by Neil Jackson
“Two months? Why such a long time?”
“We had to tow her...no one would crew her. Superstition runs rife among mariners, of which I am sure you are aware.”
“But the question remains. Why bring it to a small port, almost hide it away?”
“You’re aware of her history, Mr. Holmes. There are many that would like to see that ship taken out into the middle of any ocean and sunk to the bottom.”
“That I don’t doubt, but why all the mystery. What is it that you need from the solving of this mystery?”
“An explanation! September 21st, 1883. I was on the bridge of the HMS Alexandra with the Captain and First Mate. A midshipman, wet behind the ears but learning fast – just about to be promoted to sub-lieutenant. My reports were always regarded as good reading by my superior officers. Clear. Concise. Detailed. But you’ll find no record of the events that transpired on that night,” The Prince stopped and turned to look at Holmes to address him face to face. “Mr. Holmes. I am not a man given to flights of fancy. I could almost be described as boring, preferring the company of my stamp collection to that of other people. But this is one of life’s events that I cannot come to terms with.”
“I can see by the look in your eyes that this troubles you somewhat.”
“We were about eighty miles west of the Azores. A storm, nothing to concern any reasonably able seaman, had just passed us by – we caught the edge of it. It was then that the mizzen look-out shouted that there was something approaching off to starboard, slightly astern of us. Within what seemed a matter of few minutes, this ship appeared from, almost out of, nowhere. Nothing save for a light mist.”
“Another Dutchman?”
“No, the Celeste.”
“But I thought...”
“Please, just let me continue for a moment more.”
Questions seeking answers, pounded on the skull of the detective as adrenalin now replaced any need that his body craved for food.
Prince George looked out over the waters for a moment to gather his thoughts, then continued with what Holmes was beginning to think was just another fanciful sea yarn.
“Despite our hails, we received no reply. No signals. Nothing. We drew alongside and tethered to her while a boarding party was organised.”
The Prince took out a solid silver cigarette case and on opening, offered it to Holmes.
“No, thank you, I prefer the pipe. Do you mind?”
“By all means.”
Prince George lit one of the cigarettes and inhaled deeply as Holmes began to fill a small pocket pipe with a wad of tobacco from a leather pouch.
The heir let out a plume of smoke and sighed.
“The boarding party, Your Highness, could you elaborate?”
“Able seamen, Charles Weaver, Martin Bower and Gavin Herbert went aboard with the First Mate, Robert Keston-Bloom. All went armed. All went with small oil-filled lanterns that clipped to their belt buckles. Four good men. Good, brave men.”
Holmes took his first taste of the tobacco...and savoured this first bowl of the day.
“And...?”
“That was the last anyone saw of them.”
Another drag from the cigarette. Another plume.
“I requested to go on second party about an hour later. That request was denied by the Second Officer but thankfully countermanded by the Captain. Eight of us went this time. We searched every room, hold, nook, cranny. Everything. Two hours and forty-two minutes later...nothing. Simply vanished into thin air.”
“Vanished?”
“There was something...in one of the cabins. There was a residue, some kind of slippery substance on the walls. Yet when the captain went aboard himself, the walls were dry. Tinder dry. What I am describing is not a figment of some poet’s fancy, sir.”
“From what you have described, I am indeed intrigued and have more than just a passing interest in looking at this ship.”
“You have my staff at your disposal and whatever else you need to take with you.”
Holmes took a small notebook and pencil from his inside jacket pocket, scribbled a few notes and handed it to the Prince.
“What is this?”
“What I need in terms of personnel and equipment. I shall need lodgings for Watson and myself for two days and your best guards on the harbour-side. No person is to go aboard that ship. My only requests.”
“The ship was renamed for the trip back to Mallaig. Her new nameplate reads Amazon. Her original name.
“To deflect attention away, I am to assume.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. And this name on the list?”
“I have to speak with him first...and he has to come on board with us.”
“You’ll have him.”
“I’ve got one, Holmes!” came the excited shout from Dr. Watson.
The two men turned to see Watson holding a wriggling salmon, no more than six inches in length; when the physician beamed a great smile.
Holmes turned back to Prince George.
“I must apologise for my earlier words,” said Holmes shaking his head at Watson. “Not all of the fish are beautiful.”
“Look upon it as an hors d’oeuvre. Lunch is upon us.”
Two days later, Holmes and Watson found themselves in the small fishing port of Mallaig. A picturesque village, neatly tucked away on the coast and home to probably the best smoked kippers in Europe.
They made their way to their lodgings, a small boarding house with a sign outside that did little to welcome anyone; the weather-beaten sign and faded paint did nothing to enamour the pair to the place but on entering their rooms, they were pleasantly surprised. The furnishings looked almost new, as were the cushions, pillows and linens.
It was easy to understand why - in his room, a note from HRH Prince George wished Holmes a comfortable stay.
Within thirty minutes of their arrival, the two men were sitting at a small wooden table, one of six in the dining room which also served as one of the village taverns. Like the benches on which they sat, the room was basic. A few barrels behind a small bar that housed a few shelves where a varied collection of glasses and bottles fought for the limited space. A few trinkets hung on the walls in a vain attempt to entice passers-by into the establishment, along with a couple of nets on which hung three dead crabs and some shells, a couple of cutlasses and some nautical oddments. Badly painted landscapes, by fishermen and sailors given in exchange for a free meal and brew, hung by the nets. Watson was of the opinion that the landlady, one Mrs. Edna Plympton, had come off worse in the barter. That was until Holmes reminded him that they had not eaten any of her food yet.
After a meal which both men were loathe to refuse – especially after Watson noted the size of the chef’s forearms were something akin to the average thigh – they stepped into the early evening air.
“Sated, Watson?”
“Certainly , Holmes. Couldn’t eat another thing. The local fare was quite delicious.”
“It was indeed. Now we must turn our attention to matters at hand and the Celeste.” Holmes checked his pocket-watch. “Excellent, we’ve made good time today, Watson. And our guest should be waiting for us alongside its berth about now.”
“Are you going to tell me who this fellow is?”
“One, Joseph Jephson. A Doctor of Medicine of the University of Harvard, and ex-Consulting Physician of the Samaritan Hospital of Brooklyn.”
“An American? Here?”
“I was aware of the name when the original stories surrounding the Mary Celeste first surfaced. It was Dr. Jephson who challenged a number of the official theories and I had heard that he was now teaching to medical students in Edinburgh, on a two year sabbatical.”
“Does he know what he’s coming to look at?”
“Oh yes. Prince George was not surprised when I requested that Jephson join us. Come, Watson. Let us make haste!”
“The weather has turned a little chilly, Holmes.” said Watson as he wound a woollen scarf around his neck an
d buttoned his jacket to the top.
“You, as any, should know that a good walk after food, especially with bracing sea air, has got to be good for you.”
Watson face took on a grimace.
Holmes smiled, ignoring the Doctor’s ploy to remain inside and began the short walk to the harbour-side.
Watson stood for while, and realising that whatever his protest or opinion, Holmes had already shut his ears and mind to anything that did not involve the case at hand. But he could at least mutter an insult under his breath while Holmes was out of earshot.
“There are times, Holmes, when I would like to see you consigned to oblivion! That chef had a fruit crumble for dessert.”
Watson followed.
He always followed.
The haar was beginning to creep across the local landscape, enveloping all in a soft blanket of a hazy white; that Holmes knew would eventually bring something like Cimmerian darkness, hiding all from sight and providing excellent cover for the predators among them.
Watson had hastened his stride to catch up with Holmes and found himself slightly out of breath, something that did not go unnoticed by Holmes.
“Surely I should be the one panting, according to your observation of my smoking habit, my friend.”
“There is a simple explanation for my loss of breath, Holmes, very simple. I just eat too much.”
The pair gave a chuckle.
“Watson?”
“Yes, Holmes.”
“Do you really wish me to be consigned to oblivion?”
Watson was slightly taken aback at the comment, realising that he had been caught by his own words and was now about to be force fed some ‘humble-pie’.
“How did you...”
“The following wind, that you say has made you feel colder, carries sound those few extra yards...and thus, as you were only a few yards behind me, I heard the comment.”
“Quite incredible, Holmes.”
“Elemental, my dear Watson, Elemental.”
The pair disappeared into the thickening fog. Laughter went with them.
It was no more than five minutes to the berth where the Mary Celeste now found herself. Not a huge ship and typical of the commercial carriers of the time.
The years had not been kind to her.
Numerous owners, some good, some bad, some diabolical – had all contributed to a history that dated back to 1861 and her original home in Nova Scotia. It was only after she ran aground and salvaged in 1867, that she was repaired, refloated and renamed Mary Celeste. Since that fateful day, November 25th, 1872, nothing but bad luck has followed her, the various crews, owners and companies that had as much as a passing connection to her.
Death, sickness, murder, fraud and bankruptcy were now the only words that could be associated with the ship, an albatross around the neck of any who engaged her service or ownership. And yet, there was always one thing that drew folk to her like moths to a flame...the mystery.
And here she sat, almost a quarter of a century since the disappearance of the Briggs family, her crew and three passengers, among them Dr. Habakuk Jephson, the well-known Brooklyn specialist on consumption, and father of Dr. Joseph Jephson, who now stood, waiting, at the harbour-side.
Dr. Joseph, as he preferred to be called as there could be only one Dr. Jephson, stared up at the silent hulk. The mist and almost-full moon, created an incandescent light behind the ship, turning the rigging into a unearthly cobweb and her colours, a demonic black. Dr. Joseph could feel it hanging in the air...a foreboding of some destined change.
He hated this ship.
He was not alone in that thought; the six guards standing on duty, armed with standard issue rifles, pistols and with lanterns to guide their way, all had the same feeling.
“Can I help you, sir?” said the most senior of the guards. Sergeant Ambrose Merry. A strapping man, standing at six feet, six inches and weighing a trim two hundred and four pounds. He held his lantern high to get a better look at who he was addressing.
“My name is Jephson. Dr. Joseph Jephson.”
Jephson produced documentation as to his identity and handed it to the officer, who gave it no more than a cursory glance.
“May I ask the nature of your business, sir?”
“I believe the good doctor is here to meet with me, Sergeant.” From out of the thickening gloom came Holmes and Watson.
Sergeant Merry and Jephson turned toward the pair. Holmes already had a hand extended in greeting.
“Sherlock Holmes. Thank you for joining us, Dr. Jephson. This is my associate, Dr. Watson.” Handshakes and pleasantries were exchanged.
“A real pleasure to meet the famous Sherlock Holmes.”
Holmes turned to the officer, now standing to attention.
“Sergeant Merry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s good to see you again, Ambrose. How are Mary and the children?”
“Fine, as can be expected.”
“Sorry to bring you away from Carrick, but I needed to ensure that not so much as a mouse got on board that ship.”
“Been here for just over thirty-two hours, brought twelve of my best with me.”
“Would I be right in assuming the equipment that I asked for, has arrived?”
“Yes, sir...in one of the warehouses. One of lads will escort you over. Private Alten, front and centre.”
A stocky, short man stepped forward, embraced in a fog of his own breath.
“Take these gentlemen to the warehouse and stay with them until the end of your watch. Then return here and Carson will relieve you. Understand, Private?”
“Yes, sir.”
Merry handed a lantern to Dr. Watson. A gesture that showed that the soldier was a well-bred mixture of boldness and courtesy.
“You’ll need this, Doctor.”
“Very decent of you, Officer Merry.”
Holmes stood forward to address the officer as Jephson and Watson followed Private Alten.
“Ambrose, join us at our lodgings when you have finished. I’m going to need the help of a number of your men in the morning and need to discuss our plan.”
“Our watch finishes at nine, sir.”
“Excellent, I look forward to seeing you there.” Holmes moved in the direction of the warehouse.
“Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, Ambrose?”
“You’ve forgotten something. This.” The soldier held up a lantern.
In the gloom, the Mary Celeste creaked and groaned, her age showing. A mix of squeals and pops echoed throughout the labyrinth of empty rooms and holds. The smell was heavy with mildew and something else that was distinct and yet unplaceable. At first glance, all appeared normal aboard the abandoned ship. With a brave enough crew, or one that did not suffer superstitions, it could have served usefully for a few years yet. Closer inspection, however, showed that: those days had long passed. A film of mildew had begun to form on the glass surfaces, causing the moonlight to shine through darkness in long slits of light like pointing fingers. It was a night of great silences and spaces, punctuated by squeaking of ancient timbers.
Then there was a movement...something alive.
A rat, just like many before it, had climbed up one of the large mooring ropes and onto the decks. It’s hunt for food would now begin in earnest and it’s highly developed sense of smell led it to the grain holds in the bowels of the ship.
There was a sense of the ship being aware.
The years had enbrowned and mossed the once beautiful woodwork adding credence to the stories of things moving in the dark. And there was even a story of the ship floating in a Portugese harbour, with an unearthly glow emanating from the lower decks.
But many studies and reports had proved these to be nothing more than sailors fancies and asides to deflect investigators to the truth.
It all began when a family and crew...simply disappeared in the open sea. No. Nothing simply vanishes.
As the rat moved deeper into the ship,
the moonlight was consumed by the darkness, firstly in steady bites and then one big gulp. Blackness reigned.
The rat stopped, raised itself on its haunches and sniffed at the air. Its razor-sharp incisors glinting as a small shard of light caught the rats open jaws.
Its whiskers twitched. Ears searched for something other than the ship. Nothing.
Lower deck. Pitch black.
The jet black rodent was nothing more than a sound in the air, as it hugged closely to the wall. Searching. Searching.
Suddenly it stopped...again.
It couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t hear anything.
The creature sensed it...them.
At first there was a gentle light, more a glow. Not enough to be noticed by anyone outside the confines of the lower holds, but enough to surround the rat. The creature turned back, but it did not make it to the stairwell.
The walls came alive.
Tendrils, as thin as a human hair, darted with extreme precision into the rat’s body. The number was incalculable, but each of the tendrils was tipped with poison, not enough to kill, but enough to stun, to paralyse.
It pulled with all the might that the instinct to survive could muster, at the living things that clung to its body.
It gnawed at one, then another.
The stinging tendrils pulled back as teeth ripped at them, only to be replaced by yet more of the vein-like killers.
High-pitched squeals pierced the air, but these were silenced as many tendrils held the jaws open while others invaded the rats throat.
The rat continued to thrash against its bindings, but to no avail, as the tendrils held firm. A final, pitiful scream and its lower jaw was ripped from it’s skull.
Within less than a minute, the creature’s battle was near to ending.
The attack was instinctive and brutal.
The creature lay there, unable to move; but able to hear, to smell, to see. To feel.
The walls began to glow brighter as the tendrils retreated back into the wooden hull and decks. They were replaced by millions of microscopic translucent insects, who swarmed en masse the creature. The black fur now glistened white as the mass devoured the helpless animal while it lived. In its mind, it struggled to fight off the mass. Its last thought was more instinct than anything.
