Blaylock, James P - Langdon St Ives 02 (15 page)

 
          
 
St. Ives said that it was a good way, too, and
that it sounded to him as if the world ought to have a dozen more Captain
Bowkers in it, but I could see that he was being subtle. His saying that had
the effect of making her think we were the right sort, not busybody tourists
down from
London
. That was St. Ives's method, and there was
nothing of the hypocrite in it. He meant every bit of it, but if being friendly
served some end too, before we were done, then so much the better.

 
          
 
Now it happened that Hasbro had an aunt living
in the town, his jolly old Aunt Edie. She had been a sort of lady-in-waiting to
St. Ives's mother—almost a nanny to him—and now, as unlikely as it sounds, she
had taken to the sea, to fish, on a trawler owned by her dead husband's
brother. Uncle Botley. So after breakfast St. Ives and Hasbro went off to pay
her a visit, leaving me to myself for an hour. I wanted to sightsee, although
to tell you the truth, I felt a little guilty about it because Dorothy wasn't
along. I've gotten used to her being there, I guess, over the years, and I'm
glad of it. It's one of the few things that I've got right.

 
          
 
It was a damp and foggy morning, getting along
toward late—the sort of morning when every sound is muffled, and even though
there are people out, there's a sort of curtain between you and them and you
walk along the damp cobbles in a gray study, lost in thought. I strolled down
the waterfront, thinking that
Sterne
Bay
was just the son of place to spend a few
leisurely days, maybe bring along a fishing rod. Dorothy would love it. I would
propose it to her as soon as we got back. The thought of proposing it to her,
of course, was calculated to rid me of some of the guilt that I was feeling,
out on holiday, really, while Dorothy was stuck up in London, trapped in the
old routine.

 
          
 
Then I thought of poor St. Ives, and of Alice,
whom he had loved for two short years before that awful night in the Seven
Dials. Thank God I wasn't there. It's a selfish thing to say, perhaps, but I
can't help that. The man had lived alone before
Alice
, and has lived alone since. And although
he'll fool most people, he doesn't fool me—he wasn't born to the solitary life.
He's been worn thin by it. Every emotional shilling was tied up in
Alice
. He had put the lot of it in the savings
bank until he had the chance to invest it in her, and it had paid off with
interest. All that was gone now, and the very idea of a romantic holiday on the
water was impossible for him to bear. He's been disallowed from entertaining
notions that other people find utterly pleasant and common . . .

 
          
 
And just then, as I was strolling along full
of idle and sorrowful thoughts, I looked up and there was a three-story inn,
like something off a picture postcard.

 
          
 
It was painted white with green gingerbread
trim and was hung with ivies. From what I could see, a broad veranda ran around
three sides of it. On the veranda sat pieces of willow furniture, and on the
willow furniture sat a scattering of people who looked just about as contented
as they had any right to look—a couple of them qualifying as "old
salts," and very picturesque. There was a wooden sign over the stairs that
read THE HOISTED PINT, which struck me as calculated, but very friendly and
with the right general attitude.

 
          
 
I stepped up onto the veranda, nodding a hello
in both directions, and into the foyer, thinking to inquire about rates and
availability. Spring was on the horizon, and there would be a chance of good
weather—although the town was admirably suited to dismal weather too—and there
was no reason that I shouldn't simply cement the business of a holiday
straightaway, so as to make Dorothy happy.

 
          
 
She would love the place; any doubts I might
have had from the street were vanished. There were wooden floors inlaid with
the most amazing marquetry depicting a whale and whaling ship—the sort of work
you don't see anymore—and there were potted plants and a great stone fireplace
with a log fire burning and not a piece of coal to be seen. A small woman
worked behind the long oak counter, meddling with papers, and we talked for a
moment about rooms and rates. Although I didn't like her very much, or entirely
trust her, I set out finally for the door very well satisfied with the inn and
with myself both.

 
          
 
That's when I thought I saw my rubber elephant
lying atop a table, half hidden by a potted palm. I was out the door and onto
the veranda before I knew what it was that I'd seen just the bottom of him, his
round feet and red-painted jumbo trousers. It was the impossibility of it that
made it slow to register, and even by the time it did, by the time I was sure
of it,
I
had taken another step or two, half down the
stairs, before turning on my heel and walking back in.

 
          
 
The woman looked up from where she dusted at
furniture now with a clutch of feathers. She widened her eyes, wondering,
perhaps, if I hadn't forgotten something, and I smiled back, feeling like a
fool, and asking weakly whether I didn't need some sort of receipt, a
confirmation—implying by it, I suppose, that her bookwork there behind the
counter wasn't sufficient. She frowned and said that she supposed she could
work something up, although . . . And I said quite right, of course, but that
as a surprise to my wife I thought that a little something to put into an
envelope on her breakfast plate . . . That made her happy again. She liked to
see that in a man, and said that she was anxious to meet the young lady. When I
glanced across the room there wasn't any elephant, of course, or anything like
it.

 
          
 
I don't doubt that you're going to ask me why
I didn't just inquire about the woman and her son, who carried a rubber
elephant with enormous ears. There would have been a hundred friendly ways to
phrase it. Well, I didn't. I still felt like half a fool for having blundered
back in like that and going through the song and dance about the breakfast
plate, and I was almost certain by then that I hadn't seen anything at all,
that I had invented it out of the curve of a leaf and the edge of a pot. It was
a little farfetched, wasn't it?
Just as it had seemed
improbable to the captain of the downed ship that the nonsense in his log ought
to be taken seriously.

 
          
 
I had imagined it, and I told myself so as I
set out toward the pier again, where, just like that, I nearly ran over old
Parsons, the secretary of the Royal Academy of Sciences, coming along with a
bamboo pole and creel in his hand, got up in a woolen sort of fishing uniform
and looking as if even though he mightn't catch a single fish, at least he had
got the outfit right, and that qualified him, as the scriptures put it, to walk
with the proud.

 
          
 
I was surprised to see him. He was thoroughly
disappointed to see me. It was the company I kept. He assumed straight off that
St. Ives was lurking somewhere about, and that meant, of course, that the
business of the
Royal
Academy
was being meddled in again. And he was
right. His being there said as much. It was an altogether unlikely coincidence.
If I had looked at it from the angle of a practicing detective, then I'd have
had suspicions about his angling outfit, and I'd have concluded that he was
trying too hard to play a part. He was up to something, to be sure.

 
          
 
"What are you doing here?" he asked.

 
          
 
I gave him a jolly look, and said, "Down
on holiday, actually.
And you, going fishing?"

 
          
 
Foolish question, I guess, given what he
looked like, but that didn't call for him to get cheeky. "I'm
prospecting/' he said, and held up his bamboo pole
. "
This
is an alchemical divining rod, used to locate fishes with coins in their
bellies."

 
          
 
But just then, when I was going to say
something clever, up
came
a gentleman in side whiskers
and interrupted in order to wring Parsons's hand. "Dreadfully sorry, old
man," he said to Parsons. "But he was tired, and he'd lived a long
life.
Very profitable.
I'm happy you could come down
for the funeral."

 
          
 
Parsons took him by the arm and led him away
down the pier pretty briskly, as if to get him away from me before he said
anything more. He had already said enough, though, hadn't he? This man Piper
was dead, and Parsons had come down to see him buried.

 
          
 
It was a full morning, taken all the way
around. There was a half hour yet before I was to meet St. Ives and Hasbro back
at the Apple. I was feeling very much like a detective by then, although I
couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was I had detected, besides this last
bit. I decided that wasn't enough, and went across toward the ramshackle
icehouse, a wooden sort of warehouse in a weedy lot not far off the ocean.

 
          
 
I went in at a side door without knocking. The
place was cold, not surprisingly, and I could hear the hiss of steam from the
compressors. The air was tinged with the smell of ammonia and wet straw. The
jolly captain wasn't hard to find; he confronted me as soon as I came in
through the door. He seemed to be the only one around, and he was big, and he
talked with an accent, stretching out his vowels as if they were made of putty.
I won't try to copy it, since I'm no good at tricking up accents, but he was
full of words like tarnation and fleabit and hound dog and ain't and talked
altogether in a sort of apostrophic "Out West" way that struck me as
out of character in a sea captain. I expected something salty and maritime. I
made a mental note of it.

 
          
 
That was after I had shaken his hand and
introduced myself. "I'm Abner Benbow," I said, thinking this up on
the spot and almost saying "Admiral Benbow," but stopping myself just
in time. "I'm in the ice trade, up in
Harrogate
. They call me 'Cool Abner Benbow,'
" I
said, "but they don't call me a cold
fish." I inclined my head just a little, thinking that maybe this last
touch was taking it too far. But he liked it, saying he had a
"monicker" too.

 
          
 
"Call me Bob," he said,
"Country Bob Bowker. Call me anythin' you please, but don't call me too
late for dinner."

 
          
 
And with that admonition he slammed me on the
back with his open hand and nearly knocked me through the wall. He was
convulsed with laughter, wheezing and looking apoplectic, as if he had just
that moment made up the gag and was listening to himself recite it for the
first time. I laughed too, very heartily, I thought, wiping pretended tears
from my eyes.

 
          
 
"You're a Yank," I said. And that
was clever, of course, because it rather implied that I didn't already know who
he was, despite his recent fame.

 
          
 
"That's a fact.
Wyoming
man, born and bred.
Took to the sea late and come over here two
years ago just to see how the rest of the world got on. I was always a curious
man. And I was all alone over there, runnin' ferries out of Frisco over to
Sarsleeto, and figured
I wouldn't be no more alone over here
."

 
          
 
No more than any common criminal, I thought,
assuming straight off, and maybe unfairly, that there was more to Captain
Bowker's leaving
America
than he let on. I nodded, though, as if I thought all his nonsense very
sage indeed.

 
          
 
"Been here long?" I asked,
nonchalant.

 
          
 
He gave me a look. "Didn't I just say two
year?"

 
          
 
"I mean here, at the icehouse."