James Blaylock - The Adventures of Langdon St. Ives

They were joking, of course — being jolly after their morning visit. And I was happy for it, not for myself, but for St. Ives. I hated to tell them the truth, but I told them anyway. “There’s been a man shot,” I said.

St. Ives scowled. “The news is up and down the bay by now. We heard a lad shouting it outside the window of Aunt Edie’s cottage. Sterne Bay doesn’t get many shootings.”

“I saw the whole thing. Witnessed it.”

St. Ives looked up from his pint glass and raised his eyebrows.

“He wasn’t a half step in front of me. A tramp from the look of him, just about to touch me for a shilling, I suppose, and then, crack! just like that, and he’s on his back like a bug, dead. Shattered his heart.”

“He was a half step in front of you? That’s hyperbole, of course. What you meant to say is that he was nearby.”

“As close to me as I am to you,” I said, thinking what he was thinking.

St. Ives was silent for a moment, studying things. It had taken me a while to see it too, what with all the complications of the morning. Clearly the bullet hadn’t been meant for the beggar. There’s no profit in shooting a beggar, unless you’re a madman. And I had been running into too many madmen lately. The odds against there being another one lurking about were too high. Picture it: there’s the beggar turning toward me. From back toward The Hoisted Pint, I must have half hidden him. The bullet that struck him had missed me by a fraction.

So who had taken a shot at me from The Hoisted Pint, from a second-story window, maybe? Or from the roof of the icehouse; that would have served equally well. I thought about the disappeared elephant and about the captain and his “Out West” mannerisms. But why on earth…?

I ordered a third pint, swearing to myself to drink it slowly and then go up to take a nap. I’d done my work for the day; I could leave the rest to Hasbro and St. Ives.

“I saw Parsons on the pier,” I said. “And I talked to Captain Bowker. And I think your woman with the letters is skulking around, probably staying at The Hoisted Pint, down toward the pier.” That started it. I told them the whole story, just as it happened — the toy on the table, Parsons in his fishing regalia, the captain jollying me around — and they sat silent throughout, thinking, perhaps, that I’d made a very pretty morning of it while they were off drinking tea and listening to rumors through the window.

“He thought you were an agent,” said St. Ives, referring to Captain Bowker. “Insurance detective. What’s he hiding, though, that he wouldn’t let you look around the icehouse? This log of his, maybe? Not likely. And why would he try to shoot you? That’s not an act calculated to cement the idea of his being innocent. And Parsons here too…” St. Ives fell into a study, then thumped his fist on the table, standing up and motioning to Hasbro, who stood up too, and the both of them went out leaving their glasses two-thirds full on the table. Mine was empty again, and I was tempted to pour theirs into mine in order to secure a more profound nap and to avoid waste. But there was the landlady, grinning toward me and the clock just then striking noon.

She whisked the glasses away with what struck me as a sense of purpose, looking across her spectacles at me. I lurched up the stairs and collapsed into bed, making up for our early rising with a nap that stretched into the late afternoon.

I was up and pulling on my shoes when there was a knock on the door. It’s St. Ives, I thought, while I was stepping across to throw it open. It might as easily have been the man with the gun — something that occurred to me when the door was halfway open. And for a moment I was tempted to slam it shut, cursing myself for a fool and thinking at the same time that half opening the door and then slamming it in the visitor’s face would paint a fairly silly picture of me, unless, of course, it was the man with the gun…

It wasn’t. It was a man I had never seen before. He was tall, gaunt, and stooped, almost cadaverous. He wore a hat, but it was apparent that he was bald on top and didn’t much bother to cut the tufts of hair above his ears. He would have made a pretty scarecrow. There were deep furrows around his lips, the result of a lifetime of pursing them, I suppose, which is just what he was doing now, glaring down his hooked nose at me as if he didn’t quite approve of the look on my face.

Afternoon naps always put me in a wretched mood, and the sight of him doubled it. “You’ve apparently got the wrong room,” I said, and started to shut the door. He put his foot in the way.

“I’m an insurance agent,” he said, glancing back down the hallway. “Lloyd’s. There’s a question or two…”

“Of course,” I said. So that was it. Captain Bowker was under investigation. I swung the door open and in he came, looking around the room with a slightly appalled face, as if the place was littered with dead pigs, say, and they were starting to stink. I didn’t like him at all, insurance agent or not.

He started in on me, grilling me, as they say. “You were seen talking to Captain Bowker today.”

I nodded.

“About what?”

“Ice,” I said. “My name is Adam Benbow, from up in Harrogate. I’m a fish importer down on holiday.”

He nodded. He was easier to fool than the captain had been. I was bothered, though, by the vague suspicion that I had gotten my name wrong. I had, of course. This morning it had been Abner. I could hardly correct it, though, not now. And how would he know anyway? What difference did my name make to him?

“We’re investigating the incident of the downed ship. Did you talk to him about that?”

“Which ship?”

“The Landed Catch, sunk off Dover days ago. What do you know about that ship?”

“Not a thing. I read about it in the papers, of course. Who hasn’t?’’

“Are you acquainted with a man named Langdon St. Ives?” he asked abruptly. He half spun around when he said this, as if to take me by surprise.

It worked, too. I sputtered there for a moment, blinking at him. And when I said, “Langdon who?” the attempt was entirely worthless. I was as transparent as window glass.

He acted as if I had admitted everything. “We believe that Mr. St. Ives is also investigating the business of the Landed Catch, and we’re wondering why.”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Who was it again? Saint what?” It was worthless pretending, and I knew it. I had to dummy up, though. I wasn’t about to answer the man’s questions. St. Ives could do that for himself. On the other hand, I suppose it was pointless to insist that I didn’t know St. Ives. The man was onto my game, what with the false names and the Harrogate business.

“What did you see, exactly, at the icehouse?”

“ See? Nothing. The man wouldn’t allow me in. He seemed anxious, to tell you the truth. Like he didn’t want me snooping around. He has something to hide there; you can take that much from me.”

“Something to hide, you think?”

“Bank on it.”

The man nodded, suddenly jolly, grinning at me. “I think you’re right,” he said. “He’s hiding something horrible, is what I think. These are dangerous waters. Very rocky and shallow. He’s a subtle man, Captain Bowker is. My advice is to steer clear of him. Leave him to us. He’ll be in Newgate Prison waiting to swing, if only for this morning’s shooting.”

I must have jerked my eyes open when he said this last, for he grinned at the look on my face and nodded, pursing his lips so that his mouth almost disappeared. “You were a lucky man,” he said. “But you’re safe now. We’re onto him, watching him from every angle. You don’t have to hide in your room like this.