Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

Fallen by Joan Druett

There had most surely been a lot of death on the old Nantucket whaleship Paths of Duty.

It all began when the second mate dropped dead.

Two hours earlier, the lookout’s sharp eyes had glimpsed a pod of whales just after the sun had risen, though the light was glittering blindingly on the surface of the mid-Atlantic sea. “There blows!” he’d howled, and the decks of the small and elderly Nantucket whaleship Paths of Duty came alive with excitement. Captain Smith raced to the highest part of the mainmast, took a long look through his spyglass, and then came racing down again, bawling orders for the four whaleboats to be lowered.

Wiki Coffin, who belonged to the second mate’s boat, went to the waist deck, where that particular whaleboat hung in the davits, and within seconds was joined by the other three oarsmen of the second mate’s boat’s crew. With no more than a nod and a grunt, the second mate hurried up and jumped into the boat while it was still swinging, quickly followed by his harpooner, a Portuguese from the islands of the Azores, far off the coast of Portugal. His name was Miguel Dalgardo, and he was new to the crew, having been shipped at Fayal, three weeks before. Wiki and the remaining three lowered the boat into the sea, and when it hit the waves they jumped down into it and took up their oars.

The second mate was also new to the ship, having been shipped at Fayal at the same time as Miguel. The old hands watched him warily, because this was the first time they had raised whales since he had come on board, and as he was over sixty, far too old for the whaling trade, they fully expected him to let them down. However, he stood like a gnarled warrior at his great steering oar as he sang out encouragement, and the boat pulsed on toward the spouting whales.

Then they were up to the pod. “Stand, Miguel!” the second mate cried as the boat drew up to the first huge bull, and the Portuguese harpooner put down his oar, and stood up in the bow, while the oarsmen watched him surreptitiously over their shoulders. Despite their blackest suspicions, he immediately made it obvious that he had done this many times before too. Without the barest hint of fear, he braced his thigh into the notch in the bow thwart, gripping the ash handle of the harpoon and aiming it unwaveringly as with a great stinking belch the bull whale spouted.

The second mate had steered well — the boat was directly in line with the hump. “Let him have it, Miguel!” he shouted, his tone quivering madly with excitement. Thump! went the iron, and the whaleline whistled out. Off went thirty fathoms as the whale startled, and then the second mate reached down and snubbed it to the loggerhead.

With a tremendous lurch the whaleboat straightened up, and then it surged forward at a cracking pace, tugged along in the wake of the whale. Spray flew all around them, and everyone — except for Wiki, who, being the most junior hand, had the job of bailing out — hung onto the sides. The Nantucket sleighride didn’t last long, because the whale tired out fast. After a few gigantic circles he slowed and then sank to a stop, and the old second mate ordered shakily, “Haul line, boys, haul line!”

His voice was so strange that Wiki looked curiously up at him, to see that the old man’s face was flushed scarlet and purple. The veins in his forehead stood out like worms, and his reddened eyes popped. The oarsmen in the bow were hauling hard on the whaleline to bring the boat up to the whale’s side, dragging it in and tossing loose coils into the bottom of the boat. This was the moment when the second mate was supposed to change places with the harpooner. He was meant to step daintily along the length of the boat to the bow, pick up the sharp-bladed lance, and finish off the whale. Instead, however, he dropped dead.

Wiki watched the old fellow double over, and paw feebly at the air. Then there was a big thud as he collapsed in a heap. For a moment, there was blank silence in the boat, punctuated by the swish of the sea and a snort and a slap as the whale recovered his wits and sounded, taking the line and harpoon with him before anyone could do anything about it. At that moment, everyone in the boat was too stunned even to notice the whale’s departure. Someone reached out a tentative hand and nudged the second mate, but it was already plain to all that he was lifeless.

As the boat’s crew marveled after they got back on board, his very last words had been, “Haul line, boys, haul line!” The sailors of the Paths of Duty thought that this was truly remarkable, much more notable than the manner of his death. The second mate had definitely been too old for the whaling trade, liable to heart attacks because of the moments of great excitement that whaling involved — as everyone knew, Captain Smith had hired him only because he was desperate for an officer. While it was bad luck to lose him so soon, no one could say it was unexpected.

Consequently, the funeral, when the captain said a prayer and the shrouded corpse was tipped over the rail into the sea, was almost perfunctory. Not only was he old, but over the three weeks since they had left the Azores no one had got acquainted with the old man. However, the ritual at the foremast next day, when the dead mate’s effects were auctioned off, was surprisingly solemn — or so Wiki noticed.

The captain presided, setting down the second mate’s sea chest at the foot of the foremast, and then holding up his few belongings — a couple of shirts, a pair of shabby trousers, a few pipes, and a small bag of tobacco — and calling out for bids. According to tradition, the money raised would be sent to the dead man’s family, something that not a soul on board the Paths of Duty believed for an instant, all of them being quite convinced that the captain pocketed the cash. However, the bids had come freely as men bought up the poor things, and the atmosphere had been remarkably somber — which, as Wiki found later that same day, had surprising consequences.

It was during the evening dogwatch, the time of the day when everyone on board relaxed a bit, and the routine of night watches hadn’t yet started. Wiki was on the foredeck quietly digesting his supper, when out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the harpooners lunge up and lean on the starboard rail beside him. His name was Isaac Norton. Wiki thought he might be a Martha’s Vineyard man because he had joined the ship at Edgartown. They hadn’t had much to do with each other: Norton was the harpooner for a different whaleboat and bunked in the steerage instead of the forecastle. So when Isaac cleared his throat, Wiki merely lifted his eyebrows and nodded politely before returning his contemplative stare to the quiet water.

Then he heard Isaac remark grimly, “I don’t want my gear sold off like that, not when I’m dead and gone.”

Wiki paused, not at all sure what to say. Auctioning off the contents of the dead man’s chest was the usual custom with whalemen, one that he thought quite sensible. Otherwise, not only would a place have to be found to store the dead man’s duds over the several-years-long voyage, but other seamen, who as a rule did not have much in the way of belongings, wouldn’t be able to put stuff he didn’t need any more to good use.

However, Norton didn’t seem to need a reply, as he went on broodingly, “I guess you don’t have customs like that where you come from. Don’t you bury it all with the deceased, or summat like that?”

Wiki shook his head, biting back a grin. “Quite the opposite. When someone dies, people come from miles around to collect on debts, and it’s amazing how much disappears.”

“That’s exactly it!” Norton exclaimed, animated.

“It’s actually a kind of ritual plundering, what we call muru,” Wiki informed him.

“And that’s what I don’t want to happen!”

“No?” said Wiki. He wondered greatly where this conversation was headed.

“Nope,” said Norton firmly. Then he was silent a moment, his mouth pursing in and out as he stroked his stubbled chin and studied Wiki with sideways looks. Then he observed, “Folks tell me that even though you’re jest a Kanaka, you know how to read and write.”

“Aye, that’s true,” said Wiki, without taking umbrage. Though he was half American and the other half New Zealand Maori, he was so used to being called a Kanaka — the Yankee name for a Pacific Islander — that it didn’t trouble him any more.

“You’re sure?”

Wiki cast him an icy glance. “I told you — it’s true.”

“I didn’t mean to cast aspersions,” the harpooner said hastily. Wiki was big and well muscled, and had stood up for himself several times already this voyage. “It’s just I had trouble believing it,” Isaac Norton went on. “On account of you seem awful young to be educated. How old are you, anyways?”

“Seventeen,” said Wiki. Before he had left New Zealand, his mother had told him to be sure to remember that he had been born in the year 1814, as Yankees set great store by birthdays.

The other nodded. “I s’pose you was educated by the missionaries.”

As it happened, Wiki had originally learned to enjoy books because a drunken Yankee beachcomber — a man who, once upon a time, had been a respectable Edgartown captain — had taught him how to read. However, he kept a diplomatic silence, and at long last Isaac came out with what was on his mind.

“I want you to write my will,” he said.

“Your what?”

“My Last Will and Testament. I’m not going to have my effects auctioned off at the foremast like that,” Isaac said grimly. “And who knows what accidents might happen before we get back to the Azores?”

“We’re going back to Fayal?” exclaimed Wiki, very startled.

When they had been there three weeks previously, he had gone ashore at Fayal with the captain, to act as a witness. Hiring a new second mate and a new harpooner had been a long, drawn-out, difficult affair, because the United States consul had been so distracted. Not only were there locals in and out all the time trying to sell great baskets of onions and oranges to Captain Smith, but a visiting American merchant had stormed in to report the theft of a wallet of gold. What with all the commotion and bad temper, it had been many hours before they had been able to return to the ship. Having heard the skipper cursing Fayal so fluently, it now surprised Wiki greatly that he was entertaining the notion of revisiting the place. It was also highly unusual for anyone in the crew to know the ship’s next destination, as all captains were convinced that their crews would start plotting desertion if they knew where they were headed, and so kept it a deadly secret.

“Fayal,” confirmed Isaac Norton. “The cap’n reckons he’s had enough of cruising around here, what with all the foul luck we’ve had, and so he wants to provision for the passage around Cape Horn. But he daren’t continue the voyage without yet another replacement second mate, and another harpooner as well. We’ve lost too many of the after gang already, and he wants a harpooner in reserve.”

Wiki nodded, understanding. There had been a lot of changes in the after cabin of the Paths of Duty in the three preceding months of voyage, what with the constant attrition of captains and officers. There had most surely been a lot of death on the old Nantucket whaleship — which brought them back to the matter of the will.

This turned out to be quite a simple affair, as Isaac Norton was leaving everything he owned to Miguel Dalgardo. Wiki felt puzzled, as Dalgardo had been on board such a very short time. However, it seemed that Miguel and Isaac had been shipmates on a previous voyage. The form of the document was more taxing than the contents, as Isaac insisted that it should look too official to ever be questioned. Wiki cut a blank page from the back of his journal, and headed it up in the beautiful copperplate script that the Edgartown beachcomber had taught him, but after he had written down the name of the single beneficiary, there was still a lot of empty space, which Isaac didn’t like, perhaps because he thought someone might sneak in a few extra items after he was dead. In order to fill it up, Wiki asked him to list the items in his chest, which turned out to be just a few assorted shabby garments, a bar of soap, a spare pair of shoes, a couple of double-eagle dollars, and some tobacco. However, putting them down filled up the page the way Norton wanted.

“And of course,” the harpooner pointed out, breathing heavily as he watched from behind Wiki’s shoulder, “there’s my lay.”

“Of course,” Wiki agreed. The lay was the share of the profits of the whaling voyage that was set out according to each man’s position on board, the captain getting the biggest share, and a greenhorn like Wiki Coffin being allotted the smallest. It was impossible to tell what Isaac Norton’s share would be, the voyage being a long way from over yet but as he was a harpooner, it would be respectable, maybe even as much as four hundred dollars at the end of four years.

With the setting down of that last important item, the will was complete. Wiki made a copy in a little notebook, just to keep the record straight, then he and Isaac signed the actual will, Isaac with a cross, and Wiki with a flourish. Wiki handed it over, Isaac went off a satisfied man, and Wiki thought that was the end of it.

However, it seemed that it was impossible to keep a secret on the old Paths of Duty. Isaac Norton proudly informed Miguel that he was his sole beneficiary, and so the story got to the other harpooners, and the harpooners told their boats’ crews, and the ultimate result was that Last Wills and Testaments became all the rage on board the whaleship Paths of Duty. In view of the public demise of the second mate, Wiki supposed that it was reasonable that everyone should be feeling more mortal than usual, but as men kept on accosting him with a request to draw up their final documents, he thought it was very strange that he seemed to be the only man on board, apart from the officers, who knew how to read and write.

Then he found that he was the choice of notary public because he was the most junior member of the crew, and all his clients felt safe in the knowledge that they could gang up on him if he blabbed. If he had felt like talking there would have been some strange stories to tell, because some of the legacies were quite bizarre, with shirts being endowed to men who didn’t fit them, tobacco going to those who did not smoke or chew, and an amazing number of bequests going to the captain, who was universally disliked.

It was almost a relief when Miguel Dalgardo came along, because his choice of inheritor was the first one that was logical. Predictably, Miguel responded to the compliment paid to him by Isaac Norton by leaving him the entire contents of his sea chest. He didn’t even want to list them, even though, as he informed Wiki, those contents included his beautiful shore-going shirt, which had flowers lavishly embroidered on the collar and front. Altogether, Wiki enjoyed the job, as it gave him a chance to practice his Portuguese. He had found that he had a natural aptitude for foreign languages, and was fluent in Spanish already. Now, he was keen to get his Portuguese up to the same level, and so he and Miguel chattered together a good deal while the ship slowly forged her way to the islands, and by the time the ship got to the Azores they were conversing like brothers.

Isaac Norton’s prediction had been wrong, however — the island where they made a landfall was not Fayal, but one of the other little islands of the group, Pico. Wiki, at the lookout post in the mainmast, watched as the mountain that formed the heart of Pico rose out of the horizon and gradually filled the sky. Narrow terraced fields ruled off the sides of the steep hills all the way up to the tiny meadows, maize gardens, and groves of orange trees that were dotted about the lofty heights, where little lacy waterfalls tumbled down to the sea. It was a very pretty scene, but Wiki meditated that it looked a hard place to make a living, and that it was not surprising that so many of the sons of the Azores could be found on the decks of American whalers.

It was a perfect day with a topgallant breeze, but instead of going in, Captain Smith gave orders to haul aback, lower a boat, and then lay off and on, which meant that the crew would keep the old ship tacking back and forth to keep her more or less in the same place in the water, about the most tedious job possible at sea. However, even if Pico had boasted any kind of anchorage, which was doubtful, the captain would have been too strapped for funds to pay for one, Nantucket shipowners being notoriously stingy.

Wiki was still aloft when Captain Smith called out to him, ordering him to go with the first boat. He wondered why, but then found out that the skipper wanted him to translate. Miguel was going too, but as he was one of the locals, the captain undoubtedly reckoned he could not be trusted an inch.

Down the boat rattled, and down the four oarsmen jumped after it. Wiki settled himself on the amidships thwart, and picked up his oar. Miguel had the bow oar, right in the bows, and Isaac Norton steered, while Captain Smith sat in the stern sheets with a boat cloak around him to protect his best broadcloth. The pull to the shore was easy, but there was a lot of trouble landing. There was nothing much of a slipway, so the oarsmen had to jump out into the knee-deep surf and drag the boat up the shingle beach.

Right ahead were low stone buildings, their facades washed with lime, evidently boatsheds and storehouses. A crowd of fishermen with seamed brown faces turned from their net mending to stare at the boat, while urchins gathered and yelled with excitement. Captain Smith ordered Miguel to chat with the fishermen and try to find out if there was anyone on this island willing to ship for a whaling voyage to the South Pacific, and to tell them that a man with enough experience to wield a sure harpoon could expect a generous lay. Sometimes, he said, it was easier to find hands like that than it was to bargain with the village governor. Then he told Wiki to come with him, leaving Isaac and the other three oarsmen to look after the boat.

A narrow path zigzagged up the steep cliff. High above, Wiki could glimpse the low whitewashed wall of a plaza, and the silhouette of a belfry beyond it. Then, as he followed Captain Smith upward, the plaza and the bell tower were hidden by the bulge of the mountainside. It was growing hot, and dust kicked up from his boots. There was a kind of low furze growing out of the pebbles and stones that rimmed the seaward edge, and from it emanated a stinging camphorlike smell when Wiki brushed against it, which he couldn’t help doing, as the path was so very narrow in parts. There were small burrows pocking the face of the cliff to his left, and though he couldn’t glimpse any life inside them, Wiki imagined scorpions and spiders and sharp bird beaks. He thought that he wouldn’t like to traverse this very steep and narrow part of the path in the dark, when he would be forced to hug the cliff. The rocks and the sea seemed a long way below, and the Paths of Duty looked like a toy as she sailed slowly back and forth a half mile offshore. He could hear the distant yelling of the children as they vied for the strangers’ attention, but the boat, the buildings, and the men were all hidden beneath a precarious-looking overhang.

Then at last they breasted the top, and the sunbaked plaza was spread out before them, paved with irregularly shaped stones, with blindingly white adobe binding them. A number of men were waiting, all in black suits save for one in a black gown who was evidently the village priest. With wonderful dignity, they greeted Captain Smith in both English and Portuguese, then ushered him and Wiki inside the dark coolness of one of the houses that bounded the square and offered hospitality. They sat at the table and Wiki translated while the village dignitaries complimented him gravely on his facility with their tongue.

Otherwise, it was just like Fayal, with people bustling in and out with cabbages, onions, and oranges to sell, all of which Captain Smith bought in great quantity. When Wiki was sent outside at noon — it not being thought proper that a common seaman should dine with his superiors — it was to find that the farmers who had made their bargains with Captain Smith were bringing in great heaps of baskets ready for the Paths of Duty sailors to lug back down to the beach.

Wiki spent the time wandering around and enjoying himself. He liked the strange sights — stone walls covered with grapevines, the plows drawn by heavy cattle, the insect-bitten horses, and the pigs led around by rope harnesses. Women entirely dressed in black, with black scarves over their heads, came out of the doorways of their whitewashed cottages, and offered him hunks of chewy, freshly baked bread — bolo — with tiny hard-boiled eggs to eat, along with deep mugs of warm milk; they pinched his cheeks to see his creased-up grin, admired his olive skin, and told him that they were very relieved that he was going away on the American ship, as otherwise he would seduce their daughters. He asked many questions about Pico, and received many interesting answers.

All too soon he was called back inside. However, Captain Smith was in a good mood because he had found a replacement officer, a local who had risen as high as third mate on his last voyage on a New Bedforder, and who was looking for another berth. No sooner had Wiki witnessed the cross he put on the ship’s articles than an experienced harpooner presented himself at the door. Looking extremely gratified, Captain Smith sent them off, giving Wiki orders to tell Isaac to get the two new men to the ship, and then bring back three boats with their crews, because he needed twelve hands to lug his shopping down to the beach.

Wiki trudged back down the path in the hot mid-afternoon sun behind the new officer and harpooner, listening to them talking with each other, and watching his feet as he carefully pushed between the aromatic furze and the burrowed cliff face. The two local men didn’t seem to notice the dangers of the path at all; it was as if the steep plunge to the sea didn’t exist for them. When they got to the bottom, Isaac and Miguel were sitting on the bottom of the upturned boat, talking with a tall, dark-faced young man. The scene was peaceful enough, but no sooner had Wiki passed on Captain Smith’s orders than all hell broke loose.

Apparently, Miguel had promised the job of harpooner to the tall young man, whose name was Pedro. Not only was Pedro white lipped and furious when he found that the man with Wiki had been given the position already, but he refused to accept defeat. Instead, he demanded that Miguel resign from the ship so he could have his job; it was a matter of honor, he claimed. Then, when Wiki tried to reason with him, both Pedro and Miguel turned round and blamed him for the strange situation.

In the end, much to his relief, Isaac Norton, as the most senior crew member present, took charge. He ordered Wiki to take the boat to the ship with the new officer at the steering oar, while he went up to the plaza with Miguel and Pedro. By the time Wiki came back with the extra two boats, he said, Captain Smith would have sorted it out.

Wiki watched the three of them set off up the track, and then turned to the job of shoving the whaleboat back out into the surf. The other oarsmen, he saw, were eloquently rolling their eyes at the antics of Pedro and Miguel; the fishermen, who were still mending their nets, shook their heads in wonderment too. When they got to the ship, it seemed very peaceful on board, in contrast to events on shore. Mr. Starbuck, the first mate, listened to Wiki’s report, and then ordered two more boats lowered, and off they rowed again.

Not only did Wiki have his back to the beach as he pulled at his oar, but the lowering sun was in his eyes. Before he even turned round to look, however, he became acutely aware of the atmosphere of consternation and panic. As he helped haul the boat onto the shingle, he saw that the fishermen were no longer mending their nets. Instead, they were gathered around a body.

It was Miguel Dalgardo. By the state of his corpse it was not just obvious that he was irretrievably dead, but also that he had been killed by a long fall from the cliff. Wiki, who had come to like him while they were conversing in Portuguese, felt a stab of awful sadness.

Pedro stood at the back of the group, with a couple of fishermen standing close at either side of him like sentries, and his eyes sliding everywhere with shock and fear. It was obvious that the fishermen, having heard all the fuss when Pedro had claimed Miguel’s job, knew exactly who to blame for Miguel’s death — Pedro himself.

The instant he saw Wiki he burst into a torrent of Portuguese, assuring him that though, yes, he was very anxious to obtain a berth on the Yankee whaleship, as whaling with Americans was the route to a fortune as well as adventure, he would never, most certainly never, stoop to the murder of a man in order to secure even the favorable position Captain Smith was offering. He had not even been a witness to the terrible accident, he vowed. Being so familiar with the way up to the plaza, he had been a long way ahead of the other two when he heard Miguel cry out and then the awful sounds as he bounced off rocks all the way to the bottom of the cliff.

Isaac Norton was there too, gray faced and grim. Wiki went up to him and asked, “Did you see Pedro push Miguel?”

Isaac shook his head. “I was a long way behind,” he said. “I’ve never felt a qualm about heights before; going aloft to fix the topgallant in a stormy night has never worried me a jot, but that bloody track up the cliff had me spooked. The people here ain’t regular people, they’re human goats! And then,” he added, “there was the snake.”

“Snake?” echoed Wiki, startled.

“Aye. Did you see them nasty little burrows dug into the cliff? I was watching them, and watching the edge of that bloody path too. When a snake slid out of one of them holes, it stopped me dead in my tracks, I tell you. I didn’t shift an inch until he had gone his way, and by that time the other two were well out of sight. I guess,” Isaac said lugubriously, “that’s when Pedro grabbed his chance to get rid of the opposition.”

Wiki frowned, but before he could say anything, Captain Smith arrived. Predictably, he was furious. Not only had he lost yet another man, and a good harpooner at that, but the only likely replacement was unavailable, being under deep suspicion of murder. He snapped out orders for a gang to head up the path — and watch their confounded feet while they did it, as he didn’t want any more losses, thank you — and heave the baskets of provisions back to the beach and out to the ship; but all the time he knew that it was pointless to hurry because he would have to hang around to witness the burial, while all the time they were wasting good daylight hours that would have been better spent a-whaling.

Wiki was one of those who stood at the side of the open grave early next morning, as Miguel Dalgardo was interred in the dry soil of Pico. The rest of his boat’s crew attended too, but Wiki thought that he was probably the only one who felt any real grief. When he looked around at the blazingly blue sky, the dusty trees, and the distant yellow maize fields, it all seemed unreal. Black-clad women stood at a distance while the priest intoned in Latin, and a young boy in a surplice waved a censer that emitted a thread of fragrant smoke.

As the first clods of earth hit the top of the plain coffin, Captain Smith walked away, followed by the boat’s crew, with Wiki. As Wiki trudged down the narrow path, he carefully watched his feet, noticing yet again how pebbles rolled to the side and then disappeared. There was no movement at all in any of the burrows that dotted the side of the cliff.

When they were finally at sea, with all fair-weather canvas spread, it felt a lot more like real life. Then, to Wiki’s surprise, Mr. Starbuck, the first mate, called for all hands to attend the auction of Miguel Dalgardo’s belongings. The officers did not know about the passion for making wills on the Paths of Duty, he deduced.

He looked about for Isaac Norton, to see how he was taking it. As expected, the harpooner was hurrying toward Mr. Starbuck, and saying urgently, “Sir, an auction ain’t necessary, and I’ll tell you why—” However, the first mate wouldn’t listen, ordering Isaac to assemble with the others.

Wiki stood to one side as the crew arrived and shuffled about in a huddle. They all watched as Miguel’s sea chest was brought out of the steerage and placed at the foot of the foremast. Wiki’s thoughts were flying. Isaac said again, “Sir—” but Wiki interrupted. Before he even fully realized he was going to do it, he stepped forward and said very firmly, “I would like to bid two dollars for Miguel’s chest, sir.”

Everyone swung about and stared at him. Isaac Norton shouted, “You can’t do that!”

Wiki lifted an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Damn it — you’re the man who drew up his goddamned Last Will and Testament, so you know that you can’t do that, Wiki Coffin!”

“And where in his will does it say I can’t buy his chest?”

“He left everything to me, and you know it!”

“He left you the contents of his chest, not the chest itself.” Wiki drew out the little notebook where he had copied the details of every single will he had drawn up. Slowly, very aware of the weight of the concerted attention of everyone on deck, he turned to the right page and read out the simple sentence that had made up the body of Miguel Dalgardo’s will. “ ‘I hereby bequeath the contents of my sea chest to my friend, Isaac Norton.’ ” Then, as the silence dragged on, he repeated, “So I would like to buy the chest, sir, once Isaac has claimed the contents.”

“But that ain’t right!” Isaac exclaimed.

Mr. Starbuck, who had been staring from Isaac to Wiki and back again from the black shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, shifted for the first time, and said, “It sounds reasonable to me. The right thing for me to do is empty out this here chest, give you all the contents, and then take bids on the chest itself, just as Wiki says.”

Isaac went white and shouted, “No!” — but too late. Without bothering to argue anymore, Mr. Starbuck bent down, opened the lid, and tipped the contents out.

The first thing Wiki saw was the famous shore-going shirt. It was as gorgeously embroidered as Miguel had promised, and he felt another stab of sorrow. Next to it was a black wallet, and when Mr. Starbuck’s thick, tobacco-stained fingers opened the wallet, a stream of gold coins fell out.

“So Miguel was the man who robbed that merchant in Fayal!” Captain Smith exclaimed. “No wonder he was so relieved to get on board and away!”

Until Wiki heard his voice, he hadn’t realized that Captain Smith had come on deck to witness the disposal of Miguel’s earthly goods. He turned to him and said evenly, “Sir, if you send a boat into Pico, I think Pedro will still be willing to sign articles, seeing that you are going to be in need of another harpooner.”

The captain’s little eyes studied him shrewdly. “You don’t reckon Pedro was Miguel’s killer?”

Wiki nodded. “Isaac Norton was the man who pushed him off the cliff,” he said.

Everyone swung around and stared at Isaac, who had gone whiter than ever. “He was my friend!” he shouted. “Why the devil would I kill him?”

“Because you had found out he had the wallet of gold,” Wiki said with utter sureness. “You were the one who started the craze for making wills on board the ship, and you made certain that Miguel knew that you had made him your heir. After that, it was only a matter of time before Miguel returned the favor by leaving everything to you. Then all you needed was a good chance to finish him off. Climbing the cliff was the perfect opportunity because Pedro and Miguel had already quarreled publicly, and you had the perfect scapegoat. Once Pedro was out of sight ahead, all that was necessary was to give Miguel a shove.”

Isaac Norton shouted, “You can’t prove that — not in a thousand years!”

“You did it yourself, when you were stupid enough to embroider your lie with that tall tale of a snake,” said Wiki with disdain.

“Why, what the hell do you mean?”

“There are no snakes on Pico.”

“What?”

“There are no snakes in the Azores at all.”