The Adventures of Mary Darling, page 29
James listened, nodding. He accepted the anecdotal nature of the information. Though nautical charts had improved since he first became a pirate, there were still many areas that were unmapped, where the best information came from the vague memories of an old sailor who had visited the area before.
“This is where the Jolly Roger was when Peter attacked us.” James tapped a location on the edge of the search area. Rumbold had noted the location in the ship’s logbook. “That’s a few days’ sail from here, if the winds are favorable. Unfortunately, it’s far from the usual shipping routes. Not likely we’ll find a prize near there. But the crew will need to be paid somehow.”
“That can be arranged,” Ruby said smoothly, her voice taking on a businesslike tone. “There is treasure on the island. A share of that would compensate you and your crew.”
“Treasure? What sort of treasure?”
“Show James what you have,” Ruby told Mary.
Mary handed James the ring. He held it to the light, admiring the ruby’s color and clarity. “Nice,” he said. “Very nice indeed.”
“We will need to agree upon appropriate shares,” Ruby said. “And the crew must understand that the agreement is with me, as well as with Mary.”
“A wise precaution,” James said. “Can you tell me how many more gems like this are in this treasure?”
“It is all in a small chest,” Mary said. “I remember there were several pieces of jewelry, some loose stones, and many gold pieces. We each took some coins, and we buried the chest on the island. I know exactly where.”
“You buried it?” James repeated, shaking his head in amazement. Buried treasure was the sort of thing that landlubbers wrote about. He had never met anyone who had actually done it.
That was the moment when Tom returned. He had been drinking at Lila’s all afternoon. He heard James say, “You buried it?” and mistook his amazement for admiration. “That was my idea,” he announced in a drunken bellow. “All my doing! I buried it because I knew we’d be back for it later.”
Tom grabbed a chair and sat down at the table. “Don’t be giving away all our secrets, sister,” he said to Mary, shaking his head. He surveyed the table. “You’re drinking tea?” He snorted. “Rum is what we need here.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and splashed rum into the teacup that Ruby had offered him.
The peace of the garden was shattered. Tom was boisterous and overbearing, cheerful and entirely annoying. He spilled rum on the chart and laughed. Then he grinned at James, thinking the man to be a friend of Ruby’s. “Mop that up, will you, old man?”
In his silk robe, fresh from the bath, Hook did not look like a pirate captain to be feared. An observant man might have noticed that the right sleeve of Hook’s robe seemed rather empty toward the cuff. But Tom was not an observant man.
Mary tried to tell him. “We were just talking about going to Neverland,” she said. “Captain Hook—”
“Oh, hush, sister. Forget about Captain Hook.” Tom waved a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t trust that bloke to get us there. Any man who’d let Peter Pan lop off his hand can’t be much of a fighter. Don’t you worry. I’ll find us a ship.”
Tom leaned back in his chair, the bamboo creaking under his weight. Clearly, he felt at ease, comfortable, and very much in charge.
“Tom, I don’t think you realize . . .” Mary began, glancing at James.
“Don’t fuss at me, sister. I’ll take care of everything. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Mary fell silent. James—or perhaps I should say Captain Hook—was staring at Tom with narrowed eyes.
Captain Hook did not care for drunks. He did not tolerate fools. It was clear that Tom was both.
“You don’t recognize me, Tom,” Hook said evenly. “You knew me as James. These days, I’m known as Captain Hook.” He lifted his arm and the cuff of his robe fell back, revealing the hook.
Tom’s grin froze. He turned pale.
“I don’t think that we need rum,” Captain Hook went on. “I prefer to keep a clear head, and I would wager you’ve already had enough.”
Ruby leaned forward. “You know, Tom, the girls in the salon were asking after you,” she said.
“They were?” Tom’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Oh, yes,” Ruby said. “Perhaps you’d like to join them for a drink. I know they’d enjoy your company.”
“What a fine idea!” Tom said, a bit louder. “I’d hate to disappoint them.”
A few days later, the Jolly Roger set sail just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. Mary was aboard, but Tom was still abed.
Following their encounter in the garden, Captain Hook advised Mary that Tom would not be welcome on the Jolly Roger. With a combination of reluctance and relief, Mary had agreed that it would be better if her brother did not come along.
They had told Tom that the Jolly Roger would sail at dawn. Tom swore that he would be on board when the ship sailed. But Ruby, with her usual quiet efficiency, had arranged for Tom to meet a buxom and enthusiastic bed partner late in the evening before their scheduled departure.
Predictably, Tom was not on the Jolly Roger at dawn. When he stumbled down to the dock at noon, the Jolly Roger was long gone.
Chapter 33: You Prefer to Ignore Logic?
The morning after Lady Hawkins’ tea party, Watson was feeling the aftereffects of overindulgence in wine, whiskey, and philosophical conversation. At breakfast, Rumbold offered him a hangover cure of exotic herbs. Watson opted for ginger tea and a light breakfast. His head ached. His time with Lady Hawkins had left him feeling quite muddled.
At breakfast, he sat quietly, listening to the others chat. Rumbold asked Holmes whether he had learned anything useful from the French industrialists. The detective waved a hand in impatient dismissal and said, “I learned that the best French brandy can only be found in France.”
Rumbold nodded, then turned his attention to Watson. “So, Watson, did you learn anything useful from Lady Hawkins?”
Watson sipped his ginger tea, considering what to say. His unhappy stomach and throbbing head made the decision easy. “I learned that you can find excellent Scotch whiskey outside of Scotland.”
Sam said nothing, and Watson was grateful for that.
Late that morning, Rumbold led them to the ship that would take them to Nosy Boraha, a gaff-rigged schooner carrying freight to the pirate island. The captain, a friend of Rumbold’s, was a taciturn Malagasy man.
They set forth in the early afternoon. When the ship was underway, Watson found a spot by the rail, out of the way of the crew. It felt good to be by the rail in case his stomach decided that even his light breakfast had been too much. Nana sat beside him, a watchful and comforting presence.
Rumbold came to join him. “Let me know if I can bring you anything,” he said. Then he leaned on the rail beside Watson in companionable silence. The fresh air soothed Watson’s headache. His stomach settled and soon he felt a bit better.
Holmes, on the other hand, was growing more restless and irritable. He paced the deck. Watson watched as the detective passed them once, then twice.
The third time Holmes passed them, Rumbold spoke up. “We won’t reach Nosy Boraha until late tomorrow. If there’s anything I can do to make the passage easier, please let me know. To soothe the overheated brain, I would recommend . . .”
At that, the great detective exploded, like a bottle of shaken champagne suddenly uncorked. “My brain does not need soothing,” he snarled. “What I need are facts—not foolish chatter and fairy tales. Data that I can work with. I need information.” He was glaring at Watson as he spoke. “Watson, you might as well tell me whatever secrets you’re keeping.”
Watson did not ask how Holmes knew he had secrets. The good doctor was in no mood to hear all the tiny indications that had led the detective to know that Watson had something to hide. No doubt he had revealed himself in the way he sipped his tea, glanced at his watch, lit his pipe, or performed (or failed to perform) some other trivial action.
Watson took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.
That pause gave Rumbold a chance to excuse himself, saying he needed to check on something. He made a quick escape from what he realized could be a difficult conversation.
When Rumbold was gone, Watson spoke. “I am withholding information that you will dismiss as foolish chatter and fairy tales.”
“Allow me to decide what I will dismiss,” Holmes snapped. “You are withholding information at a crucial time in my investigation.”
Watson returned the detective’s glare. “I can list many times that you have kept me in the dark, for no reason other than your desire to explain the entire mystery in one grand revelation. Many times, when you decided not to tell me what you had planned, preferring to control it all yourself.”
“Always for the good of the investigation,” Holmes said.
Watson could recount specific instances in which Holmes’ preference to keep his own counsel had not served the investigation well. But he knew that the list would not change the detective’s mind.
He took a deep breath before speaking again. “Does it surprise you that I might prefer to keep some information to myself until I can confirm it to your satisfaction? Do you understand why I prefer not to have my ideas dismissed and ridiculed out of hand?”
“Ridiculed?” Holmes looked shocked. “When have I ever ridiculed you, Watson? I value your help and your companionship.”
Watson shook his head slowly, thinking of all the times when Holmes had asked his opinion, only to laugh at it. Holmes really didn’t know, Watson thought. He did not even realize the impact his words had.
Watson met the great detective’s gaze and resigned himself to the inevitable. “I will tell you what Lady Hawkins told me. She said that she met Mary back in 1883. Lord and Lady Hawkins were sailing their steam yacht from the island of Mauritius to Madagascar. Mary and Tom landed on her yacht, hungry and thirsty. She fed them tea and biscuits.”
“They met when Mary was a child?” Holmes was frowning. “And you say the yacht was traveling between two islands? What sort of ship were Mary and Tom on?”
“No ship,” Watson said. “Lady Hawkins said that Mary and Tom were flying. They swooped down from the sky. They were in the company of a boy named Peter Pan. Lady Hawkins has photos that her husband took. They show the children sitting with Lady Hawkins. They also show the children in flight. A bit blurry, but clearly in flight.”
Holmes waved a hand, dismissing the photographs. “Obviously the photographs are fraudulent.”
“The photographs were clear,” Watson insisted. “Mary and Tom were flying, well above the ocean waves.”
Holmes shook his head, chuckling. “It is very easy to use photography to deceive. American spiritualists have quite perfected the art of photographic fakery. Consider William Mumler, a specialist in defrauding grieving widows and bereaved mothers. His most famous photo is of Mary Todd Lincoln, with the ghost of her dead husband standing behind her. You can see Abraham Lincoln’s ghostly hand on her shoulder. It’s a double exposure, of course. Mumler was tried for fraud in 1869.
“Creating a photograph of Mary and Tom flying would be simple enough. You simply need a picture of the ocean and pictures of the children. You don’t even need to be an expert photographer. One can produce convincing results by carefully cutting people from one photograph, pasting the cutout on another photograph, then taking a photograph of the composite. Lady Hawkins is a talented artist, is she not? I have seen her botanical art. She has a great eye for detail.”
Watson was offended on Lady Hawkins’ behalf. “Why would she do such a thing? And where would she get a photo of the children?”
Holmes was looking more cheerful than he had in days. “Lady Hawkins told you that the children were Mary and Tom, but did you actually recognize them? After all, you did not meet your niece until she was older, and you have never met Tom. Lady Hawkins said the children in the picture were Mary and Tom, and you believed her.”
Watson was appalled. “Why would Lady Hawkins deceive me? It makes no sense! This is too much, Holmes.”
“Calm yourself, Watson. You like Lady Hawkins, so you believe she is honest. But emotions are incompatible with clear reasoning. The dishonest among us can be quite likable. I knew a man who—”
“I can’t listen to this,” Watson said. He knew that Holmes was about to tell him a story of a charming swindler who was dishonest but quite likable. Watson turned and walked away. He was glad that Holmes did not follow.
At the bow of the ship, Watson stood by the railing, watching the waves. The breeze from the ship’s movement cooled him. The soft sound of water rushing past the ship’s hull, the snap of the canvas when the wind shifted—the sounds were soothing. He could feel his heartbeat slowing.
He remembered sitting with Lady Hawkins last night—yes, it was just last night, though it seemed much longer ago than that. Was she a charlatan, intent on deceiving him for some mysterious reason? No, he could not believe that. And Mary—had she been fooling them all with her act as a grieving mother?
He heard soft footsteps on the deck as Sam approached quietly. “Do you care for company?” Sam asked hesitantly. “If you’d prefer to be alone . . .”
“I’d welcome your company.” Watson continued watching the ship’s bow wave. “I told Holmes that Lady Hawkins had met Mary when she was a child. I told him about the photographs. He said the photographs were fraudulent and that Lady Hawkins had created them.” Watson glanced at Sam. “I didn’t tell him that I had seen a fairy and I didn’t say I had taken flight.”
Sam leaned on the railing beside Watson. “Holmes understands the world of crime,” Sam said softly. “He fits everything he sees into that world. He believes that everything can be explained with logic.”
“What if I showed him a fairy?”
“It wouldn’t matter if you did. He would capture it in a jar and look for a naturalist who could identify this strange insect.” Sam shook his head. “Some people say that seeing is believing. That’s not quite right. People don’t believe what they see—they see what they want to believe. Fairies and Peter Pan have no place in his logical world.”
“What if he flew, like I did?”
“Holmes will never believe that he can fly,” Sam said flatly. “Therefore, he never can.”
“But I could show him. I could fly . . .”
“You couldn’t fly with Holmes watching,” Sam said. “You have the capacity for belief, but his scrutiny would make you doubt. Once you doubt, you can’t fly—not with all the fairy dust in the world.
“Holmes’s logic is very useful,” Sam continued. “It lets him deduce that a man with an air of importance and an anchor tattooed on his hand is a retired sergeant of Marines. That’s a reasonable deduction. But embracing reasonable deductions can blind you to other possibilities. Perhaps the man is an anchor maker. Perhaps he’s a swindler who preys on sailors and uses the tattoo to make himself seem like one of them. Maybe it’s a birthmark in the shape of an anchor.” Sam shrugged. “There are many unreasonable possibilities. The world is much stranger than Holmes imagines.”
Later that day, when Watson was smoking his pipe on the deck, Holmes joined him. Watson acknowledged the detective with a nod, but did not initiate conversation.
Holmes did not apologize, but he did acknowledge Watson’s feelings. “I realize that you are feeling wounded,” he began. “But you know that was not my intent. My goal is to gather all the facts I need. Sometimes, that may involve listening to a fairy tale, and correctly reinterpreting it through the lens of logic. Lady Hawkins’ photo is one such fairy tale. You have provided me with a missing piece of a complex puzzle.”
Watson did not respond. He gazed at the waves, remembering his moment of flight. The wind had lifted him as if he were light as a feather. Only Nana’s determination had kept him tethered to the ship. He had felt like a boy again, running down a hillside, arms spread as if they could catch the wind and carry him aloft. Yes, he did believe that he flew. He did not want Holmes to reinterpret that memory through the lens of logic.
“I see it differently,” Watson said quietly.
“You prefer to ignore logic?”
Watson nodded slowly. “If logic dictates that Lady Hawkins is a fraud and that Mary is an accomplice in the abduction of her own children, I will ignore it.”
Holmes frowned. “That makes no sense.”
“Do you remember when I showed you my tale, A Study in Scarlet?” Watson asked. “You objected to what you called ‘romanticism’ and suggested that I should ignore the love story that was at the heart of the murderer’s motive. I said that I could not tamper with the facts. And you replied . . . I remember your very words: ‘Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them.’”
“Yes, I recall that.” There was a touch of impatience in Holmes’ tone. “The only points in that case that deserved mention were those relevant to the analytical reasoning by which I succeeded in unraveling it.”
Watson leaned on the rail, remembering the tales he had written about Holmes and his cases. “I understand that’s what you believe,” Watson said. “But you aren’t writing the story. I am.” He turned and faced his friend. “I suggest that we hold alternate theories of this case.”
“You wish to believe in fairy tales. You wish to think that Lady Hawkins and her photo are genuine.” Holmes shook his head. “I will take a more sensible approach.”
“State it as you like,” Watson murmured, gazing out to sea.
The next morning, they reached Nosy Boraha. Watson was very glad to get off the ship.
Chapter 34: I’ve Come to Take You Home
