by Неизвестный
“My wife introduced me to your writing some years ago,” he said, “and I hope you may count me as one of your many admirers.”
“Why, thank you,” I replied.
“So then, Captain,” Holmes interjected, “what takes you away from your ship to seek our advice?”
Holmes was often uncomfortable when it came to any discussion of my writing. I was never sure if that was because of his innate modesty or a buried jealousy he felt toward my accomplishments — or perhaps some combination of both.
“I believe I will take your offer of something stronger, if you don’t mind,” the captain replied.
“By all means,” I answered. “Will cognac do?”
“I’m a plain brandy man, so cognac is a step above my usual fare, thank you.”
I went to the sideboard and poured him a stiff cognac. I decided to stick with the tea, as I had a feeling I’d need my wits about me tonight.
“Do have a seat by the fire,” Holmes said. “It’s a raw night, and I can see that you’ve been out in it for some time.”
“Thank you,” our visitor replied, “but I’m used to standing on the bridge in the driving rain on worse nights than this.” But he sank wearily into the overstuffed chair next to the fire.
“Yes, I dare say,” Holmes remarked, sitting opposite him and pressing his fingers together in the familiar gesture that meant he was studying the man, analyzing him. “You are clearly a man accustomed to taking care of himself — and that is precisely why your case intrigues me. It must be something unsettling indeed that brings you to me.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr Holmes,” the captain replied, taking the snifter of brandy I handed him. His strong hand shook as he raised the glass to his lips. He took a long swallow, letting the liquid slide slowly down his throat. I must admit that I found him a study in contradictions. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the roughness one often found in professional sailors — and his voice was a light and pleasing baritone, more cultivated than what I would have expected from a man of the sea.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Captain,” Holmes remarked, “it is plain that you have been going through hard times of late.”
“That is true. But how — ?”
“Your clothes are well made, yet there is a button missing from your jacket, and your cuffs are frayed. Your boots are expensive but badly in need of polish — in short, the attire of a man who has troubling things on his mind.”
The captain sighed. “What you say is true, Mr Holmes. And your powers of observation which Dr Watson has so often extolled do not disappoint.”
Holmes waved off the compliment. “Mere child’s play, I assure you. No, apart from the facts I have mentioned, I can tell very little about you. How old were you, by the way, when you contracted scarlet fever as a child? Not more than five, I should think.”
The captain sat back in his chair as if he had been pushed.
“Good lord, Mr Holmes! I was just short of my fifth birthday when I came down with the fever. How on earth did you — ?”
“I think I can be of some assistance there,” I interjected. “The white spots on your teeth are calcium deposits, likely the result of a high fever as a child, most commonly caused by scarlet fever. Had you been older than five, your teeth would have not been so affected, being beyond the formative stage.”
“Excellent, Watson,” Holmes said, though I thought I sensed some disappointment in his voice. The magician, having woven the spell, does not like to relinquish the revealing of the trick to an interloper. Nonetheless, Holmes was never less than gracious when I pulled aside the curtain to reveal the mechanics behind the wizardry. “And now, Captain, perhaps we can get to the reason you ventured out on such a foul night.”
The captain stared into the firelight and sighed deeply. “Mr Holmes, have you ever lost someone you cared about deeply?”
The question seemed to take Holmes off guard. He swallowed once, then looked away.
“That is neither here nor there, Captain. The point is that you clearly have. That was evident to me the minute you came into the room. And, unless I am mistaken, the loss was rather recent.”
The captain nodded. “Yes,” he replied in a barely audible whisper. “My wife, Elizabeth … gone just three months ago.”
“And your visit to me concerns her death in some way.”
“Yes.”
Holmes stood and studied the rack of pipes upon the mantel. Selecting one made of cherry wood, he plucked the pipe from the rack and turned back to our visitor. “Before you tell me, if you would indulge me for a moment, I’d like to ask just one more question. It may seem to you to be an irrelevant detail, but in my experience it is the details that prove invaluable in the end.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me why you recently exchanged your short-haired pointer for a curly-haired spaniel?”
The captain stared at Holmes for a moment, then his face relaxed into a rueful smile.
“By God, Mr Holmes,” he murmured, shaking his head, “you are a magician. You are correct in what you say — I did recently give Jock away in exchange for my new dog, Bip, who is a Portuguese water dog. “But how did you—”
“Your clothes show evidence of the hair of two different kinds of dog — one has short, whitish hair that you might find on a pointer. Since they are a popular breed just now, and quite at ease around water, I made an educated guess that your previous dog was indeed a pointer.”
The captain nodded. “Yes, Jock was a German short-haired pointer, and a good dog at that.”
“Indeed. I also observe another kind of hair, which are curly and black and appear to be more recent, as they are not brushed into the fabric of your jacket as were the other hairs. As spaniels are also good water dogs, I ventured a guess as to your current dog.”
Crane nodded sadly. “Yes, I regret that I had to give Jock away. You see, he was more my wife’s dog than mine, and when she … when we lost her, Jock was inconsolable and howled day and night. Poor old fellow … I knew how he felt, but finally I just couldn’t stand it any more. I found a family outside of Portsmouth who will take good care of him. I wasn’t going to get another dog, but Bip turned up on my doorstep one night, shivering and soaking wet, so I kept him. I thought his owner might come looking for him, but they never did. I have to admit he’s been a great comfort — he rarely leaves my side. It’s almost as though he knows…” The captain took a deep breath; I could see him fighting for control of his emotions. “I apologize to both of you,” he said finally. “The loss is too recent for me to be entirely in possession of myself.”
“Please do not apologize,” Holmes replied. “I can see you are a man of deep feeling. Your grief over your wife’s death does you credit.”
“More brandy?” I suggested, and when he did not object, poured him another stiff one.
“Now, then, Captain, perhaps you could tell us what brings you out on a night like this?” Holmes asked.
Crane paused for a moment and stared into the fire, where the blue-tipped flames licked and twisted around the crackling logs. Then he straightened up in his chair and looked at Holmes. In the firelight his eyes were yellow as wolf’s eyes.
“Mr Holmes, have you ever seen a ghost?”
Holmes considered the question carefully before answering.
“I have seen things that cannot be easily explained through use of logic, certainly. Whether or not there is such a thing as ‘ghosts’ remains to be seen, I think. In the meantime, what do you think?”
The captain took another gulp of brandy, set his glass down, and rose from his chair, as though he could no longer bear to remain still. “I don’t know, that’s the damnable part of it — I don’t know what to think!”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” I suggested gently.
“Yes, yes — I suppose that’s the only thing to do. I’ll lay the whole thing in front of you and see if you can make any more sense out of it than I have.”
I poured him some more brandy and he drank it down without so much as a pause. I could tell he was accustomed to holding his drink — his hands were steadier now. The brandy had warmed him more than the fire, it seemed, and the hesitation in his manner had been replaced by a steadiness in his movements, a resolve in the set of his jaw. He looked at us earnestly, passion burning in his deep set eyes.
“For some eight years I have been the captain of the Andrea Morgan, a freighter out of Portsmouth. Until recently, we have been transporting mostly raw materials — iron ore, pig iron, lumber, building supplies, that kind of thing. Our route takes us to the continent and various locations around the British Isles.”
“You said until recently?” Holmes interrupted. “Something has changed?”
“About six months ago I took on a journey to the Far East — the spice trade is booming just now, and I was offered twice my usual fee to transport tea and spices back to London, which I did gladly.”
“Interesting,” Holmes remarked.
“You think it is significant?”
“Any change in routine is potentially of interest. And you have made these trips how often since then?”
“Twice. Always at twice my usual fee, and always with the same cargo — tea and spices. I was always paid half in advance and half upon delivery.”
“With whom did you make the arrangement, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“My first mate, Snead, acted as go-between.”
“I see. And how long has this man been in your employment?”
“About seven months. I had a man who had been with me for years, but he vanished suddenly. It was very odd — I would have trusted him with my life, but then one day he didn’t report to duty, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.”
“That is very odd indeed,” Holmes replied. “And your ship — how large a crew do you have?”
The captain paused for me to refill his glass, which he drained once again in one swallow.
“We carry a crew of five: myself, my first mate, and three others, which of late has included my son, Andrew.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Your son works for you?”
“Yes, but the arrangement is purely temporary. He is a bright boy, and wants to go to university to study science. I support him in this — as did my dear Elizabeth…” His face took on a dreamy expression, and he stared off into the distance for a few moments. Then he seemed to come out of it, and turned back to us.
“I’m sorry — what was I saying?”
“You were telling us about your son,” I answered.
“Oh, yes — Andrew. He came to work for me when … well, after Elizabeth died. I’m afraid I rather fell apart for a while, and I found it difficult to rise to the challenges of daily life. I … I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I stopped caring about anything, and found even the simplest tasks daunting. Andrew stepped in and made sure that the business was conducted — in fact, he probably saved us from the poorhouse.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “How did your wife die, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Captain Crane looked into the flickering flames of the fire as the shadows danced on the wall behind him.
“She contracted food poisoning.”
“And you say this happened how long ago?”
“Three months. Some bad stew … in fact, if it hadn’t been for Jock, I would have probably died with her.”
“Jock?” I said. “The dog that you mentioned before?”
“Yes. He got out just as we were sitting down to dinner. I ran after him, you see, and told Elizabeth to go ahead and begin eating without me. When I returned I found her…” He put his head in his hands, unable to continue.
“Where was your son at the time?” Holmes asked.
“He was over at a friend’s house. We … we’d had a fight that night. Thank god for that,” he added. “I don’t know if I could bear losing both of them…”
“What did you fight over?”
The captain shrugged. “The usual things that fathers and strong-willed sons fight over … I don’t even remember now.”
“And now you believe you are seeing your wife’s ghost?” Holmes said.
“Yes.” Crane leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I know it sounds unbelievable … I can scarcely believe it myself. The first time it happened, I put it down to my frayed nerves and guilt over her death. The second time, I wondered seriously if I was losing my mind. Now I just want to find out what is going on — I’m at a loss to explain it.”
“Has anyone else seen this apparition?”
Crane shook his head. “No, not to my knowledge.”
“And where does this — visitation — take place?”
“On board my ship, in the middle of the night. I awaken from a deep sleep to find her hovering at the foot of my bed.”
“I see. Does she speak?”
“No. She just — looks as me, with those great dark eyes of hers.”
“And you are certain it is your wife?”
“Her image is blurry — and I’m always awakening from a deep sleep … but it’s her hair, her eyes; I even recognize the dress she’s wearing.”
“Is it possible someone took your wife’s dress and is using it?”
“I gave away all her dresses shortly after she … I couldn’t bear having them around.” He looked at Holmes earnestly. “I am not a fanciful man, Mr Holmes.”
“Yes, so I observe.”
“So you can imagine how this has upset me.”
“And this only happens on board your ship?”
“Yes. I have a house in Portsmouth, but I have not experienced anything out of the ordinary there.”
“What you tell me is most intriguing, Captain. I will be glad to take on your case.”
The captain exhaled, as though he had been holding his breath for a very long time, and his whole body seemed to relax.
“Thank you, Mr Holmes. Thank you,” he said, rubbing his eyes wearily.
“You look as though you haven’t slept much of late,” I remarked.
He nodded. “You are observant as well, Dr Watson. After some nights I awaken with the most dreadful headaches.”
“Those would not happen to be the same nights upon which you are visited by your nocturnal spirit, would they?” Holmes inquired.
“Yes, I suppose they are,” the captain answered. “I never really thought about it. What does it mean, do you think?”
“That I cannot answer for certain,” Holmes replied. “But it is safe to say that it is suggestive, to say the least.”
“Well, I will be grateful for any help you can give me in unraveling this strange matter. As to the matter of payment—”
Holmes raised a hand to stop him. “It is of no consequence. I have recently finished a case for a very wealthy client … I’m sure we’ll be able to come to a satisfactory arrangement. Where are you staying in London?”
“At the Clarion Arms.”
“Yes, I know it. I will be in touch soon.”
Captain Crane rose from his chair and extended his hand to each of us. “I can hardly express my gratitude to you both.” Once again, I was struck by the strength of his grip.
“Save your gratitude for the completion of my investigation,” Holmes replied dryly. “Unless I am mistaken, this will prove to be a most challenging case.”
“Then I am confident there is no better man in London to get to the bottom of it,” Crane replied, moving gracefully to the door. For such a tall man, his eco
nomy of movement was striking — a result, perhaps, of his years on shipboard. “Good night to you both.”
“Good night,” I said, closing the door behind him.
“Well, Watson, what an intriguing mystery, don’t you think?” Holmes said after the captain had gone.
“We’re not going to the Lake District, are we?” I said.
“Oh, we may make it up there by the week’s end, if all goes well,” he replied.
“Still, I’d better cable my wife not to expect us.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
I sighed. I could tell his mind was already at work on the problem before him — he had quite forgotten about our walking vacation. Never had I seen anyone so indifferent to what most regard as the pleasures of life — a being so perfectly dedicated to his work. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs.
“Consider the facts, Watson. We have a man not given to fanciful thinking who nonetheless believes he experienced a ghostly visitation from the other world, as it were.”
“Quite.”
“Yet we agree that such things are implausible, at best. Do you not find it instructive, Watson, that shortly after the captain changes his accustomed route, his wife dies under suspicious circumstances?”
“Are you suspicious of her death, Holmes?”
“With poison one must always take a good look around at all possible explanations — not to mention motives.”
“So you think she was poisoned?”
“I think the close timing of these various events is suggestive, to say the least. Consider, Watson: Captain Crane acquires a new first mate after the unexplained disappearance of a man who had served him faithfully for years. He then alters his accustomed shipping route after many years of the same routine. Shortly afterwards, his wife falls victim to what is ascribed to food poisoning — ascribed, mind you, but there is no criminal investigation. Then, the captain is visited by her ‘spirit’ … does it not seem like an unusual series of events to be more than mere coincidence?”