the ranch.”
“On foot?”
“It wasn’t far away. My horse followed me—I think, or maybe the others brought him along—I didn’t really pay attention. When I got to the courtyard I saw my son open the door, and—and Dr. Olliv
er fell inside.”
“Did Dr. Olliver say anything?”
Wiki held his breath, but his father simply replied, “He called out my name.”
“William?”
“Aye—but he didn’t look around, and I don’t believe he knew I was there.”
“So why do you think he called your name?”
Captain Coffin paused. Then he looked down at the floor, and said in a very low voice, “Dr. Vieira de Castro, I have absolutely no idea.”
Wiki was the next to be called. He stood up, walked to the chair, and bowed before he sat down.
Dr. Vieira de Castro pushed his pince-nez farther up his long, narrow nose, and said amiably, “So, Mr. Wiki Coffin, we meet again.”
Wiki smiled back. “So we do, Dr. Vieira de Castro.”
“Your expedition is experiencing a great deal of bad fortune.”
“We certainly are, sir.”
“Do you think that by the time the journey is over you will have any scientifics left?”
“I’m beginning to wonder about that myself, Dr. Vieira de Castro.”
“I am not surprised!” said the coroner. Then, with a little cough, he returned to business, saying, “You were inside the house when Dr. Olliver collapsed at the door?”
“I had arrived the previous evening, expecting to find the surveyors there.”
“Were you surprised to find they had not come?”
“Not in the slightest,” Wiki said frankly.
“Because Dr. Olliver had retarded their progress so often in the past?”
“Exactly, Dr. Vieira de Castro.”
“Did this annoy you?”
“Sometimes it was inconvenient. I was stationed on board the brig Swallow, which was following the land party along the coast, and my orders were to drop ashore at regular intervals, hear Lieutenant Forsythe’s report, and lend any assistance necessary. Instead, I spent most of the time waiting for them to arrive, and trying to soothe hosts who had everything ready to welcome them. Every time the surveying party had been forced to stop somewhere else, it was because Dr. Olliver had held them up so much.”
“So what did you do, when they failed to arrive?”