blow with the whole mass of the vessel behind it. The tip ripped into his back and flung him up so his head hit the roof. Almost at once the other vessel was fended off from doing further damage. No one on board was aware of more than a violent jarring or jolting while all this was going on. The Draco slipped back and the bowsprit — or the very end of the thing — withdrew from the cabin as neatly as it had entered while its tip withdrew from my brother’s body, yes, like a sword’s point. It did some slight damage to the frame of the cabin window, but not one of us was aware that it left a dead man in its wake.’
Nicholas Tallman performed a priestly act at this point. He lowered his head and crossed himself. The rest of us stood silent, dumfounded by Colin Case’s explanation. Yet it was surely correct.
I watched as the herring buss manoeuvred itself nearer the centre of the stream. Then, with sails hoist so as to catch the gentle wind, it set off with the outgoing tide to find fish.
Jack and I left the boat at Gravesend. We sailed on the long ferry back to London, and that journey took us another day, so we missed two days’ work and were fined and berated accordingly. We preferred to pretend that we had been playing truant — the kind of misbehaviour which is not unknown among players — rather than recount the strange tale of the travellers on the Argo and death by bowsprit.
Colin Case must have managed to square things with his friendly local justice, for the boat soon sailed on for France. The death of Dr Jonathan was presented as the peculiar accident which it was, and it has to be said that nobody much mourned the passing of this unpleasant individual. Nicholas Tallman, I assume, reached the safety of a friendlier country, while Thomas served under the tutelage of his kindlier cousin, Colin Case.
As for what happened to the sky-stone I remain ignorant. Ignorant whether it found its way to Maitre Renard in St-Malo or whether Henry Tallman returned it to London to the ‘important foreigner’. Or perhaps kept it for himself. After all, he had been eager to show it to his friend Dr Dee. I don’t know, though. Some things are destined to remain mysteries.
And there is another mystery, too. It was only when Jack and I discussed it later that we realized how willingly both of us had accepted Colin Case’s story of the death of his brother. That it was an accident disguised as a murder. It was hardly surprising we’d leaped to the conclusion of murder. The unlamented physician was the victim of a violent, bloody assault, and there were several individuals on board with the motive and opportunity to kill him. We were just as quick to seize hold of the comforting notion that Jonathan Case’s death was a freakish chance. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was not the bowsprit of the Draco which had done the damage after all but — say — one of those vicious, hooked implements the mariners made so free with on deck?
Perhaps it had been the other way about, a murder disguised as an accident. If so, Colin Case’s story was a brilliant piece of improvisation to cover himself… or to cover someone else… just a story.
Epilogue
London, 2010
Greg edged his hand along the rim of the crater. The profile was ragged and unclear, but he reckoned he could make out a distinct circular shape. In fact, he was sure he could see a central peak indicative of the crater floor rebounding from the compressional shock of an impact. This is what was so exciting about scrambling over a new crater. Checking his coordinates, he noted them down on the pad he carried with him. 61 10N: 45 25W. Scanning across it, he estimated the diameter of the crater to be over two kilometres. Big enough to be a medium- size meteorite impact on this part of Greenland. He would have to measure it more accurately later. But for now visual observation was enough to get his pulse racing.
He looked south to the airstrip at Narsarsuaq, where other research team members could make their landing if he was right about the crater. No terrestrial impact craters had so far been identified on the surface of Greenland, covered as it mostly was with snow and ice. But the nearby landmass of continental North America was peppered with them. He ached to be the first person to identify a genuine impact crater on Greenland. He scanned across the deep blue fjord to the tiny settlement of Qassiarsuk hanging on to the small strip of green below the snowfields and glaciers. He thought he could just make out the site of Brattahli? the ancient Viking settlement at the head of the fjord. It was a sheltered location almost a hundred kilometres from the ocean, and no one knew exactly why it had been abandoned. Some scientists simply reckoned the weather had got worse, and the settlers had retreated from the encroaching ice and snow. Other people, more inclined to believe the old legends, said some evil had taken place there, driving the settlers out. Greg was a sceptic when it came to the supernatural, preferring hard facts and common sense to the unspeakable and the unprovable. Once more he returned his gaze to the impact crater and looked across the far rim towards the whiteness of the mountains that angled away from him. The sudden and insistent burble of his landline cut across his excitement.
He sighed and flicked the knob situated under his right hand in order to turn the motorized wheelchair to the left. The hum of the electric motor, which he hardly noticed normally, seemed like the angry buzzing of a cloud of bees. He felt as though a dull, leaden weight was filling his chest, which was ironic. As a T2 paraplegic, he had no feeling at all from somewhere just above his nipple line. When the accident had first happened, and he was lying in hospital, he had been told by an inexperienced doctor that he was lucky because he still had full use of his arms and hands. Greg had sworn at the poor man with all the vehemence he could muster. He sure as hell didn’t feel lucky just at that moment.
Until two years ago, Greg Janic had called himself a hunter and explorer. Among other things, he explored the world for evidence of meteorite craters, enjoying the freedom of the outdoors and the exhilaration of climbing in often mountainous and dangerous terrain. Greenland had drawn him for years as one of the last wildernesses on the planet. It had turned out to be his nemesis. Climbing Allerulik, one of the peaks in the Narsaq region, a spring- loaded camming device had failed him, and he had plunged a hundred feet down a glacier. His only consolation had been suing the cam’s manufacturer, and getting enough compensation to meet all his new and complex needs as a paraplegic. And to make him reasonably wealthy into the bargain.
He had set himself up in an apartment in central London with enough computer equipment to freak out even the geekiest of nerds. When he had first been looking for somewhere to live, one estate agent had shown him a loft apartment overlooking the Thames. It had a magnificent view, and he could have well afforded the flat. He had been sitting in his wheelchair staring out at the sun sparkling on the river. The view had been full of activity — boats on the water and people with the full use of their limbs hurrying around like ants. He had suddenly felt nauseous. It was as though he was trapped in a picture looking out on the real world. He had abruptly turned his wheelchair away from the window and exited the apartment. The place he ended up buying was in a warehouse conversion. It had restricted views, and it suited him. He wanted to see the world only through the medium of a computer screen.
For a year he had had mood swings and had thought of suicide, refusing to even talk to his old friends, most of whom he had known through his work. He could not bear to think of them able still to climb mountains and dig for evidence of meteorites. Finally, he had answered the persistent phone calls made by an old friend and colleague, June Piper. She had eventually convinced him that he could contribute to the research team she led, and which he had done fieldwork for. So he returned to impact crater hunting, and he did it without ever leaving his home. It was remarkable what could be done using Google Earth.
He picked up the phone. It was June on a very bad line. ‘Hi, Greg. What kept you?’
He felt annoyed that his Google search had been interrupted and showed his displeasure. ‘Nothing. Just a small case of T2 paraplegia. I had to drag my useless limbs across the floor. It took some time.’
He could hear June laughing down the phone. She was never embarrassed by his condition, as others were when they saw him in a wheelchair. He pictured her short, stocky frame topped by her round, ruddy face and cropped hair. Always dressed in a check shirt and jeans with sturdy walking boots on her feet, her appearance screamed ‘I’m a lesbian; deal with it’. And she didn’t cut Greg any slack about being a paraplegic, either. Where others sometimes treated him like a child, or, even worse, a brave little soldier, her attitude to him was ‘So, you’re in a wheelchair; deal with it’. His self-pity didn’t work on her, so he became all business.
‘I’ve got a new site for you. It’s just north of Narsarsuaq Airfield, so it shouldn’t be difficult to get to. Where are you now?’
The line crackled, rendering June’s reply inaudible.
‘Say again.’
