‘It was an accident.’
‘The worst things often are.’
Sammy’s small fingers probed Arent’s huge hand, but even with the extra light, there was nothing new to be learned about the scar. It was barely even visible, any more. The problematary didn’t bother to hide his disappointment.
‘You make for a very poor clue,’ he chided, releasing Arent’s hand. ‘Who knows about the scar and the use you put it to?’
‘My grandfather and my uncle. My mother did, but she died not long after I was taken away.’
‘Broken heart?’
‘Pox.’
‘What about Sara Wessel?’
‘My uncle may have told her, but I don’t think so. She hasn’t mentioned it. Otherwise, nobody. My grandfather ordered me to keep it under my tongue. He said the past was poisoned ground and those who lingered there died. I thought he was trying to keep me from thinking about it, but my uncle told me an English witchfinder had been hunting for anybody afflicted by the mark, so they hid me away. I didn’t know that at the time, though.’
Sammy murmured appreciatively. ‘Your grandfather sounds like a wise man. What do you remember about the day your father disappeared?’
‘Very little. We were a few hours into the woods, tracking some boar. We didn’t speak. I was only there to carry my father’s pack. A man called to us for help.’
‘Somebody you knew?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And then?’
‘We called back, then went to find him. After that …’ Arent shrugged. That was his last memory of that day. For years, he’d tried to break through it, but it was like scrambling up a cliff face. ‘I woke up on the road, shivering wet with this scar on my wrist.’
Sammy became watchful, his next question tentative. ‘Was your father’s body ever found?’
Arent shook his head.
‘Then he could be alive?’
‘Only if the devil has a sense of humour,’ grunted Arent. ‘My father was a predikant and his congregation was the only thing he loved. If he’d survived, he would have come back for them. You can’t believe my father’s involved in this! You said to rule out ghosts.’
‘Ghosts are God’s problem. The living must deal with me,’ declared Sammy, ideas hammering themselves together behind his eyes ‘But to call him a ghost, there’d have to be a body. It’s not like we haven’t seen this before, Arent. Remember The Case of the Empty Spire, where the –’
‘Long dead sister was living in the walls,’ shuddered Arent. He’d been the one tasked with dragging her into the daylight. He’d spent a week washing the stink off his body.
‘What else do you know about this Old Tom?’ asked Sammy, his thoughts still clearly on Arent’s father.
‘It was driven out of the Provinces by an English witchfinder named Pieter Fletcher, who was the second husband of Creesjie Jens.’
‘Your uncle’s mistress?’
Arent nodded. ‘Four years ago, Old Tom found him in Amsterdam. Fletcher packed his family into a carriage and fled to Lille, but it followed and murdered him. It left its mark above his body. Creesjie Jens believes it’s raised Bosey from the dead to kill the rest of his family on the Saardam.’
Sammy ran a hand across his face, trying to disguise the worry washing across it. ‘Arent, you were in Lille four years ago.’
Arent didn’t need reminding. The shame blotted him like a wax stamp.
It had been the first case he’d been trusted to untangle alone. Sammy had sent him to recover a jewel stolen from the Gentlemen 17. After four days of investigation, he accused a clerk named Edward Coil of the crime. They were putting the noose around his neck when Sammy arrived on the back of an exhausted horse, holding a handful of splinters that proved Arent had got it wrong. He’d been in such a hurry to accuse Coil that he’d missed them.
Sammy had been kind, kinder than Arent had any right to expect. Time and again, he’d offered Arent another case, another chance to prove himself capable, but the mercenary knew his limitations. He’d seen them up close. That was Sammy’s gift to everybody who met him. An instant understanding of what they could never be.
‘You can’t believe I slaughtered Creesjie Jens’s husband,’ protested Arent. ‘I didn’t even know him.’
‘I know you didn’t, you damn fool, but either somebody’s keen to make us think otherwise, or it’s a coincidence. Did Creesjie give any reason the demon might have waited so long to enact is revenge?’
‘She fled. She’s been moving from country to country ever since.’
‘She was moved, or she was ushered?’
‘Ushered?’
‘There are three people on this boat connected to Old Tom. Fate rarely reveals itself so nakedly.’
‘Three?’
‘You, Creesjie and your uncle,’ explained Sammy impatiently. ‘How did you all come to be here?’
‘I’m here because you’re here,’ pointed out Arent.
‘And I’m here, because the governor general ordered it so.’
‘As is Creesjie Jens. My uncle forced her to depart Batavia earlier than she was intending.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s beautiful and he enjoys her company?’
Sammy seemed sceptical. ‘So am I, and I’m in a cell,’ he grumbled. ‘What about your uncle? Why is he here?’
‘He’s sailing back to join the Gentlemen 17 and deliver The Folly.’
‘Yes, but why is he on this ship? Surely your uncle could have chosen any ship in the fleet. Why did he pick the Saardam?’
‘Captain Crauwels is the best sailor in the Company. They’ve sailed together in the past and he trusts him.’
Sammy blew out a long, troubled breath. ‘It all comes back to your uncle, doesn’t it? He’s like a damn whirlpool and we’re all caught in the churning water.’ He considered Arent. ‘If your uncle had ordered you to board this ship, would you have done it?’
‘Not without you.’
‘And if he’d tried to order me to board the Saardam, I’d have asked him why he was so keen for me to be here.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘That imprisoning me was the only way to ensure you’d be on the Saardam.’
Arent bristled. ‘My uncle can be brusque, and even cruel, but he loves me, Sammy. He’d never do anything to put me in danger.’
Sammy looked out at the bright lanterns of the fleet. ‘We’re losing sight of the dead,’ he chided himself. ‘For all the strangeness aboard this ship, we only have one actual crime to investigate. Bosey didn’t ignite his own robes and it wasn’t his voice that threatened the ship. Until we understand more, I’m treating his death as murder. Have you talked to his friends?’
‘I’ve tried, but it’s like trying to pry open traps.’
‘Then try harder. He must have told somebody about this bargain he struck. Somehow you two are connected, so let’s see if he knew you. Or your family. Find out where Bosey’s from. Perhaps he suffered in the village where Old Tom died.’
Arent nodded, but Sammy wasn’t finished with his labours. ‘And it would be worth understanding what Laxagarr means.’
‘Sara’s already tried,’ responded Arent. ‘We think it’s Nornish, and the only person who speaks the language is the man who cut Bosey’s tongue out.’
‘That’s useful, because we need an explanation for that, as well.’
‘Okay,’ agreed Arent doubtfully, remembering his earlier encounter with Wyck. ‘What else?’
‘Rags and bandages aren’t hard to find. Convince Captain Crauwels to search the ship, if you can. Otherwise appeal to your uncle. If we’re lucky, the leper’s costume will reveal itself in the company of the man who’s been wearing it.’