Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  I turned away from the river and saw Mr Peterson and Mrs Rothberg on the other side of the boat. They were quite close and talking very quietly to each other. I laughed when I noticed Mrs Rothberg, despite complaining constantly of the heat, was still wearing a fox stole draped around her shoulders. A slave to fashion.

  “They seem to be spending a lot of time together,” I nodded to them. This got no response so I poked Albert conspiratorially in the ribs. “Think they're carrying on?”

  “I honestly couldn't care less,” said Albert with all sincerity. “And considering there are only two other women on this ship, and they're both married, I really don't think such gossip is worthwhile.”

  “I was just trying to cheer you up,” I said.

  “I do not need cheering.” Albert pulled himself off the railing and stomped back to the companionway to get below decks.

  “No, you're all peaches and cream,” I said to myself. “Pinnacle of human ecstasy.” I cursed and kicked the railing hard. How on earth was I going to get to see the pearl's box before it was stolen now?

  Chapter XX

  The rest of the day passed slowly for me. All my books were on my phone, and I didn't want to have that conversation with anyone. Mr Jones buried his head in his work and would occasionally sit up to mutter, “but why would the king of Sparta trust them?” and things of a similar nature. Mr Peterson was practising his Arabic, a language he was doing quite well at considering he started learning when he left Scotland. Mrs Rothberg was alternating helping him with his vocabulary and reading her book. Her husband spent most of the time talking with the first mate about the profitability of different areas of the country we were passing through.

  Mr and Mrs O'Connor had set up camp on deck with two pairs of binoculars, two notebooks and as many manuals on safari as they had been able to carry. I joined them for a while but an occasional distant smudge of grey was not worth constantly scanning the horizon for. Not to mention that the constant attention the two poured on each other was so sickly sweet it would send a diabetic into a coma.

  Albert had shut himself away in his cabin and it didn't seem like he would be coming out any time soon. That left Major Stoat as my remaining choice for socialisation, a possibility I did not relish, so in the end I sat in a chair near a porthole and watched the river rolling by.

  As I observed the room, Mr Peterson would cringe slightly whenever one of the native Nigerians walked past. It was almost unnoticeable. If I had had literally anything else to do I wouldn't have noticed it. The tiniest, subtle motion, a flicker of discomfort and then it was gone. Such a tiny motion I doubted even the Nigerians noticed. So he was going to teach in the deepest heart of Africa despite being afraid of Africans. That was worth noting.

  *****

  “Does anyone mind if I light up?” Mr Rothberg asked after dinner. “I would go on deck but, well...” He raised a finger to the ceiling, the incessant drumming of rain on wood, and the wind howling.

  “Not if I join you,” Major Stoat wiggled his moustache and drew out a pipe.

  “Anyone else?” Mr Rothberg offered his silver cigarette case to the room. Mr O'Connor took one of the long white cigarettes that lay inside and lit it with his own lighter.

  “No thanks,” Mrs O'Connor raised her hands. “I tried for two months to enjoy smoking but I have to admit it's not for me.”

  “Miss Delaronde?” Mr Rothberg offered the case to me.

  “No thank you, I, er, I don't think it's a very healthy habit,” I said, wishing I could show them the evidence that would come to light in the second half of the century.

  “Nonsense,” the Major scoffed, sending balls of smoke out of his nose and mouth. “Coats your lungs in a healthy layer of tar. Protects 'em from the elements. Keeps the insects away.”

  “It's still a no, thank you Mr Rothberg,” I said.

  A heavy thundering sounded above them and more rain smashed down onto the deck.

  “Rain, rain, go away,” Mr Jones muttered. “Come again on washing day.”

  “Rains almost daily here. It's, ah, the humidity,” Mr Peterson said nervously. “At least, it does at this time of year. It's usually, ah, drier, during the winter. Nothing to worry about, just a bit of rain.” He seemed to be trying to reassure himself, but flashed a smile to Mrs Rothberg. Another hammer-blow of drops rained down from above.

  “Aye, in the tropics the rain falls like it has a grudge against the land,” Mr O'Connor nodded. “It'll be another hundred miles before it stops raining every evening. Well, almost every evening.”

  “I wouldn't mind the rain if it took the damn heat away.” Mr Rothberg mopped his brow and glared upwards as if he could glare the clouds into submission.

  “At least it's calm,” said Albert, resting his head in his hands and staring down at the table. “If we'd hit a storm like this on the crossing from Europe we'd have been shaken like a pepper-pot.”

  “True,” Mr Rothberg nodded.

  “You're all a bunch of pansies,” Mr O'Connor laughed. “You stand on the Connaught coast in the face of an Atlantic storm, then come back and tell me this is a problem.”

  Mr Peterson shook as another squall of rain hit the deck, working its way across like a wave. The wind howled overhead.

  “Of course, this amount of wind is rare for a tropical storm,” Mr O'Connor muttered. A waiter came in and collected up the dinner plates. I noted again the slight twitch of Mr Peterson when the waiter came close. He also shook whenever the rain picked up.

  “The, er, the further north we get the happier I think I'll be,” Mr Peterson said. “You only get rain this hard once in a blue moon, even in Edinburgh. I think I'll prefer the, er, drier north.”

  “It'd be a good night for witchcraft,” Mr Jones stood up and walked to the port-hole. Outside, the land was dark. The sun had gone down an hour before, and all he could see was the rain lit by the ship’s lights. Mr Jones looked at his watch. “Four hours to the witching hour of course. The rain might be over by then.”

  “Witchcraft?” Mrs O'Connor said. “What makes you say that?”

  “No-one would hear your spells,” Mr Jones said. “Or your curses. You could work secretly, silently, and bring doom to your enemies without them ever knowing.”

  “Well, ha, good thing the witches all died out in the sixteen hundreds,” Mr Peterson smiled weakly.

  “Oh no, my dear missionary, that is what the good Christians would have us think,” a sparkle formed in Mr Jones’s eyes. “And while perhaps they succeeded in Europe and America, the Dark Continent is still thick with them. Juju witch-doctors lie in every village, safe guarding them, controlling them.”

  “I don't believe you,” Mr Peterson crossed his arms.

  “Oh no, it's true,” Mr Jones crept back to his chair and the night seemed to follow him. “Every day the courts in Lagos face another witch-doctor in the stands, accused of killing someone for their vile rites.” The wind howled as Mr Jones paused for breath. “One or two murders here or there is nothing to them. Not when the hand of a blacksmith could save an entire village from demons, or the foot of a pregnant woman could save another.”

  “That's horrid!” Mr Peterson tried to crawl away while remaining in his seat.

  “Horrid because it's true, Peterson,” Mr Jones leant over the table. “But that's not the worst of it.” Mr Jones winked at me while Mr Peterson looked away. He was having fun. “The worst of it is what the good witch-doctors do to albinos.”

  “Albinos?”

  “White-skinned little children on the darkest of continents,” Mr Jones tutted. “The poor little creatures never stood a chance. You see, to the Nigerians, white is the colour of their god, and red is the colour of magic, and these little albinos with their bleached white skin and their red eyes – you can see how it fits together.”

  Mr Peterson gulped.

  “The albino's soul becomes a weapon of the witch-doctor, fighting demons, curing illnesses, killing enemies. And once the witch-doc
tor dies, if the albino is lucky the villagers burn their remains and let their soul pass into heaven. If the villagers forget, or are killed, the albino's soul is trapped on earth, forever.

  “A ghost, killed as a child, forced for decades to serve its master's bidding and unable to return to heaven. It wanders the earth, Peterson, searching for revenge, and the locals have a word for such a creature – the White Witch. Sometimes while walking you'll find a deserted village, all the huts filled with bones, men, women and children's skeletons all lying down on the dirt, posed as if they were sleeping. That is where the White Witch has been, Peterson. It choked the life out of them while they slept. And there is nothing that a White Witch hates more, Peterson, nothing in this world, more than a man with white skin allowed to live while they are cursed.

  “In darkest Africa, any of the explorers will tell you, you sometimes see it. It comes out at night, or during the cruellest of storms,” Mr Jones continued, enjoying watching Mr Peterson's eyes become pinpricks of fear. “There's a white shape in the darkness, a flash of golden light, and if you're strong in your faith in God it will pass over you. But those whose faith is weak, or those whom God has forsaken, they die, Peterson. They die horrible deaths.”

  “H-h-how do you stop it?” Mr Peterson asked.

  “Oh it's easy if you can find the body,” Mr Jones said. “You take that poor child's body and you burn it and release it back to God. But...” Mr Jones cracked a haunted smile. “If you can't find the body, well, some say bullets doused in holy water will kill it. Others say a crucifix will dissolve them into mist. Some say incense of sage will keep them away. The Juju witch-doctors of Lagos claim a White Witch can only be stopped by another trapped albino soul, which rather perpetuates the whole thing.” Mr Jones laughed again, without humour, and then drew close to Mr Peterson until they were almost nose-to-nose, and put a hand on the man's shoulder. “But truly, Peterson, if you don't have faith in God to protect you, there's no hope.”

  “Oh God...” Mr Peterson shook.

  Mr Jones fell back into his chair laughing.

  “Oh, Peterson, you're supposed to be doubting Thomas, not believe-everything-Jones-says Thomas.” Mr Jones laughed and wiped a tear from his eye. “And as a Scot as well you really should be more discerning.”

  “You were, you were very convincing!” Mr Peterson said indignantly.

  “Fairy stories and nonsense, Peterson,” Mr Rothberg shook his head. “Well told of course, but Jones is supposed to be a writer.”

  “Poppycock,” Major Stoat muttered dreamily. The old man had fallen asleep with his pipe in his mouth.

  “It's raining, it's pouring, Sir Oinks-a-lot is snoring,” Mr Jones struggled to contain his laughter. “Oh, I swear you are all really making my day today.”

  “He's quite quiet all things considered,” said Albert, the nearest to the Major. There was only a faint sound of him breathing.

  “So ah, none of it was true?” Mr Peterson looked to the table.

  “None of it, Thomas,” Mrs Rothberg rested a hand on Mr Peterson's shoulder.

  “Oh no, they're real legends,” Mr Jones recovered his sobriety, an occasional hiccup of laughter leaking out. “I didn't make the legends up. They are all a load of rot of course, but they're real.”

  “It is, er, my belief all legends come from a grain of truth,” Mr Peterson said, looking troubled. “King Arthur's round table might be legends, but someone fought off the Saxons when the Romans left. Old women always gave out willow-bark tea for a headache and now we synthesise aspirin from it. Legends don't start without cause.” Mr Peterson shook again as he tried to get hold of himself. His rational and irrational minds seemed to be fighting each other.

  “Some legends do,” I spoke up, trying to spare him some fear. “Some are just stories made up by bored people.” I coughed. “I'm just saying, if Mr Jones's story troubled you, put it out of your mind.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Mr Peterson slumped in his chair.

  Above them the rain began easing off. It didn't stop, but it no longer sounded like a horde of angry bees wanting to smash their way into the ship and sting them to death.

  “Well I feel thoroughly taken advantage of.” Mr Peterson pushed away from the table. “If you'll excuse me.” Without waiting he strode out of the room.

  “Thought he'd have a tougher skin, being a teacher,” Mr Jones said.

  “Private schools have better-behaved children,” Mrs Rothberg shot Mr Jones a heated glare.

  “No, not really,” Mr Jones said, either not noticing or ignoring the insult. “My old school chums and I used to torture old Jumbo Jenkins.”

  “Jumbo Jenkins?” I asked.

  “Big fat man,” Mr Jones said and brought his arms wide around him like a barrel. “Twenty stone if he was an ounce.”

  “Where was it you went to school?” Mr Rothberg asked.

  “Oh, hardly important,” Mr Jones said. “We had a cricket pitch and a rugby field and enough land that if you were told to run three laps round the grounds you weren't getting to bed until after dark.”

  “I was only curious,” Mr Rothberg nodded to Albert. “Rugby boy myself.”

  “Harrow,” Albert replied looking rather callow.

  “Well I think you were all rather horrid to Mr Peterson,” Mrs Rothberg said and stood up. “You for making fun of him,” she prodded a finger at Mr Jones, “and the rest of you for not putting a stop to it.” She glared at us. “It gets me so...urgh, it sets my heart going with anger.” She tapped her chest. “I need a lie down.”

  “Martha—” Mr Rothberg tried to stop her but she shook him off and disappeared towards her cabin.

  “Well that seems to be the end of dinner.” Mr O'Connor stretched until his knuckles cracked. “Anyone fancy a game of cards?”

  “I'm game,” Mr Jones said, with flashing eyes.

  “I only know poker,” I said, looking guilty. Truth be told I’d played Texas Hold 'Em for M&Ms with my university class mates.

  “The depravities of Canada never stop, eh? Teaching young heiresses to play poker.” Mr Jones shook his head and laughed. “We should play bridge so you have a respectable game to take back to Montreal,” he added without seriousness.

  “Bridge isn't a bad idea,” Mr Rothberg suggested. “Mr Fairfax, you'll play won't you?”

  Albert seemed to consider the possibility of taking an early night but relented.

  “Very well,” he shrugged.

  “Well then, Mr O'Connor, Mr Fairfax, Mr Jones and I for the first game, Mrs O'Connor you can teach Miss Delaronde the rules while you and she keep score,” Mr Rothberg suggested.

  “Excellent.” A deck of cards had appeared in Mr Jones's hands. They danced from one hand to another as he shuffled. “I warn you gentlemen, I've separated more than one lord from his family fortune at this game.”

  “Oh surely we're just playing for points,” Mr Rothberg said.

  “No, no, there's no fun if you're not playing for real.” Mr O'Connor nodded in agreement with Mr Jones, even as he eyed Mr Jones's card tricks warily.

  “You could, er, play for sweets?” I suggested, thinking of my M&Ms games.

  “Sweets?” Mrs O'Connor laughed.

  “Well, everyone likes sweets,” I shrugged. “And they're inexpensive, but they're still nice to win.”

  “I suppose if I can't trick Mr Rothberg out of his plantation I could at least swindle him out of a quarter of bonbons,” Mr Jones shrugged. “What do you say?”

  “Well I don't have much of a sweet tooth,” Mr Rothberg sighed. “But sweets sound as good as anything.”

  Mr Jones dealt the cards while around them the sailors returned the room to its usual appearance and brought a tin of bonbons up from the stores. All the tables save the one they were playing on were removed and the comfier furniture put back in place. Major Stoat was dozily coaxed back into his comfy chair.

  I struggled to keep up as they explained the rules and played the game, but it proved
quite impossible. In the end I was nothing but a dead weight, and instead of Mrs O'Connor and I forming a team, the score-keeper swapped out between matches. Slowly but surely a pile of mint humbugs and lemon drops built up around Mr Jones's place.

  I looked at my watch guiltily. It read ten o'clock, so we'd been playing for almost two hours. I watched Albert play, frowning in concentration. At some point tonight he was going to be robbed. Someone on board would do it, and I had no idea who, and no way of stopping it.

  It might have even happened already.

  About quarter of an hour later Mr Jones leant back and smiled at the room.

  “Well gentlemen, I think I've stolen enough of your money - ah, I should say - sweets.” Mr Jones gathered up his winnings into a paper bag. “But I think it's time for the land of nod.”

  “Seems a little early to me,” Mr Rothberg said.

  “I think he has a point.” Mr O'Connor also stood up, his wife following suit only a fraction of a second behind. “Have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Animals wake before we do.”

  “And I should probably sleep as well,” I said. After all, if I stayed up I might end up stopping the theft of the pearl. At least if I went to bed I wouldn't upset the timeline and give Sir Reginald a headache.

  “I'll stay up with you,” Albert said to Mr Rothberg. “I don't need a lot of sleep these days.”

  “That would be very kind,” Mr Rothberg nodded.

  I left and closed the door. I had no idea if I was doing the right thing but at this point my best bet was solving the theft after it had occurred, and not by trying to finger suspects before they had done anything wrong.

  I sat down in bed and sighed. I pulled on a pair of pyjamas and draped the mosquito net around me. Then I pulled up my phone and looked down my list of suspects.

  Mr Jones seemed to have a streak of cruelty. The way he niggled at Major Stoat about the war, and told a ghost story to scare Mr Peterson out of his mind, it would be easy to imagine him stealing the pearl just to annoy Albert, to get a rise out of him. But if Mr Jones stole it in 1919 to cause irritation, why would he not have given it back by 1928? Isn't the point of annoying someone on purpose to make sure the person you are annoying knows it was you? With this thought, sleep gradually closed over me and I drifted off with my phone stuck to my face again.