by F. G. Cottam
Davis said, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about keeping it confidential, Sir. It’ll probably be all over tomorrow’s paper. Empty boat, chock full of gear washes up on New Hope Island? It just adds to the mystery, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s a pretty good story,’ Walker said.
Not when you’re living it, Napier thought. But what he said was, ‘You’re right, Walker. We’ll take some pictures of the boat and cargo intact and email them back to McIntyre’s people. Let’s do that and then rouse the rest of the lads and check the island perimeter.’
His mind was on the cameras aboard the boat. He wondered what the film inside them contained. If something unusual occurred, it would be a cameraman’s instinct to start shooting it. Had they filmed their own approaching death? Had they documented their own last terrifying moments of life? It was a morbid speculation, but the place they were in encouraged them. Davis and Walker were probably the most phlegmatic of his lads and even they were pretty thoroughly spooked.
These cameras had a monitor enabling you to view what you had just shot and self-edit, didn’t they? He would have to take a look. He did not greatly look forward to doing so but to do otherwise would be negligent and even foolish. Forewarned is forearmed, the saying went, and Napier as a soldier had pretty much lived by that conviction. On New Hope, though, it was becoming increasingly difficult to believe.
Chapter Eight
Fortescue called Lassiter. He did so having read the Lucy Church side-bar to the piece in the Chronicle about Alice Lang. It described the way in which Lassiter had tracked down the cine film shot on New Hope in the 1930s by the crofter David Shanks. It mentioned the two cases the psychic had helped Lassiter crack as a Met detective. It stated that Lassiter, in his capacity as a veteran criminal investigator, was now going on the expedition to the island. Essentially he would subject the New Hope settlement to what they called a cold case review.
He made the call for two reasons. The first was that he had enjoyed no success at all in trying to track down Thomas Horan in Barnsley. There were a handful of residents there sharing the ship’s doctor’s surname. But the genealogical records he perused showed no connection among any of them with a physician ancestor who had once served aboard the Andromeda.
Ordinarily he would have persisted on his own for longer than he had. It would have been a matter of professional pride for him. He was good at research and remained convinced that Edith Chambers had been inspired in calling him and asking for his help. But he shared her belief that finding the journal was a matter of urgency. He had a growing intuition that there was not much time left to locate it and heed whatever warning it contained for McIntyre’s expedition and its assorted members.
His second reason for calling Lassiter was the document he now held between his white-gloved hands. It was a slender booklet, just a few pages hand-sewn at the spine, mottled with age but still legible, its words described in sooty ink in a slightly shaky hand. Given its contents, he thought the tremor perfectly understandable.
He had found it, shortly after reading the newspaper article, on the library shelves of his own museum. He was not absolutely certain of what it was. But if it was what he thought it might well be, it was a document history insisted simply did not exist.
There were believed to be no written accounts anywhere of life among the New Hope Island community. But Fortescue was convinced he had stumbled upon exactly that. He further believed, on the basis of the events it described, it had been written at a time very close to the vanishing.
A problem shared is a problem halved, he said to himself. And the same is probably equally true of secrets. They had a shared experience, he and Lassiter, didn’t they? They had both undergone the unnerving ordeal of examining the contents of Seamus Ballantyne’s sea chest.
There were barely 24 hours left before the expedition team were scheduled to leave for New Hope. Lassiter was booked to go. And there was some hint in the story written by Lucy Church that the ex-detective had a more than professional involvement with Alice Lang. Fortescue wondered would the account he had uncovered be enough to persuade Lassiter to stay and help him. He would have to tell him about Edith, wouldn’t he? He would have to tell Lassiter too about Jacob Parr.
The document between his hands was not dated. But he thought it too obscure to be a forgery. Provenance was not really an issue. Neither was authenticity. He looked from the desk he occupied in the library, up to the shelves which had concealed it. He looked at his mobile, placed neatly parallel with the edge of the desk. He had the room to himself. He had the necessary privacy. He was, though, a punctilious man. Before he made the call, he would give what he had discovered one last read.
Each morning the Master ascends to the heights and awaits the arrival of the bird that never comes. Seeking guidance in this manner is a thing that sorely hurts him. We have never been obliged or beholden. It is not our way to beg or beseech. But we are no longer blessed, either, it seems. We must do what needs to be done to lift the Great Affliction and the master as ever leads by example in his humble and desperate compromise.
This morning another two were gone. That is five to feed the hunger in a week. The Morgan girls were taken from us. The loss is terrible. We cannot endure it. Our family will simply perish over a season of anguish and despair if this continues.
It is the devil’s work and horrible. It also seems to us all to be unjust. We have lived humbly and austerely. We have traded honestly. We have hurt or offended no one. Our isolation has always been more a condition to endure than to celebrate; the elements harsh and the situation bleak and the comforts sorrowful scant.
Faith has been our consolation. But was ever faith tested in such a manner as this among men and women who love and worship their God? In my old life I was a scholar, a studious man and a student of history. I can recall no ordeal I have read of the equal of the Great Affliction for the fear and crushing hopelessness it provokes.
Each day the Master rises from his sleepless bed and climbs to the heights and awaits the bird that never comes. His patience and fortitude are quite wonderful qualities. Those of us who still survive wonder how he sustains them as he watches his Kingdom of Belief erode and dwindle.
Faith also erodes and with it, authority. There are voices among us speaking openly now in discordant tones. The family is cleaved, no longer one. There are those among us but no longer of us saying that the Master has himself delivered the Great Affliction. It sounds like treachery. Worse, it sounds almost a heresy to make this claim. No man could have expressed his remorse more convincingly. None could have paid a heavier price in repentance than he has for his past sins.
Aye, say the dissenters, but we are all paying the price for his past. And we will go on doing so until the last of us is gone before the debt to God is finally honoured.
Forgive me for the impertinence of committing such an arrogant claim to the page, but God does not work in this way. The Master may have jeopardised his own immortal soul. That is a matter between him and the Almighty. It may be that he has been responsible for deeds so dark and outrageous to our Maker that he is indeed damned. But the Great Affliction is not the work of God. Of this, I am convinced even if recent events have dulled the distinction between that which I can and cannot rationally accept is true and real.
The weather has brightened. The sky is an unsullied blue and the sea azure beneath its colossal canopy and calm. The sun shines, bathing the land in a warm light that stirs scents from the ground, subtle and sweet. On such mornings it is almost impossible to believe the predicament in which our settlement finds itself. Then you look up and see the Master perched like a statue on the heights, or like some carved figurehead, its wooden gaze unblinking, waiting for the first glimpse through that endless blue vista of the bird that is never going to come.
The Great Affliction claimed three victims last night. The Morgan girls were taken, as I have stated already. Young Barton was found hanged by his belt from the pulley gantry at
the harbour when dawn broke. He was already stiff, had resolved to end his life by the look of it the previous night not long after darkness fell. It was pitiful, watching them cut him down. He was only 13 years old.
The grief was evidently too great a burden for his young heart to bear. He was all that was left of his family and could not tolerate their absence from his life. Either that or he could not endure the dread of awaiting his turn to become himself one of the perished at the Great Affliction’s whim.
We carry on. Somehow, the dull routine of toil seems to make men and women oblivious in the immediacy of what they do to their general plight. And so we fish and weave baskets and distil the whiskey that will now never be sold and gather wool and sow oats and mend nets and patch clothes and school children in the matters of reading and writing and arithmetic.
And for all I know, as a single man and life-long bachelor, the married among us still couple in the night for comfort or through passion in the warmth and intimacy of their beds. Intimacy is an illusion now, of course. But all comforts here are an illusion, truth be told.
The evil come among us makes hope seem a scornful jest and prayer for deliverance a babbled nonsense. There is no hope. There is no prospect of deliverance. Even should the impossible happen and the bird come, nothing will change. Will Barton, wise beyond his tender years, knew that. But self-murder is a mortal sin and so offers no escape for a devout soul.
Fortescue called Lassiter. He told him about Edith and Parr and Thomas Horan. He told him about his Barnsley cul-de-sac. He told him about the document he had just that morning chanced across. There was silence on the other end of the line until he had finished speaking. Then there was a pause so charged it was almost audible.
Lassiter said, ‘Where did you find it?’
‘There are some books here at the museum salvaged from New Hope after the vanishing was discovered. One of them is an atlas. Some of the really detailed maps are folded flat into envelope arrangements so they can fold out bigger than the dimensions of the book when you study them. I opened out a map and there it was, concealed in the fold, tucked and hidden there.’
‘Why were you studying the map?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘It was reading that piece Lucy Church wrote about the psychic, Alice Lang. I thought that if I handed something from New Hope from the period of the vanishing, I might have an intuition, the way that she does.’
‘You wouldn’t want one of her intuitions.’
‘She’s very attractive. Either that, or she takes a very good picture.’
‘She’s the former.’
‘You’re a lucky man.’
‘Read it out to me.’
‘Read the whole account?’
‘You said it wasn’t particularly long. Read it aloud.’
Fortescue did. When he had finished he said, ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s genuine and doesn’t tell us very much. Except that whatever the Great Affliction was, it panicked Ballantyne into communicating with the outside world.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘What do you think the bird is all about? You think old Seamus was a twitcher?’
‘I thought it might be symbolic, a metaphor or bit of religious symbolism. Birds feature heavily in religious mythology. Doves are connected to peace and hope. Ravens are harbingers of death, aren’t they?’
‘The bird he’s looking out for is a carrier pigeon. He’s waiting for information from someone, which means that he’s asked someone somewhere other than New Hope for advice or assistance.’
‘Where?’
‘How the bloody hell would I know?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Anyway you should be asking who, not where. And a more pertinent question would be, about what? We can now safely rule out mass suicide. And this Great Affliction doesn’t sound much like any epidemic I’ve ever heard of. The spread of contagion is too slow.’
‘Unless you think of AIDS,’ Fortescue said.
‘That’s a fair point, which I’ll concede. So none of the major theories are either ruled out or confirmed by what you’ve found.’
‘There’s a hint of mutiny. Of mutinous thoughts, there is.’
‘There is. But a mutiny would either have been successful or successfully suppressed. Everyone wouldn’t have just vanished as a consequence of rebellion. Obviously something nightmarish was occurring on New Hope. But I think this account poses more questions than it answers.’
‘Will you help me track down Thomas Horan?’
‘Your timing isn’t the best, professor.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You keep saying that.’
‘Will you?’
Lassiter was silent. Then he said, ‘Was Horan married?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the lucky lady was called?’
‘Martha Jane Garland.’
‘Good.’
‘Why?’
‘Good because Garland isn’t Smith or Brown. Trace the genealogy of Barnsley families with his wife’s maiden name. He would have changed his to hers. That’s my hunch.’
‘Why?’
‘Out of shame, Professor. He was ashamed of what went on aboard the Andromeda. He colluded in it. He drew his pay from the profits of a trade he knew was evil. He enjoyed an officer’s status aboard the ship. The company that owned the ship saw to it that he was clothed and fed and berthed. He may have suffered sufficient remorse in later life to try to become someone else. When people do that, the first thing they change is the obvious thing. They change their name.’
‘He might have used his mother’s maiden name.’
‘He wouldn’t. To have done that would have been a perceived slight on his father. He did not wish to slight his father, but himself. In a sense he will have wanted to eradicate himself. He’ll have taken his wife’s surname. I’d bet money on it.’
‘You were a really good detective, weren’t you?’
‘You’ve no idea how cruel the past tense can be, Professor.’
‘You were though, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. I was.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘Thirst intervened.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I was a drunk.’
‘Past tense again?’
‘I very much hope so, Professor Fortescue.’
‘I’d actually prefer it if you called me Phil.’
‘Then I’m Patrick to you. Just don’t do that Scouse abbreviation thing, because I can’t abide being called Patsy.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Keep me up to speed on your Horan journal search, Phil. Edith Chambers is right. It is important. Something specific and highly significant occurred aboard the Andromeda and we need to know what it was.’
‘I’d probably find it quicker if we looked together.’
‘I’ve a personal interest in the continued wellbeing of Alice Lang, Phil. I’m not delaying my departure for New Hope even for a day. I’m going with her.’
‘I thought you’d be more willing to help, after your experience in the basement here and after your encounter in that pub, when you left the museum.’
Silence.
‘Patsy?’
‘What did I just tell you about calling me that?’
‘Sorry.’
‘What happened in Liverpool is precisely why I’m going with Alice to the island. She’s determined to go. I have to go with her.’
They said their goodbyes. Fortescue put his mobile down on the desk thinking that Patrick Lassiter was a very fortunate man. This was neither because he had conquered his personal demons, nor because of his imminent departure on an expedition the whole world seemed intrigued about. It was because he had never felt so strongly about a woman as Lassiter so plainly did, and he envied him the unselfish strength of that attachment.
McIntyre threw a cocktail party on the eve of the expedition
’s departure. Attendance wasn’t mandatory, but Lucy thought it would have been a rash member who spurned their invitation. By the time the pictures of the event were published in the following morning’s paper, the people wearing black tie and evening gowns and baring their photogenic smiles would be aboard a Lear jet taking them to Edinburgh and the choppers that would deposit them and their investigative hardware on the island.
Even to her deliberately jaundiced eye, they looked a glamorous collection of experts. Karl Cooper, despite the vanity and apparent taste for domestic violence, looked like a matinee idol slipping gracefully into grey-templed maturity. Jesse Kale had a swaggering charisma, brain and brawn immaculately attired and almost twinkling in the happy galaxy of the other guests. When Cooper and Kale huddled, it was like a moment, Lucy thought, from one of those buddy movies with a pair of competing leads.
Jane Chambers was poised and slender in black silk and a diamond choker, her blonde hair worn loosely, splashing across her shoulders. She had a hauteur Lucy knew to be a total and even poignant misrepresentation of the woman’s complex character. It was skin deep at best. But in a situation as glitzy and superficial as this one, it worked.
Alice Lang’s sexuality was more blatant than Jane’s. Her full-lipped mouth wore almost a pout in repose. She had a ripe, succulent look, voluptuous even in the sober grey trouser suit she wore. Again, the air of serene sensuality she exuded was far from being the complete picture. Or story, come to that. Lucy had the sense that Alice was afraid of her gift and lived almost in dread of the revelations it forced upon her. She was almost a martyr to the awful truths it disclosed.
Degrelle, that terrible priestly show-off, wore a cape. Lucy did not think a cape an item of clothing many men could wear without looking ridiculous in the second decade of the 21st century. But the exorcist did not look foolish in the slightest. He looked dashing and formidable, with his club fists and brooding air of an ageing pugilist. As she had said in the piece he had complimented her on moments earlier, he resembled a cleric prepared to look for the knockout in the championship rounds in the ring with Satan himself.