The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  This was where the symbol had come from.

  The three unholy miracles had passed, and now Old Tom was taking them home.

  72

  Arent stared at Isabel, and Isabel glared back.

  “Paprika?” said Captain Crauwels from behind her.

  Sammy laughed weakly. It was the best he could do. For the two days Arent had slept, Sara had asked the musketeer Thyman to attend his exercises. While a surprisingly lively conversationalist, he hadn’t been keen on staying up with him all night as Arent had been. As a result, he’d spent almost two full days in his cramped, dark cell, leaving him twisted and weak, pale as bones, with a wet, hacking cough. He was now investigating Wyck’s body, his fingers leaping from place to place like startled flies. “Imagine how I feel,” said Sammy. “Three years ago, I tried to train him and got nowhere, yet the moment I disappear for a few weeks, he’s working wonders.”

  “The constable noticed Isabel sneaking around the ship at night,” said Arent, ignoring the jest. “I’ve smelled paprika on her these last few days, as I noticed it on Wyck when we were fighting. Paprika is only stored in a particular section of the cargo hold, a place neither of them would have reason to go unless they were meeting there.”

  “Is that true?” demanded Crauwels.

  “I’d wager that’s his babe in your belly,” said Arent, trying to meet her averted eyes. “Did you make a bargain with Old Tom to kill him for putting it there?”

  “Kill him?” Her eyes flashed with fire. “He was my friend, and it weren’t his babe, but he had pity for it.”

  Crauwels snorted. “Pity?”

  “He knew me of old,” she said, turning her fierce glare on him. “He’d been sailing to Batavia since I was a little girl, begging on the docks. He’d give me coin for food, for a bed. He came back this time to find me with a babe on the way and no father to raise it. He said he was done with this life and would take care of us in the Provinces, if I’d risk it with him. I couldn’t afford a berth on the ship, so I said no, then Kers told me he’d tracked Old Tom to this boat and we had to give chase. I thought God was smiling on me at last.”

  “Nothing wrong there, but why meet in secret?” wondered Sammy.

  “To be boatswain, everybody has to be afraid of you. That’s what he told me,” she said. “If anybody knew he cared for something, they’d hurt it to hurt him.”

  Crauwels murmured his agreement. “Boatswain has to keep hold of the crew. When he can’t do it anymore, he turns up dead. Wyck was a damn good one, but that meant he was a damn bad person.”

  “We weren’t going to talk until Amsterdam, but he sent me a message that he wanted to meet on the forecastle, only I got caught by the dwarf going there,” she said, her voice still simmering with resentment. “He sent word to meet in the cargo hold instead. He told me he’d spotted somebody on deck, somebody pretending to be somebody else. He said he recognized them from the great house he used to work in.”

  “Who were they?” asked Arent.

  “He wouldn’t tell me. He said it wasn’t safe, but they were going to pay dearly to keep the secret, and then we’d have the life he promised.” She stared at his body, bitterly. “Instead, it ends like this.”

  “Which house did he serve?”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “It must have been the de Havilands,” announced Sara, coming down the staircase. “Dalvhain is an anagram of Haviland. One of the people Old Tom possessed in the Provinces thirty years ago was Emily de Haviland. She’s been aboard this whole time. Lia spotted it, and so did my husband. He went up there to confront her before…”

  Her voice softened, and she looked up at Arent sympathetically.

  “He’s dead, Arent.”

  She took his hand as Sammy came over. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

  Arent swallowed, then sat himself on a crate.

  “I know he was…” His voice was choked. “He did…”

  “He loved you,” said Sara gently. “Despite everything else, there was that.”

  As Sara consoled Arent, Sammy reached out a hand to still a swaying lantern overhead. “Let’s put this together,” he said. “Wyck recognized Emily de Haviland on deck, presumably while she was boarding. He’d served the family back in the Provinces and knew she was once accused of possession, and investigated by Pieter Fletcher. Wyck tried to blackmail her, but she sent her pet leper—­”

  “My dead carpenter,” interrupted Crauwels belligerently.

  “To kill him,” said Sammy.

  “But why would Emily de Haviland care so much about protecting a name she knew we’d uncover?” wondered Sara. “She came aboard using an anagram. She wanted to be found eventually.”

  “Maybe it mattered when we uncovered it,” suggested Arent without any great conviction.

  “None of this matters,” shouted Crauwels, shaking his head. “Old Tom promised three unholy miracles before he slaughtered anybody who hadn’t agreed to one of his bargains. Well, we’re out of miracles. Way I see it, the only way to stop him now is to find this Emily de Haviland, bind her hands and feet, and throw her overboard.”

  “Drown the witch,” said Sara wryly. “How novel.”

  73

  A grim-­faced company had gathered in the great cabin under a swaying lantern, shadows leaping across the walls. The book they’d found in Viscountess Dalvhain’s cabin was closed on the table, everybody keeping their distance. They’d all seen what was inside, and all of them would rather they hadn’t.

  With the governor general dead, the chief merchant was once again master of the vessel, though he didn’t seem pleased about it. He was ashen-­faced, pacing back and forth in front of the windows while rubbing his hands through his thinning hair. There wasn’t any wine for him to drink, though his fingers obviously itched for it.

  Even those jeweled rings had lost their luster, thought Arent.

  “Dozens dead, and the governor general among them,” said van Schooten. “We have to put a stop to this before it consumes the ship.” He turned on Arent, pointing an accusing finger. “Didn’t your uncle put you in charge of finding this devil when its mark first appeared on the sail? How did you miss the fact that Viscountess Dalvhain was actually Emily de Haviland?”

  “Aye, because the rest of you were probably burning with suspicion,” snorted Sammy sarcastically, his feet on the table.

  Despite everything that was happening, he’d taken the time to wash in saltwater and change his clothes for the spare set Arent had brought. He was bathed, powdered, and perfumed, which meant for the first time in weeks, he was almost his old self, though there was no disguising the frailness of his body or the slight tremor in his voice.

  “Besides, we don’t know the two are the same,” he continued. “We only know that somebody came aboard using an anagram of Haviland’s name. It could be Emily de Haviland playing games, or it could be somebody else trying to fool us. Assume nothing, Chief Merchant.” He chortled and rubbed his hands together. “This really is a wonderful case. If it had been brought to me in Amsterdam, I’d be jumping up and down in glee.”

  “Who in the seven hells let you out?” snapped van Schooten, irritated by Sammy’s flippant demeanor.

  “I did,” said Arent, his arms folded across his massive chest. “My uncle is dead and with him the only reason to keep Sammy imprisoned. Now that the three unholy miracles have passed, we need him out here investigating, not rotting in some dank cell.”

  The room murmured its agreement, forcing van Schooten to grudgingly concede defeat.

  “So where is the passenger who was in that cabin now?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Sammy. “Did anybody ever meet her?”

  “Once,” said Crauwels, roused from his thoughts for the first time since they’d come up from the orlop deck. The captain was standing at the head o
f the table, his palms flat on its surface. “Long gray dress and long gray hair. Resembled Vos in a strange sort of way. Had that odd, blank way of looking at you. She sat in the gloom and barked at me to leave her alone.”

  “What about the cabin boys? Did one of them tend her room?” asked Sammy.

  “They were forbidden from entering,” replied van Schooten ruefully.

  “Then who emptied her chamberpots?”

  “They were left outside her door each night,” said Creesjie, wrinkling her nose as if she could still smell them.

  “If she was so eager to stay hidden, why would she take the risk of booking a cabin?” wondered Sara.

  “When did we start letting women into these meetings?” demanded van Schooten, freshly outraged as he realized Sara, Lia, and Creesjie had taken chairs at opposite ends of the table from Crauwels. “This isn’t women’s business.”

  “Will it be women’s business when Old Tom sinks the ship?” shot back Creesjie.

  “It doesn’t matter who’s here or not,” said Crauwels in a flat voice. “It matters what we do next. How do we save the Saardam? So far, Old Tom’s been able to come and go as it pleases and slaughter us at will. I’ve heard the stories about you, Pipps. I need you to help me ferret out Emily de Haviland from wherever she’s hiding.”

  “She won’t be found, Captain.” Sammy scoffed. “Emily, Old Tom, or whoever is behind all this has planned everything meticulously.” He waved his hand to the night sky beyond the windows. “There’s a ship out there that’s presumably under her control. She’s got a leper who we haven’t been able to find doing her bidding. She stole the Folly without anybody realizing, slaughtered our animals while we were standing twenty paces away, and has now managed to murder the most powerful man aboard without needing to enter his cabin. She disappeared because it was time for her to disappear. Do you think we’re going to find her hiding in the crow’s nest?”

  “We have to do something,” yelled Crauwels, who’d grown increasingly irate the longer Sammy spoke.

  “And I will,” laughed Sammy. “But stupidity isn’t ever the straight line it first appears. As I see it, there are three important questions, and the location of Emily de Haviland is not one of them. The first is what links the unholy miracles. Why did our enemy steal the Folly, slaughter some animals, and then murder the governor general?”

  “I thought they were random acts,” said Creesjie, fanning herself.

  Sammy peered at her, then dragged his feet from the table, stood up, and bowed exquisitely. “I don’t believe we’ve met, madam. I’m Samuel Pipps.”

  She inclined her head, laughing prettily. “Creesjie Jens,” she said. “You live up to Arent’s reports, sir.”

  “It grows ever more difficult with each one he writes. A few more years under Arent’s quill and I’ll be nothing but cleverness and virtue.” They grinned at each other, a friendship having clearly been struck. “To answer your question, the unholy miracles may have been random, but very little else in this case has been. I rather doubt Old Tom’s started now. The miracles were planned, which means they were deliberately chosen.”

  Now he was standing, he began to pace. His finger stabbed the air as he spoke. “My second question is how was the governor general murdered. My third is why the leper let Arent live. Once I have the answers to those questions, I’m certain the rest of this fascinating puzzle will arrange itself.”

  “That’s it?” demanded Crauwels. “Solve a murder and you think that will end our torment? Every time that damn Eighth Lantern burns red, my ship rips itself apart. The leper climbed up out of the sea to reach Sara’s cabin, and now Emily de Haviland’s loose on my ship. Sending Arent to fight it was like sending a child to war, and now I see you’re no better.” He scowled at everyone, then stormed out.

  “Get to work, Pipps,” said van Schooten, staring after him. “I’ll calm Crauwels down. Larme, we need to get the lads back to sailing and not worrying about demons. Finding a new boatswain would help.”

  “Candidates usually stab one another until there’s only one left, but I’ll try to hurry it along,” grunted Larme, who was leaning against the doorway into the helm.

  Sammy signaled Arent, the two of them making their way to the governor general’s cabin. Sammy strode straight in, but Arent couldn’t make it past the threshold. His sense of dread was choking, his eyes lurching away when he tried to look at the bunk.

  When he did eventually see his uncle, the pain made him want to howl.

  Clamping his jaw shut, he blinked back tears, trying to reason with his grief.

  In every way that mattered, this wasn’t the uncle he remembered. Cruelty had replaced the kindness. He’d beaten Sara, locked Lia away, and made a deal with Old Tom. He turned his back on the ideals he’d espoused to Arent as a boy, and yet…he’d loved him.

  And that love endured. Whether it was earned, or worthy, or right, it sat at the heart of him, and, try as he might, he couldn’t dislodge it.

  For fifteen minutes, Arent watched Sammy put his eyes on everything, touching and caressing, lifting and staring, passing through the room like an inquisitive breeze, leaving the objects he inspected precisely in their original place. Once he was satisfied, he tugged the dagger out of the governor general’s body with a sickening squelch, then investigated the wound.

  “Splinters,” he said, plucking a sliver of wood from the governor general’s chest. “Possibly from the hilt of the murder weapon. See what you make of it, Arent.”

  Preoccupied, he pressed the dagger and splinters into Arent’s hands. Sammy always asked him to examine the murder weapons in case his insight as a soldier should prove useful, but this was different.

  This wasn’t a weapon. It was guilt.

  His uncle had been murdered two decks from him. How could that be? Arent had once saved him from the entire Spanish army. Why hadn’t he been able to protect him from a whisper in the darkness?

  Deep down, where his grief had become blame, a voice suggested that maybe he hadn’t wanted to. Now he was dead. Sara was free of him.

  “Stop it,” he said to himself.

  “Hmm?” asked Sammy, who was creeping along the floor on his hands and knees, his eyes almost touching the wood as he searched for clues.

  “Nothing,” mumbled Arent, embarrassed, examining the dagger. It was shorter than normal, the blade thinner. Much too thin, he realized. It was almost brittle. No smithy would make a weapon this way; it was no good. It would snap when it hit armor.

  “I know this weapon,” said Arent, weighing it in his palm. “It’s the same one the leper threatened me with in the cargo hold.”

  “That’s interesting, because the leper’s handprints climb up to the porthole, and above it are seven widely spaced hooks. I don’t know what their purpose is, but we’ll need to find out.”

  “Then you’re blaming the leper for my uncle’s murder?”

  “The creature must be considered. By the coldness of the governor general’s body and the degree to which his blood has congealed, I would suggest that he had been dead some hours by the time Creesjie and Guard Captain Drecht lit the candle.”

  “So you think he was murdered during dinner?” asked Arent. “That would exonerate all the passengers. They ate together.”

  “We should confirm that none of them left dinner for any reason. If they didn’t, I’m afraid it places Sara Wessel in rather a bad spot.”

  Seeing Arent’s objection, he held up a placating hand. “I know you’re fond of her, but you were unconscious for a majority of the evening. She could easily have slipped away from your side. For all we know, she saw a chance to murder one devil and blame another for the work, and she took it.”

  Arent shuddered, remembering how Vos had planned to do the same thing. He would have succeeded had the leper not interrupted them.

  “Now, to the matter of the
snuffed candle,” said Sammy, peering out the porthole. “Sara said her husband never slept without a light. Not a single day in all the years she knew him. Creesjie confirmed this. Apparently, he was afraid of the dark, something only those closest to him would have known. Was there a strong wind tonight?”

  “No.”

  Sammy placed his body equidistant between the porthole and the writing desk, extending his arms. Even then, he couldn’t reach the candle. “And it would be impossible to lean in and snuff it.”

  Sammy plucked a scroll case from behind the netted shelf and tossed it to Arent. “We’ll have to search everything in this room,” he ordered.

  Arent took himself to the writing desk and sat down heavily. Removing the cap from the case, he unrolled the scroll within. It was a plan for the Folly, he realized. Or at least one very small part of it.

  “Arent?” said Sammy, who was looking up at the porthole with his chin pressed to the floor. “How did Isaack Larme feel about your uncle?”

  “He hated the slaughter my uncle ordered at the Banda Islands,” said Arent. “Other than that, I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because with a little wriggling, our dwarf could have gotten through this porthole.”

  Arent eyed it, trying to imagine Larme squeezing through.

  “The clatter would have woken my uncle and brought Drecht running,” disagreed Arent, picking up the next scroll.

  My dearest Jan,

  My health is failing. I will not see another summer.

  Upon my death, my place among the Gentlemen 17 will fall vacant. In keeping with the vow I made you and in recompense of our great undertaking all those years ago, I have nominated you for the post, and my colleagues have agreed.

  However, they each have their favorites, and the maneuvering has begun. Once I die, I cannot guarantee the position.

  Heed my advice and return to Amsterdam without delay. Bring your daughter, for she is of marriageable age and will serve you well when the bartering begins. And put manacles on Samuel Pipps. I’ve come across accusations that he’s a spy for the English. Not only a traitor to our noble enterprise, but our nation. It’s not yet common knowledge, but I’ve verified the claims and will put them before my fellows soon. Execution awaits. Drag him before the Gentlemen 17 and your position will be vastly improved. Do these things and come quickly.