The Poisoned Island (40 page)

“Critchley,” he mutters, quietly, to the magistrate. Harriott says nothing in return.

“Ah, Harriott,” says Markland. “At last. I was beginning to give up hope.”

Markland steps away from his two officers, and notices Horton’s presence.

“And Horton! What a pleasure.” The scowl on Markland’s face makes it clear that the pleasure is entirely in his words. “Two of London’s finest investigators in one storehouse.”

“Oh,
three
, surely,” says Harriott, who even in his gloom has a ready propensity to bait Markland. In this case, his sarcastic tone works its magic almost immediately. Markland’s scowl deepens, while Horton stares intently at the feet of the body above them.

“Should we perhaps bring the poor fellow down now?” Markland asks.

“A moment, if you please,” says Horton. He walks over to the rickety ladder and with only a small hesitation begins to climb up to the platform above.

“Ah, the indefatigable Horton,” says Markland. “Does he recognize the body, perhaps?”

Harriott ignores Markland’s question, smothering it with questions of his own.

“When was the body discovered?”

“Earlier this morning. The thing is, we’re not at all sure how long it’s been here. No one’s been in the storehouse for days. They only came in today because a collier’s ready to journey back to Newcastle and needed ballast.”

“We should seek out a physician, to tell us about the condition of the body.”

“On his way, my dear Harriott, on his way.”

“Who reported it?”

“The foreman of the storehouse. Fellow named Miller. Hope and Hewitt have questioned him intensively.”

“Have they? I assume you consider this case linked to the deaths in Ratcliffe?”

“Yes, I do, rather. It is why I sent for you. The body is unidentified, of course. But the coincidence seems strong.”

Harriott says nothing about the identity of the dead man. Horton has begun winching the body down to the men below, though slowly, as if experimenting with the winch. Harriott can see him imagining himself into the man who’d done this, working the winch as if with another’s hands. The tall, blond-haired body is slowly lowered down onto the pile of gravel. Horton looks down anxiously as the feet, legs and then back touch ground. Hope and Hewitt step towards it.

“No, if you please,” Horton shouts from above.

The two Shadwell officers glare up at him, then look to their magistrate. Markland, in turn, looks at Harriott.

“Your constable enjoys giving instructions to my men, Harriott.”

“You asked for his help, Markland.”

“I did no such thing. I suggested a mutually beneficial cooperation.”

“Well then, let Horton be Horton. Your men may disturb some vital evidence.”

Horton, meanwhile, is scrambling down the ladder like a small boy desperate to be the first to finish a race. His shoulders knock into Hope’s as he approaches the body, and Harriott sees murder in the Shadwell man’s eyes. Horton does not notice. He squats down on the pile of gravel. He loosens the rope round the dead man’s neck, and they all see the vivid bruise which marks his strangulation. Horton looks at the body’s fingers, which are bloody, the nails coming away.

“He struggled,” says Harriott.

Horton nods. “He was lifted up while still alive,” he mutters. “The neck is unbroken.”

The Shadwell men say nothing. Hope and Hewitt look almost bored.

Horton looks through the man’s pockets, and from inside the coat he pulls a scrap of paper, carefully folded. He opens it and reads its content. He looks at Harriott, then hands the note to Markland. He begins to read it, and after a moment starts to read it aloud.

I assume all the Guilt in these terrible Undertakings. The Deaths are all upon me, and I have decided to go to seek my Peace with God, or whatever awaits me on the other side of the Grave. Otaheite has left a terrible Scar on my Mind and a terrible thirst in my body. We did a terrible thing on the Island, and the stench of it has pursued us back to England. We killed a young man there, a chieftain’s son, under the influence of some Godless ritual which he had introduced us to. I know nothing of the Gods of that place, but I know Nightmares have haunted me ever since we departed the Place. The Things I saw there I will take to my Grave, but anyone who saw them with me bears the same Madness of Spirit as I do. If they say they do not, they Lie. It is this
Madness which has caused me to take the lives of those I was close to, and though I know Forgiveness is unlikely to be waiting for me, I die in Hope. At least the Nightmares will now cease, unless the terrible Truth is that Nightmares pursue us into the Hereafter.

I commend my Soul to God and my Memory to my dear Mother, may God bless her Soul.

Jeremiah Critchley, Carpenter’s Mate

Markland hands the note to Harriott, who reads it carefully before handing it back.

“Poetic,” says Markland.

“I find it mawkish and irritating, I will admit,” says Harriott.

“Nonetheless,” says Markland. “It does seem to bring the case to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“I must say, this is as unsatisfactory an ending as I could have imagined,” says Harriott. “I’m reminded of Williams.”

Markland looks exasperated.

“How so, unsatisfactory? I find the mention of Williams distasteful, Harriott.”

“Do you?” says Harriott. “Well, there it is.”

The dead man’s body is now laid out on the gravel, although there is still some tension in the rope which causes his head to be lifted off the stones, as if Critchley had been woken from sleep suddenly and had raised his head to look at them. The neck is a livid purple and oddly misshapen, and his skin is blackened by the dust in the air.

“So, this is the last murder, and this is the killer?” asks Harriott, rhetorically, and not without sarcasm.

“But of course,” says Markland.

“There is no ‘of course’ about it, Markland,” says Harriott. “This is all rather neat, is it not? The theatrical death, the emotional suicide note, all left here for us to find.” He finds himself looking to Horton, recognizing how skeptical the constable will be. But Horton’s gaze is fixed upon Critchley. Well, then he must supply the skepticism while his constable travels back from wherever he is.

“Why must you always complicate matters so, Harriott?” asks Markland, and his voice has grown peevish. Hope and Hewitt stare at the dead body as if they would happily kill it again. “Why can it not be taken at face value? This man killed his fellow shipmates, and then killed himself.”

“Why, Markland?”

“Why what?”

“Why did he kill them?”

“Because, as he says, he was mad.”

“Mad enough to kill them, but sane enough to give us this artful little note.”

“The note seems mad enough for my needs, Harriott.”

“And why the elaborately staged suicide?”

“It gained our attention,” says Markland.

“Well, precisely, Markland. It
gained our attention
.”

A stream of watery sun comes through an upper window and frames the man’s dead, blackened face in weak light.

“He looks almost happy,” says Horton.

Critchley’s note sits on Harriott’s desk, blackened by the dust from the storehouse. Horton had placed it there after staring at it intently as he stood by the room’s mantelpiece. He’d placed it down carefully on the desk, which was when Harriott had told him of Markland’s intentions.

“Markland is closing the case; at least, that part of it to which he can lay claim. He thanks us for our cooperation, but he believes Critchley’s note explains all.”

John Harriott is back at his customary position, seated in his great chair, looking out at the window overlooking the river. Charles Horton’s own position has, he notes, also become somewhat customary: standing, arms behind his back, in front of Harriott’s desk. Being quiet.

“Markland only has formal responsibility for the three Ratcliffe deaths, and this one, of course,” Harriott says. “Sam Ransome and the Rotherhithe incident are still ours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you listening to me, Horton?”

“Yes, sir. No. I mean . . .”

Finally, Horton looks up, and Harriott realizes that indeed the man has not been listening to him.

“Did you hear what I said about Markland closing the case?”

“Sir, this note was not written by Critchley.”

“What?”

“I can’t be certain until I retrieve my papers from my home, but this handwriting does not appear on any of the notes I took from my interviews with the
Solander
crew.”

“Your notes.”

“Indeed, sir. Critchley did not write this. Nor did the captain.”

“The
captain
? You suspect the captain?”

“He has questions to answer, I believe, yes.” Horton says nothing of nighttime visits to Putney houses. Not just yet.

The old magistrate ponders things for a moment. He has become somewhat inured to these sudden wrenching manifests of new information from his constable. He has decided he finds them invigorating and infuriating in equal measure.

“Well, Horton, you appear to have made vastly more progress on this case than I had realized.”

“Not really, sir. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

Harriott almost laughs at that.

“By all means,” he says, and his sarcastic tone is unnoticed by his officer. Horton leaves the office, just as the manservant appears at the door. He announces Aaron Graham, who follows him into the room. He greets Harriott. His face is pale.

“You spoke to Nott?” asks Harriott.

“I did, last night,” replies Graham, seating himself in one of the chairs at the desk.

“How did he take the news?”

“The news that his father wants nothing to do with him?
That he is an unashamed blackguard with no sense of responsibility? That the man he traveled halfway around the world to meet does not want to meet him? He took it as well as can be expected, Harriott. Which is to say, not well at all. I have never seen a man so destroyed. He looked like he would take his own life. I put a man to guard him last night, and I spoke to him this morning. He was still at Bow Street when I left to come here.”

A silence falls between the two magistrates, broken when Harriott speaks.

“There have been further developments, Graham. This morning we were called to a warehouse. A body was found.”

Harriott tells it all, and shows Graham the note on the desk. The Bow Street magistrate reads it, with what looks almost like resignation.

“Gods, this case has more turns in it than the maze at Hampton Court,” he says at last. “So, Critchley was the killer?”

Horton reappears at the office door.

“If you please, Mr. Harriott?” he asks, and Harriott calls him back in. He is carrying a piece of paper, but when he sees Graham in the room he folds the paper and puts it in his pocket, a move which saddens Harriott. It seems his constable has no trust in the Bow Street magistrate. Graham notices Horton’s action but, being Graham, affects not to notice.

“Graham, Horton firmly believes that Critchley was not the perpetrator of these murders.”

“Indeed?”

Horton clears his throat, and speaks directly to Graham. “Mr. Graham, is it not the case that Peter Nott wrote a letter to you and delivered it when he was released from Coldbath Fields?”

“It is, yes.”

“Do you still have the letter?”

“On me? No, I do believe I . . . Well.”

Graham has put his hand inside his jacket, and pulls out an envelope, the same envelope Horton saw Nott carrying through London. Graham looks at it as if it were an artifact from the stars, and then smiles a rather sad smile of self-awareness.

“Do you know, gentlemen, I do believe I have not changed this coat since yesterday. My, I must have been distracted indeed.”

“May I see the letter?”

Graham hesitates slightly, and looks at Harriott, who nods, so Graham hands it to Horton, who opens it and starts to read. The hand is careful and has some elegance, as if written by a diligent juvenile afraid of making a mistake.

Magistrate Aaron Graham

Great Queen Street

London

Mr. Graham,

I am writing this Note on a matter of particular Delicacy, and from a place of enormous Danger. It may be that this Note does not find its way to you, and that I die in this Place never having talked with you. If that were so it would be an enormous Cruelty on the part of Providence, for I have endured a sea voyage of almost endless Distance for the single purpose of finding You. To see this Note delivered I may have to put it into the hands of some undoubted Criminal, who will deny God’s work and throw it into some open Sewer between this Place and the no-doubt gilded Streets on which you live.

But if this Note does reach you, I beg of you with all my Heart to heed its Call and to come and retrieve me. For I
believe I am in the greatest Danger here, and perhaps even greater Danger on the outside, without the protection of a great Man like yourself. Please be sure, Mr. Graham, I do not say this in an idle offhand way. My very Life is at stake.