Brian Freemantle - The Mary Celeste

Morehouse said nothing. He was having difficulty in controlling himself, Flood realised.

‘Isn’t the proper explanation for your finding of the Mary Celeste that she remained crewed after November 25, the date of the last official log entry?’

‘Who knows…?’ Morehouse began, generalising, but Flood intervened:

‘That’s what I’m endeavouring to discover,’ he pressed. ‘And having remained manned, was on course for a rendezvous?’

‘But — ’ tried Morehouse again.

‘A rendezvous with a vessel that would put the crew who had mutinied and foully murdered the captain and his family safely ashore somewhere, later to share in any salvage claim?’

‘But we salvaged the Mary Celeste,’ said Morehouse, not fully comprehending.

‘Indeed you did,’ said Flood.

‘No!’ shouted the man, understanding at last. ‘That’s a monstrous suggestion.’

‘What is monstrous is what happened to Captain Briggs, his wife and baby daughter,’ said the Attorney-General.

Because of the restrictions upon land available, there were few imposing residences in Gibraltar, but Flood’s was one of the grandest that conditions would permit. It was a low, two-storey building with a view of the linking peninsula and the mainland beyond, arranged Spanish-style around a tree-shaded courtyard the centrepiece of which was a fountain-filled pool.

From shareholding in ships’ chandlery, freight and import business, the conduct of which was scrupulously watched and open to public examination, so that he could never be accused of conflict of interest, Flood was a rich man and he enjoyed his wealth. Since the death of his wife, the house was too large and there were more servants than he needed either to maintain it or to take care of his needs, but he retained both, knowing his public position required it.

Having already taken a glass with Sir James Cochrane, the Attorney-General restricted himself to one tot of sherry while he awaited the man whose evidence would create a sensation. It had been difficult for him to restrain himself from advising in advance the journalists who were treating him so kindly in their publications.

Flood sipped his wine, savouring the flavour, thinking of the enquiry. The invitations to the judge’s chambers after each session appeared to be becoming established as a regular routine. And tonight’s encounter had been easier than the first. ‘Undoubtedly suspicious,’ Cochrane had said. Which Flood considered a mild judgment. He’d established a motive for the murder of Captain Briggs and his family; Morehouse to get sufficient funds from a salvage claim to set himself up in ownership and Captain Winchester to share the award while at the same time retaining ship and cargo, thus showing an extra profit and losing nothing. And it hadn’t stopped there. As well as a motive, he’d obtained from their own mouths the admission that the two men had known each other and had met after Captain Briggs had sailed from New York. It was fitting together very nicely.

He put his glass down upon a verandah table, his satisfaction marred by the recollection of another remark from Cochrane. Suspicious, the judge had agreed. But had then warned of the continued absence of any positive evidence. Immediately, Flood brightened. That wouldn’t be long arriving.

As if prompted by his thoughts, there was movement behind and a maid ushered Dr Patron on to the verandah.

Flood rose to meet the analyst, hand extended.

‘Some refreshment here, or shall we get to work straight away in the study?’ the Attorney-General invited him.

‘Much as I should like to admire this superb view,’ said the chemist, ‘I do have appointments to fulfil. So I’m afraid it must be work.’

Glad of the man’s refusal to waste time, Flood led the way from the verandah to a room at the back of the house. Dr Patron followed, briefcase held protectively in front of him, as if it contained something very valuable.

‘You’ve prepared the report?’ demanded Flood eagerly, as soon as the other man was seated.

Patron reached into the briefcase and took out two bound, closely written folios, pushing one across the desk.

‘Encapsulate it for me,’ insisted the Attorney-General.

The doctor fitted half-lens glasses into place and then took from the briefcase his original copy of the report, for reference.

‘At your request,’ he began formally, ‘I boarded the Mary Celeste in the forenoon of the 30th. The express purpose was to ascertain whether any marks or stains could be discovered on or in her hulk — ’

‘And…?’ prompted Flood impatiently.

The analyst frowned, irritated at the attempt to hurry him.

‘I made a careful study and minute inspection of the vessel,’ he said. ‘On the deck in the forepart of the vessel I found some brown spots about a millimetre thick and half an inch in diameter. These I separated from the deck with a chisel. In all I found spotting sufficient to make up four exhibit envelopes. There was a further, similar spot on the top-gallant rail. I made an exhibit from that, as I did from that piece of timber provided by you…’

Flood smiled. It had been he who had first seen the marked timber and insisted upon Thomas Vecchio, the marshal, cutting it out during their first visit to the Mary Celeste.

‘Apart from these spots, I could find nothing within the vessel to suggest any bloodstaining,’ continued Dr Patron. ‘Later during my examination I received from Mr Vecchio the sword and scabbard, which he informed me had been found beneath the bunk in the captain’s cabin.’

Flood sighed, exasperated by the man’s pedantic presentation, but he suppressed the urge to hurry him.

‘Three spots I had obtained from the deck were large enough to hang upon threads before suspending them in tubes containing a quantity of distilled water. Two others were so small that I had to put them into filtering bags before commencing the maceration — ’

‘How long did it take?’ demanded Flood, anticipating the result.

Again there was a frown from the chemist at the other man’s urgency.

‘The initial maceration was continued for two and a quarter hours,’ he said. ‘At the end of that time, the distilled water was as clear and bright as it had been at the commencment of the experiment.’

The Attorney-General tilted his head to one side in one of his bird-like positions, as if it were difficult to understand what the other man was saying.

‘Notwithstanding that, I left things as they were until the following day, but even at the end of twenty-four hours there was still no discoloration of the water. I then heated the exhibits by spirit lamp, but still there was no cloudy aspect forthcoming — ’

‘Are you telling me…?’

‘I then concluded that particular experiment, believing it to be negative,’ said the doctor, refusing the interruption. ‘I then put beneath the microscope those particles I had attempted to macerate in filtering bags. I identified carbonate of iron and a vegetable substance — ’

‘I’m a layman, doctor. What is that?’

‘Rust,’ said Patron simply. ‘And wood fibres.’

‘The sword,’ said Flood urgently. ‘What about the sword?’

Patron nodded. ‘About the middle and rear part of the blade were stains of a more suspicious character,’ he resumed. ‘Although small and superficial, their aspect was reddish and in some parts brilliant. My first impression was that they were unquestionably bloodstains.’

Missing the qualification, Flood began nodding, sharp, abrupt movements.

‘I subjected them to the same maceration as I had attempted with the earlier experiments, once again submitting them to heat when no discoloration of the liquid took place. There was still no clouding under conditions of heat. Under a microscope, I identified an imperfectly crystallised substance resembling citrate of iron. Three other stains were tested with hydrochloric acid and after a perceptible effervescence a yellow stain was produced of chloride of iron — ’