by Matt Stanley
We stood staring at each other. The cutter was now a mere dot on the sea. The herring gulls laughed their manic, staccato laugh.
“The morphia,” I said. “Perhaps that is the solution to this mystery.”
“Explain yourself,” said the principal.
“I gave the bottle to the commissioner. What if… What if he took it with him to the balcony? What if he, not knowing the dosage, took too much and… I don’t know, toppled from the railing?”
“A man of his size?” scoffed Mr Adamson. “He would have to climb over it. He could barely climb the stairs!”
“Wait one moment,” said the principal. “Mister Meakes may have something here.”
“You mean an alibi?” said Mr Adamson.
“How long was the commissioner on the balcony, Mister Meakes?”
“I couldn’t say for sure, sir. I lose track of time when I am reading.”
“Convenient,” said Mr Adamson.
“But he did not return for the whole of your watch,” said the principal.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Then he could have been outside for almost four hours. Perhaps even longer because he did not return during Mister Adamson’s watch.”
“Or he fell from the railing within minutes of venturing out,” I said. “It would have been easy to become disoriented in the fog.”
“My question,” said Mr Adamson, “is why Meakes wasn’t at all concerned when the commissioner went out but didn’t return for four hours. That strikes me as very suspicious.”
“One could say the same of you,” said the principal. “How long did you wait before going on to the balcony? Did it not strike you as odd that the commissioner had been out there for so long?”
“Meakes was the last to see him alive,” said Adamson, folding his arms.
“Or so we assume,” said the principal. “The fact that Meakes was the last person to see the commissioner appears to inculpate him, but how do we know that you didn’t converse with him out on the balcony? Perhaps an altercation took place…”
“You’re determined to see me hang for this, Bartholomew!”
“Why did you go out on the balcony? And don’t tell me you were looking for ships. There was nothing to see last night.”
“I went out to relieve myself, all right? I know you frown on that, but what are we supposed to do if we can’t leave the light-room?”
“You should visit the privy before your watch. I have been quite clear on—”
“Can’t you accept that accidents happen? How many men have died here just this year? In fact… In fact, let us consider that for a moment! Who has been the constant presence at Ripsaw while all those other keepers died? Losing one keeper might be an accident. Two an unfortunate occurrence. But three? Perhaps more that we don’t know about. And now the commissioner? If there’s a pattern to be found, if there’s one common factor in all of these deaths, it stands before us now!”
“That is quite ridiculous. You are demonstrating exactly the kind of histrionics that unfit you for this work.”
I thought Mr Adamson would strike the principal. His arms were raised and tense. His face was flushed a terrible scarlet. He could be a violent man. Prone to outbursts.
If the principal was afraid, he did not show it. More than a decade at Ripsaw had made him regent here. He did not yield to the battering elements and he did not yield to the storms of Mr Adamson.
“I have a suggestion,” he said. “Let us search for this bottle of morphia. If it is not to be found in the commissioner’s room, or between his room and the balcony, then we may entertain Mister Meakes’ version of events. I must write a report. We must have all the facts to hand.”
“And the missing notes?” said Mr Adamson. “That fact points to the guilt of someone in this house. How can we know if that same person hasn’t also concealed the bottle of morphia?”
He was looking at me as he said it.
“There are a few certainties,” said the principal. “I would not like to think that one of us here is guilty, but there are unanswered questions, which will be answered sooner or later. None of us is leaving the house. We are all detained here as the Commission makes its deliberations on shore. When they are ready, they will come with more questions, and whoever is not telling the truth will be found out. I leave you both to think about that.”
“As should you,” said Mr Adamson.
* * *
Of course, we looked for the bottle of morphia. Of course, we did not find it. It had disappeared as certainly as had the leather note-case and the commissioner himself.
The plan devised by the principal was that we would search the lighthouse chamber by chamber – one man looking and the other two observing him to ensure that he did not covertly discover, or attempt to discard, the bottle.
I was allocated the kitchen: an onerous task due to the quantity and variety of things within it. I dirtied my hands looking in the coal depot and inside the warm ash bucket. I diligently removed the contents of the cupboards and laid them on the table so that we could all witness the empty space within.
And as I laboured at this futile task, I found my mind working at the puzzles of the crockery and cutlery. Why twenty-one flat plates but only four cups? Were plates more likely to break than cups? And why so many plates? Even if a ship was wrecked and we had to take in a crew of dripping mariners, the lighthouse could barely support eighteen of them. They would have to share their cups.
Why eleven knives? Did the Commission assume that so many would be lost or go blunt? We also have twelve wine glasses and two carafes, but I have never seen a bottle of wine at Ripsaw. I could, and can, see no logic behind these provisions. It is as if the Commission has dressed a theatrical set – an imaginary scene – based on lists of perceived necessities. The house, for them, is a mere concept, a distant El Dorado. The realm of Prester John. It exists only on a sea chart and in the columns of financial accounts. Its physical reality to those on shore is notional and the souls within it mere names upon a list. We are the dramatis personae and this tower the Battlements of Elsinore.
I was on my knees with dusty cuffs, retrieving five cast-iron goblets (for medieval banqueting?) when I saw the writing at the back of the cupboard. It was the same hand as the message in the privy, but scribbled apparently in charcoal on the bare stone blocks. Whoever had written it must have been crouching half inside the cupboard as I was at that moment. Lord, deliver me from this dark knowledge. I must have paused or jerked.
“Do you see something?” said the principal.
“No, sir. Just a shadow. The cupboard is quite empty.”
“Then let us continue.”
We continued. I wondered if perhaps the other two were also seeing similar messages but saying nothing.
* * *
I sit now in the library, which has become my habitual sanctuary. It is light and dissimulates the comforts of home, though perhaps not as convincingly as the commissioner’s room. At night, before or after my watch, I find the gentle hum of the revolving mechanism quite soothing.
The books, too, are a place to visit. I have been reading Robinson Crusoe again. It is one of those stories that seems to change between readings, as if Defoe has been redrafting and inserting passages in my absence. Each page has something to make one pause and cogitate on its truth, fantasy though the whole thing must surely be:
The fear of danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than danger itself, when apparent to the eyes; and we find the burden of anxiety greater by much than the evil which we are anxious about…
It is never quite the way I remember it.
THIRTEEN
The cutter has not come out again. We live in a limbo of expectation and mutual distrust. One of us is guilty – at the very least of theft and dishonesty. At worst, of murder. There is little doubt in my mind that Mr Adamson is the culprit. He has the most to lose. He is the character most prone to crime. The principal clearly agrees with me.
> Still, not one of us awaits the cutter with enthusiasm. I have become accustomed to my fellow keepers and would prefer not to have to acquaint myself with two new men, both of them superior in rank and experience. Thus, there exists an unsteady equilibrium at Ripsaw, in which we wait and wait for judgement.
It would be mostly bearable but for the mealtimes, which can be awkward. Principal Bartholomew has insisted that we adhere to the regulations as if nothing had happened and nothing is about to happen. That means cleaning the lens and lamp every morning. It means emptying the ash and following the cooking rota. It means wearing the uniform on Sundays and participating in the service charade. And it means eating together even if barely a word is shared.
The situation is altogether absurd, but I understand the method in the principal’s madness. We could so easily slide into chaos and confrontation. The house’s rules and rituals provide a sort of order, no matter how flimsy and ephemeral it may seem. The lamp is lighted every evening and extinguished at first light. Each drop of oil is recorded, each degree of temperature logged. That is our function and we fulfil it. How long may we prolong retribution if we continue with this fealty?
I spoke with the principal amid the dull acoustics and glistening aromas of the coal store.
“I am certain,” he said, slowly sweeping stone, “that the matter is being taken very seriously at the Commission.”
“Has such a thing happened before, sir?”
“I can recall only one previous instance of a commissioner dying at a lighthouse.” The broom paused. “On that occasion, the intemperate fellow had demanded a boat come to collect him rather than spend another night in the tower. The waves were too high to go aboard and so he was winched there by the lighthouse crane. It is a common enough procedure, but a rope snapped or the tackle buckled. He fell into the surf, there to be smashed against the rocks and drowned.”
“How terrible. But I suppose… I suppose it had been the commissioner’s fault.”
“The ensuing investigation absolved all keepers and crew of blame. As you suggest, the commissioner had insisted – despite warnings from those concerned.”
“Quite so.”
“That is patently not the case here. There will be convocations and deliberations in the Commission’s panelled rooms. Explanations must be given. Examples must be made. Names must be written.”
And so we wait.
The weather has worsened somewhat. It could be the moon’s waxing or the oncoming winter, but the waves are spirited and a strong wind has been blowing from the south east. Billows strike the lighthouse and rattle the cutlery. The shore is often lost in spray. This also means we cannot get out on to the rock to fish, and that the majority of birds remain on shore. My bowels are becoming blocked with a diet of salt beef and sprouting potatoes.
* * *
I was in the library this afternoon, ostensibly reading but in reality daydreaming. Something – the reef’s interminable gossip? The herring gull’s manic cry that so resembles both laughter and sobbing? – set me thinking about Mr Fowler’s house and the gentlemen who lived there. I had known them all.
There was small, grey Parkinson and his fear of open spaces. Even a room was too great an expanse for him to bear. He slept in a converted wardrobe and passed his afternoons in the garden whittling or carving in a private enclosure, surrounded by a hedge. Curiously enough, the great vault of the sky caused him no discomfort, only the peopled world.
There was the demi-giant Mayhew, who sought constantly to tear his skin with teeth or nails or by abrasion. He could easily be distracted with a game of chess or an afternoon of watercolours, but, if idle, would not be happy until he bled. Mr Fowler had a quilted suit made for Mayhew, with a high collar and with elegant gloves to match.
Cuthbert was afraid of poisoning and insisted that every meal was tasted before he ate. Even then, he was quite often racked with vomiting, convinced the fatal venom had passed into his blood. Poor Cuthbert. He was a pale frame of bones and sorry eyes.
And Tibbotson, of course: tiny, quaking Tibbotson who could be roused to fury at the merest provocation. A tinkling teaspoon in a cup. A repetitive cough. Bread cut in irregular slices.
Some heard voices as real as the ones around them. One ate his own faeces. All were fugitives from shame, all alienated, all cast out.
Mr Fowler welcomed them. Not for him cold showers, beatings and restraints. Not for him bloodletting and trepanning. He set his gentlemen to work according to their infirmity. Growing vegetables. Carpentry. Embroidery. If a man had aggression to spare, he could be put to work with a hammer or saw and pour his anger into construction. If a man was stricken by voluntary muteness, he could master the piano. For every man, a distraction that might cure. For every man, a reason to avoid the reefs and sandbanks of his mind.
There was a gentleman, indeed, very like the commissioner. He, too, was corpulent and red-faced with tight blond curls. Trelawny was his name, or Trevithick. He was prone to eat all sorts of things, none of which were alimentary. Coal. Soil. A broken terracotta plant pot. Unfortunate Trevithick (or Trelawny) fell to his death from an upper storey, for what reason nobody was able to discern. His body, so large in life, turned slowly and seemed smaller as it fell, his hands grasping at the air as if he might get hold of it. He didn’t scream, perhaps through terror. Nor did his body make any audible impact, muffled as it was by suffocating fog.
Mr Fowler used to say that the great majority of men harbour their eccentricities, large or small. Only circumstance decides whether they wax or wane. Adversity, sorrow, grief – anything may provoke the change. Or a man may live his whole life and never know the quirk that resides inside him.
* * *
I went into the principal’s room tonight while he was on his watch. Mr Adamson was sleeping after his watch. It is exciting to explore a previously unmapped chamber of the house. It reminds me of the dream I often had as a child that there existed a room in the house – an attic or a cellar – that contained all the things I dreamed of. A rocking horse. Building blocks. All the books I could possibly read. But the location of this room was only clear in dreams, and even then subject to the strange oneiric geography in which walls move and doors just opened cease to exist in the next moment.
There are many books in the principal’s room, most of them about weather. I was delighted to find that he, too, keeps a journal, in which he notes the progress with his grand scheme to devise a storm prognostication system. Not only this, apparently, but he also intends to improve the way that storms are categorised.
There are systems already in existence, it seems, but these are flawed or subject to many variables. Denham calls 49–69 miles per hour a Great Storm, while for Lind a violent hurricane is precisely 109 miles per hour. Rouse claims that a wind of 110 miles per hour will throw down buildings. The Beaufort scale, meanwhile, measures storms according to the maritime world. Thus, a moderate wind is that which permits a vessel to set all sails without peril, while a strong gale requires triple-reefed topsails.
But this (the principal notes) depends much on the kind of vessel in question – how much sail it can carry, how fast it is going and in which direction. How does one measure wind if the instrument itself is moving? For this reason, Principal Bartholomew insists that a fixed object at sea – a lighthouse – is the only way to adequately measure wind speed and force.
He has volumes and volumes of weather recordings: wind, temperature, pressure, rainfall, cloud patterns, lunar movements, stellar observations. Ten years of figures are listed here, and not only for Ripsaw. There are annual rainfall figures from lighthouses and shore stations around the country: Caithness (33 inches), Orkney (45 inches), Lewis (70 inches and 237 days of rain). The pages are rain themselves – pouring numeric columns, puddling totals, swirling calculations and equation cloudbursts wherein mere water seeks impossible form.
I wonder what Mr Fowler would have prescribed in this case? Long walks on the moor, perhaps. No pen or pap
er permitted.
There is also among these papers the principal’s own notes from his conversation with the commissioner: discussions they had about the lighthouse and the keepers. Here, I read that the Commission is especially preoccupied about the number of accidents at Ripsaw – more than at any other house in the past ten years.
It is common for such things to be reported in the local press and soon forgotten, but it seems that one or two of the national sheets have seen a pattern and begun to question the Commission’s intent in imperilling the lives of men in such a way. It is mere cant, of course; the lighthouse saves more lives than it costs. Still, some editors are calling it the Fatal Tower and writing sensational pieces accompanied by dark and brooding etchings. (I must check the library.)
I read also that Mr Adamson has a history of drinking on duty and that he attempted to strike a principal during a previous posting onshore. He has also been known to bully fellow keepers. How he has remained in the service is a mystery.
I admit that I quite lost account of the time, so absorbed was I by all of this new material. I was, therefore, unpleasantly surprised when a shadow appeared in the doorway. Mr Adamson.
“Meakes? What in [the Lord’s name] are you doing in here?”
“I… Was looking for the principal.”
“In his drawers? In his books? Liar. You know he’s on watch.”
“I accidentally knocked something to the floor. I was picking it up.”
“You’re sitting! What is that you’re reading?”
“Nothing… Just some notes…”
“Let me see… Give it to me.”
“No…”
He snatched the paper and stared at it. He saw his own name. “Reading about me, are you?”
“Purely accidentally. I—”
“Have you been looking in my drawers as well?”
“Of course not!”
“I knew there was something odd about you, Meakes. I knew it from the start. You’re furtive. Evasive. You were in gaol – admit it.”