I looked at her handwriting and remembered all the brooding I had done in the last seven years, all the second-guessing, the torturous questions I had asked myself in the middle of the night, wondering if I had done something wrong, or whether it had just been plain cruelty on her part. I had made myself sick with it. Still did. And for what? So that she could characterize me in this letter to her sister as a troublesome cirriped that wouldn't let go?
I shook my head and took the letter into evidence.
Despite the personal pain this correspondence caused, I had to put all the old Cape Town feelings aside. I had to be the ever-objective Commissioner Rivers and see this letter for what it really was: further proof that over and above my two existing suspects I now had to count Anne Page and Corporal Ridgway as my third party of ne'er-do-wells.
* * * *
I received word an hour later that Sergeant Richard Dobbie, the officer who had allegedly set the doctor to rights, had been saved and, along with two other survivors, Timothy and Isobel Collis, children, was now returned to shore and receiving care and rest at a church in Pearly Beach, a village ten miles up the coast.
I arrived hot and dusty a few hours later, surrendered my horse to the stableman, and proceeded to the church.
The local rector showed me to a makeshift hospital in the church cellar, where I found my three survivors.
Timothy and Isobel Collis, eight and six, played with seashells. Sergeant Dobbie was asleep, looking badly exhausted.
Leaving Dobbie to rest for the time being, I started with the children.
I learned they didn't know much about Dr. Page. But much to my surprise, Timothy, the eight-year-old, gave me an entirely different characterization of Sergeant Dobbie than Corporal Ridgway had. To Timothy, Dobbie wasn't the controlled, homicidal, cheating soldier who had gone to set the doctor to rights, but perhaps the true hero of the Ancaster marine tragedy.
“He spotted my sister and me clinging to a spar, sir. The current pushed him toward us. He leaned out and pulled us in. Then the same current pushed us out to sea. There was nine of us altogether, seven children, one old lady, and Sergeant Dobbie. Sergeant Dobbie rowed all night and finally brought us to an island. The fisherman found us on the island.”
“And where are the other survivors now?”
“On farms, sir. The sergeant saved us all.”
Dobbie woke an hour later.
He looked genuinely alarmed and saddened to hear of Dr. Page's murder. “It's a terrible shame, sir. Not a kinder soul one could find.”
“You were at the card game?”
“I was, sir.”
“And is it true the doctor accused you of cheating, and that you went to set him to rights after he had left the table?”
Dobbie's eyes widened and he said, “Who told you that?”
“Corporal Ridgway. He as good as accused you of murdering the doctor. He says you followed him onto the deck, and that you were going to set him to rights, and that's the last anybody saw of him.”
Despite his debilitated condition, Dobbie rose on his elbows, and in a voice thick with indignation said, “Corporal Ridgway is a liar, sir. It was Corporal Ridgway himself who went after the doctor.”
This, then, sounded more like the truth. “You saw the corporal go after Page?”
“I did, sir. And he was in a drunken rage. The fellows and me decided something had to be done about it before he hurt the doctor. Especially because it wasn't just the cards he was mad about. So I went to put a stop to it.”
My brow rose. “Something else was bothering the corporal besides the cards?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Page. They were an item. Everybody on board knew except for the poor old doctor.” I had to struggle to maintain my composure. The sergeant continued, “The corporal confided to me that he was scheming to take Mrs. Page away from the doctor, and that the doctor was making it deucedly difficult for him, and that he was planning to do something about it before the Ancaster docked in Southampton. He told me Mrs. Page was unhappy in her marriage and just wanted to get out of it any way she could.” Dobbie eased back onto his cot, a look of puzzlement coming to his eyes. “Strange, but I don't entirely understand what I saw when I finally found the corporal. Certainly he was nowhere near the doctor, so I'm not about to accuse him of murder, the way he has with me. But I did see something odd.”
“And what did you see, Sergeant?”
Dobbie's left shoulder twitched in a perplexed shrug. “The corporal was on the quarterdeck emptying packets of mail from the postmaster's mailbox into the bay. I says to him, ‘Eddie, what in the name of Creation do you think you're doing?’ And he says back to me, ‘Dick, if you value your hide, you won't say a word of this to anybody.’ So I ask him, ‘But Eddie, why are you throwing the king's mail overboard?’ Then he says some words I daren't repeat in front of these youngsters.” Dobbie shook his head. “I have no idea why he was throwing the mail away, sir, but if you can't catch him on the doctor's murder, you can at least clap him in irons for tampering with His Majesty's post.”
* * * *
The next day, I found Anne sitting with the elderly Mrs. Doorenspleet in the parlor at Doorenspleet Farm. The ladies were tatting lace. The only way I could control myself was to adopt the dour veneer of a bureaucrat, and to clamp down on the bitterness that was threatening to unseat me. I was here to solve a murder, not settle a score.
As the servant finished presenting me and retreated to the kitchen, Mrs. Page put her lace down, rose, and gave me a bow, inclining her head from the neck, sketching a curtsey with her skirt.
“Commissioner Rivers.” She lifted her head, her eyes apprehensive. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I gave her a bow, holding my three-cornered hat under my arm, fighting to keep my emotions in check. “How do you do, Mrs. Page?” I turned to Mrs. Doorenspleet. “Madam, forgive me, but may I have a word alone with Mrs. Page?”
The old farm widow, detecting my seriousness, gave me a nod, and rose from her chair. “Of course, Commissioner.” She gathered up her lace and left the room.
Once she was gone, I motioned at the divan. “Please, Mrs. Page. Sit. I fear you're not fully recovered. Your complexion has grown pale.”
She stared at me, then took her seat. “Commissioner Rivers, whatever is the matter?”
I looked at her, saddened that I should still be so captivated by her. “Mrs. Page, some disturbing evidence connected to your husband's murder has come to light.” She looked pretty in the sea light coming through the window. How could someone so enchanting be so cruel? “I'm afraid it implicates Corporal Ridgway.” I took a seat on the upholstered bench across from her. “And you.”
Her shoulders rose. She looked to one side, where on a mahogany shelf sat a collection of ceramic figurines, mostly dogs, a few horses, and one fisherman. She grew even paler.
She turned back to me, her clear blue eyes now fretful. “I have no idea what evidence you mean, Commissioner.”
I shook my head. “To begin with, I found your letter to Elizabeth in a packet of mail that came ashore with the wreckage. You make explicit in that letter your romantic interest in Corporal Ridgway, and also reveal your wish to see your husband gone. ‘Vanished into the sea mists,’ I believe were your exact words.” I shook my head. “In my official capacity as the king's representative, and in light of what's happened to your husband, I view this letter with grave concern.”
For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she mounted a weak defense. “My letter was meant for a private audience of one, Commissioner Rivers. Surely it would be wrong to interpret it in an official capacity.”
I sighed. “Even without the letter, Anne, I'm afraid you and the corporal remain under serious suspicion.”
She blinked twice. “I hardly see how.”
I took a deep breath, feeling once again the old humiliation, from when she had turned me away from her door that last time. I put my hat on the table, and sat back.
�
�Put simply, Mrs. Page, Sergeant Dobbie has survived. He's convalescing in a church ten miles up the coast, and I've had an opportunity to talk to him. He's proved a most useful witness. He says he saw the corporal throwing mail overboard from the postmaster's mailbox on the night of the murder. He also tells me that you and the corporal became amorously involved on the ship, and that the corporal had plans for nullifying your husband as an impediment to your union before the Ancaster docked in Southampton. Furthermore, the sergeant informs me the corporal chased your husband from the card table after the game, and pursued him with the full intent of harming him.” I leaned forward. “Taking these factors into account, I believe your only option left, Anne, is to confess.” I shrugged. “I'm hoping you'll tell me Ridgway acted alone.”
Her hands came together, and her eyes grew marblelike in their stillness. A few moments later, the corners of her lips pulled back, and distress suffused her pretty features. Her shoulders sank and she shook her head.
“You may understand why I was hesitant to tell you anything at first.”
It didn't take me long to surmise what she was getting at. “Because of Sergeant Mason?”
She looked away. “I was cruel to you. I admit it. I led you on, and that was wrong of me. I should have considered your feelings more thoroughly. But you played the pianoforte so well.” I could hardly believe it. She had kept me around only because I played the pianoforte? “I know how badly used you must have felt, and so I wasn't sure that if I told you the truth about my husband you wouldn't somehow use it as a way to punish me for sending you away so callously once I accepted Sergeant Mason's hand.”
I stared, then admonished her in my official capacity. “Just give up the corporal, Anne, that's all I ask. I know he must have acted alone.”
After another few seconds, she rose and went to the fireplace. “I must revise my story, then, Commissioner.” She glanced at me, her eyes glistening with intensifying apprehension. “I misrepresented events at first, but only because I was so frightened of how, when we first met, you so pointedly told me how you had recovered my music album, Un Concert de Famille, and reminded me—again pointedly—of the sad inscription you had made in it.”
I was stunned. My penciled inscription—a proclamation of my profoundest love—was sad to her now? Send me to Bedlam and throw away the key! “Anne, as long as you didn't have anything to do with the murder itself, I'll show mercy.”
She wrung her hands. “As God is my witness, Harry, I never raised a hand against my husband.” She paused to get her thoughts in order. “I'd gone to bed. My husband was playing cards with the officers—this much is true.” She looked away. “Perhaps I tried to implicate Molly as the culprit. I did this only because I love the corporal dearly, and was afraid of losing him if he got caught. And so I rashly blamed our patient, hoping to divert you.”
Maintaining my official role became more difficult than ever as she professed her love for the corporal. In a dry and unpleasant voice, I asked, “So how exactly must you revise your story, then, Anne? And where precisely does it diverge from your original one?”
She gave me a worried look. “It diverges where my husband went to check on Molly that second time. Afterward, I heard Corporal Ridgway come along the deck. He and my husband got into a fight. This was a half-hour before the storm struck. They were fighting about the card game. And me. I heard them from our stateroom. It was late. The conflict escalated. I finally heard my husband call for help. A moment later, everything went quiet. I put on my dressing gown and went outside. When I got there . . .” Her voice grew tremulous, and her eyes moistened. “When I got there, I discovered my husband dead from an axe blow to the head.”
Mrs. Page now cast a glance out the window to the sea. For the longest time she wouldn't move her eyes away, seemed entranced by the deep blue pan of the bay, the same bay that had brought tragedy to so many a short number of nights ago.
She finally turned to me. “What I'm trying to tell you, Harry, is that I arrived after the deed was done. I swear I did.” Her eyes gained the focus of twin storm lamps. “Eddie was the one who swung the axe, not me. Eddie was the one who killed him. I had nothing to do with it. Surely you can protect me under those circumstances. Oh, please, Harry, if our time together in Cape Town means anything to you, I beg you, spare me, for I'm innocent in the whole matter.”
But I couldn't help thinking how easily she was now throwing over Corporal Ridgway—as easily as she had thrown me over seven years ago. “What did you do once you found your husband dead?”
Blundering, with no real comprehension of the law, she said, “Corporal Ridgway asked me to help him.”
“And did you?” I raised my finger. “Take care here, Anne. Additional dissimulations will make matters worse.”
She nodded innocently. “I won't lie to you, Harry.” Apparently, she had forgotten how she had lied to me about Sergeant Mason. “I helped Eddie drag Charles to the nearest scupper so his blood would drain overboard. Then I covered him with some spare rigging so no one would see him, and Eddie told me to leave. He didn't want me to have anything else to do with it. He wanted to spare me. He loves me, you see. And I love him.”
I tried to stay on track, but with the utterance of these last words I lost all rein over my jealousy. Only with the greatest effort was I able to ask one last germane question. “Why the postmaster's mailbox, Anne? Why not just throw him overboard?”
She looked back to the bay, and in a softer voice said, “Because Eddie was nervous about disposing of him so close to Swarts. We were barely a mile out. Had Eddie dumped Charles by the reef, the doctor might have drifted to shore, and we would have been discovered. So Eddie decided to wait. The ship's barometer was falling and he said we were due for a change in the weather soon. With fresh wind we would be on our way into deeper water, and we could dispose of him then. Little did we know that within the hour a storm would sink the Ancaster.”
I took a few moments.
From an absolute moral standpoint, I should have shown clemency. She was a silly love-dazzled young woman who had come under the sway of a scoundrel. I should have granted her God's great mercy. And maybe if I had never met Anne Page in Cape Town seven years ago, I would have been a more merciful man. But my bitterness had festered, had become all-encompassing, and I convinced myself on the technicality, the unmitigated fact that she had participated, had moved her husband and covered him with some spare rigging. Since such was the case, I judged that the Crown must have its vengeance. The Crown, I decided, would teach her a lesson once and for all.
* * * *
In the village square, where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans met, I saw two gallows rising into the air. From these, my dear Anne and the wretched Ridgway twisted gently in a salty offshore breeze.
A cape griffon, a local species of vulture, landed on Mrs. Page's gallows.
“Ho, there!” I clapped my hands. “Off with you!”
The bird lumbered into the sky, losing a black feather in its ascent. I watched it retreat until it was a speck.
Then I rubbed my fingers over Anne's music book, Un Concert de Famille. I opened the book to a selection called “Dance of the Wood Nymphs,” where I saw in faint pencil Anne's precious marginalia, notes to herself on how the piece should be played. I studied one comment in particular, “Harry adores these eight bars.” I hummed them. In that music I recalled all the sweetness of my time with her. It brought to mind her father's music room in the Pampoenkraal District of Cape Town: the caged canaries in the corner, the walnut box-grand pianoforte with the faded ivory keys, and the smell of Anne's rosewater-scented hair under my nose as I turned pages for her.
I closed her music book and held it close to my breast.
I felt as if I were holding Anne, and that I was now going to hold her forever.
Love was so blissful when possession was complete. And it was especially so when it was made irrevocable by death.
I looked out at the sea, my indifferent acco
mplice.
I gave it a nod of gratitude for finally bringing Anne home to me.
At sunset, I had some farmers take Mrs. Page down.
I decreed to these same farmers that Ridgway should hang for another three days, and that no one was to keep the griffons away from him.
Copyright © 2012 by Scott Mackay
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* * *
Fiction: SHAME THE DEVIL
by James T. Shannon
* * * *
Art by Laurie Harden
* * * *
A winner of the Al Blanchard Award from the New England Mystery Writers (for a story that featured the same series character as this tale, Sergeant Gilbert Souza), James. T. Shannon makes his EQMM debut this month. Previously, his fiction has appeared in AHMM and the mystery anthology Still Waters. The Massachusetts author's byline can also be found on pieces for Mad Magazine, TV Guide, Scholastic, and essays for the Sunday supplements to The Providence Journal and The Boston Herald.
Someone had left a Boston paper on the diner counter so I slid it over and began turning pages. And there was his face, staring out at me.
“The coffee okay, Sergeant Souza?” Kate, the weekend waitress I'd once helped with an overenthusiastic customer, must have heard my sharp intake of breath.
“Coffee's fine, Kate. Fine.” I was still a little unnerved, even though the headline assured me I was looking at a picture of a dead man. Long-Buried Fall River Body Identified. It was Deme, all right. I didn't need the name Demetrio Cabral captioned below the picture to know that. Same wild hair. Same crazy Charles Manson eyes. Same long scar on his left cheek, a ragged zigzag from his hairline to the corner of his pinched and angry lips. Deme Cabral. The Deme could have been a nickname for Demetrio, but everyone who knew him meant it as a shortened form of the Portuguese word demente. And that means just what you think it does.
I'd heard about some contractors finding a body awhile ago in a heavily wooded area near the state forest. They'd been digging a foundation for a new house in a clearing and had to stop when the backhoe bucket came up with a skull. After a more cautious police department exhumation of the rest of the skeleton, initial reports estimated the body had been buried about twelve years. Cause of death, though still not determined, had centered on what appeared to be a bullet hole in the front of the skull. Yep, that'll do it every time.
EQMM, July 2012 Page 16
