Chapter 19: "Undertow"

Watson

"Well, scratch that one off as a red herring. Mr. Jonathan Springer, age 67 – why was he on the list, anyhow? He's far too old!" Holmes demanded irritably as we sat in the Friesland's plush dining area at a small table, marking off names from our diminishing list of passengers.

"For one thing, it was after midnight at that point – who knows which names we might have put down!" I returned, scratching off the man's name, as well as seven others we had eliminated thus far today.

It had been a week since our escapade in the purser's office, and in that amount of time we had cut our list down by some careful and thorough investigating from 210 names to about 55 now. And we had not as yet located Culverton Smith.

"I am glad the purser didn't notice that you slipped that list back into his mess of files, Holmes," I remarked, finishing my coffee.

"So am I, Watson – nice idea of yours, lodging a complaint about that Wild West chap to distract him. What is it with you and antagonizing Americans, anyhow?"

I glared at him.

"Well, I mean, Watson, now you should be glad to hear only me criticize your writing," he offered.

I continued the glare.

"Or not, that would be fine as well. More coffee?"

I laughed. "You drink more coffee than anyone I know, Holmes – and that is quite a lot. It isn't healthy."

"It is rather less harmful a drug than some, old chap," he returned pointedly, downing his fifth cup yet this afternoon, "and besides, I am infernally tired; that child squalled all night long last night. I promise you, I did not close my eyes for a second."

"Why did you not switch rooms with me?"

"Too much bother. Besides, I thought the parents would surely be able to make the little blighter stop – not so, not even after four hours!" Holmes exclaimed dismally.

I laughed again at his disgruntled face and folded up my half of the list, shoving it into my inside jacket pocket and pulling out my pocket-watch.

"Half-past five," I replied in answer to Holmes's question, "shall we tackle a few more names?

My friend moaned and slouched in his chair.

"That is all we've been doing for the last seven days, Watson!"

"Well, you are the one who had the bright idea to track down 210 people on this ship!"

"I never said all my ideas were brilliant, only most of them!"

I laughed and scooted my chair back from the table.

"Come along, then, let us do something a little more enjoyable."

"I am tired of walking along the deck, Watson."

"And of meeting new people, I suppose?" I teased as we exited the stately dining area, "nearly a hundred in one week – is that not a record for your Bohemian soul?"

Holmes smirked.

"I am not as social a creature as you, Watson."

"NO, really?"

"You know, sarcasm doesn't become you."

"I shall leave it to the experts such as yourself then," I replied as I followed him up the companionway. I heard a derisive snort above me and grinned.

We wandered about boredly for a little while on the promenade deck, and then we decided to explore the rest of the ship – Holmes wanted to get an idea as to its layout in case we had to chase Smith all over the vessel, a prospect that did not appeal to me in the least.

We walked the second and third class decks and discovered the crew's quarters, finally making our way back to the middle of the ship and the lounge areas.

"I say, Holmes – do you play billiards?" I asked suddenly, seeing the tables in several of the lounges, one lounge unoccupied at this hour of the afternoon; most passengers were napping in preparation for a late night.

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

"Oh, come on," I said, grinning at his flat denial, "you should learn."

"No."

"Yes, you should! Then we could play together."

"We play chess."

"We do not play – you play and I get beaten. I do not find that enjoyable."

"I suppose you are wanting to teach me?" he asked, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Unless you know how already."

He looked at my pleading gaze for a moment, and then his face softened, as I had known it would when I fixed him with that look.

"Oh, very well. But only until someone else comes in – I shall not embarrass myself in front of people, not even for you, Watson!" he warned.

"I embarrassed myself for you with that purser; I am sure you will live through the experience," I said dryly, secretly overjoyed that he had agreed.

"I have played before – once," he mused, looking at the glossy cherry table with its soft green felt as I racked the bright new balls, "maybe seven years ago? Some visiting dignitary at the Diogenes Club challenged Mycroft and me to play. There was a ridiculous bet involved – I never forgave Mycroft for that inane suggestion."

I laughed. "I can't see your brother bent over a pool table."

"I can't see him bent over anything except his desk in Whitehall – I am not sure if he can bend over," Holmes muttered, taking the cue I handed him and looking at it dubiously.

"You do know which end to use, don't you?"

"I am not a complete idiot, Watson!"

"Well…"

"Oh, stop it! What happens first?"

I laughed and explained the basics of the game to him and broke, and after a very dubious look at the table and a glance round to see that there was no one watching him embarrass himself, he took a deep breath, aimed cautiously, and shot.

And missed both his target and the cue ball entirely.

"Don't even say it, Watson!"

"I said nothing, Holmes!" I gasped, my face turning red from repressed laughter.

He sighed wearily and stepped back from the table.

"Well, what did I do wrong?" he asked impatiently, glaring at me.

I took pity on him at last – the only reason he was putting himself through this torture was to please me, and I appreciated the gesture more than he knew.

"You are holding the stick too tightly, Holmes, and you were watching the target ball, not the cue ball."

"The white one?"

"Yes, the white one," I said, carefully hiding my smile, "you have to watch it, not the colored one. Try again – you can have another turn."

"Isn't that against the rules?"

"Sherlock Holmes, play by the rules?"

"Good point."

He scowled in concentration, aimed again – and this time made a very passable shot, sending the 6 ball careening down the table to slam into a trio of my stripes with a satisfying thwock.

"I hit it!"

"Yes, you did," I said, this time not able to restrain my grin at his enthusiastic face, like a gleeful child just scoring a high mark on an exam.

"Do I get to go again?"

"No, you have to hit it into the pocket to go again, Holmes."

"Oh. Well, hurry up, Watson!"

I sent two balls in easily, rather proud of my difficult angled shots; and then, seeing that my friend was looking rather dismal once again, purposely missed the next shot.

"You know, you really would probably like this if you played more often, Holmes – the geometry involved should intrigue you at least," I remarked as he sighted again. "Aim a little more to the left, old chap."

He nodded with intense concentration and then shot, sending the ball neatly into the corner pocket.

"I did it!"

"Oh, well done!"

"Thank you!"

He missed the next shot, as was to be expected from a beginner, and I took my turn – I would have to jump the cue ball over one of his solids to make the shot, and his excited chattering was making me lose my concentration.

"Holmes?"

"What?"

"I cannot concentrate when you are blathering like that," I said slowly, carefully gauging the distance I would need to cover.

"That is the general idea," I heard him reply mischievously, obviously enjoying himself more than he had anticipated he would.

"It is against the rules to distract an opponent purposely."

"I, Sherlock Holmes, play by the rules? Really, Watson!"

I had pulled my cue back just as he said this, and my resulting laughter sent my stick askew and the cue ball barreled into the side pocket, knocking the eight ball dangerously close to the left corner pocket.

"Confound you, Holmes!"

"My turn now, right?" he asked gleefully.

"Yes," I growled, glaring at his excited face.

He took the cue ball out of the pocket, placed it on the table, and took careful aim.

"Holmes, wait –"

"I am perfectly capable of doing this, Doctor."

"But you can't –"

"Watson, please!"

"Holmes! You can't –"

Thunk!

He shot perfectly in a very nice, straight line and connected solidly with the ball, sending it neatly into the pocket.

"As you were saying, Watson, I can't what?" he asked, looking at me smugly with an I-told-you-so glance.

I sighed.

"You cannot hit the eight ball in until the end of the game, Holmes – it is not a regular solid," I said slowly, trying desperately not to laugh as he stared at me blankly.

Dead silence.

"I can't?"

"No."

"Oh."

I laughed aloud at his rueful face, so comical in its dismay.

"What happens if I do?" he asked hesitantly.

"You forfeit the game, old man."

"Well, it's a good thing we are not playing by the rules then, eh?" he asked brightly, taking aim again at a different ball.

After I closed my gaping mouth, I began to laugh again; and for the next hour, until we left for dinner, we were able to at last completely put Culverton Smith and his diabolical schemes out of our minds, temporarily at least.

Lachlan

"Midshipman! Midshipman!"

I came awake as the high voice of the seaman rang in my ears. Opening my eyes, I was able to make out the pock-marked face of Renie, a young lad just only out to sea. He was pale, making the marks on his face stand out like beacons on his cheeks.

I blinked about me at the dark cabin…judging by the porthole, I had been asleep no more than three hours, having just come off my watch. I swung my legs out over the edge of my bunk and rose to my feet.

"What is it, lad? What's wrong?"

The lad leaned heavily against the wall, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.

"Sir…one of the coal shovelers…he's…he's…"

I took him by the shoulder and pushed him down to a sitting position on the bunk.

"Easy lad, slowly. Tell me slow. Get your breath."

Renie sat with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his fingers clutching the red, uneven hair on his scalp. For a few minutes he breathed deeply than met my steady gaze, his crazed eyes somewhat calmer.

"Mr. Matlock sir - he was taken ill a day ago and all day he has not moved from his bunk…and just now…"

The lad swallowed, his eyes pleading with mine for some reassurance.

"Sir, he's gone off his head."

"What?"

"He's rambling something terrible…he's hot…it's some sorta sickness, sir."

A fierce fear gnawed its way into my stomach and I gripped him by the shoulders, alarming the poor boy further.

"He's sick?!"

"Y-yessir! Something dreadful!"

It could not be, we had only been a little more than a week out to sea…it was too early!

I took hold of my senses and let go of the lad.

"Renie…go and fetch one of the Doctors…now, please."

He nodded and leapt to his feet, hurrying out of the cabin and up the stairs to the deck.

I pulled on my jacket and hurried down the hall in the opposite direction. I knew Matlock, he was not a lazy chap, if he was in bed than it was a grave matter indeed.

It did not take me long to get to his cabin. It was dark, lit only by one lamp…and there was another seaman, one of his bunkmates I presumed, kneeling beside the bunk on which the sufferer lay.

The foul smell of sweat and sickness reached my nostrils, I choked slightly but kept my bile down.

The seaman looked up as I entered and gaped at me…his face grim, though not as white as Renie's.

"Midshipman," he said, his own voice thick, "Matlock, he…"

"Yes, I know," I said motioning him aside and taking his place beside the bunk.

The seaman had kindly placed a wet rag on Matlock's brow but it had had little effect. The ill man had kicked back his bedclothes and both he and the sheets were soaked with sweat. He was shaking and muttering under his breath…obviously out of his head, but lacking the strength to lash out sufficiently.

I hesitated, then reached out to touch his arm…it was icy cold to the touch…there were goosebumps on the flesh, and though the moisture of his body still beaded upon him he was breathing hoarsely.

The man was as dry as a bone; it was as though the had already broken his fever, but he was still delirious.

I wrapped my hand round the arm and felt that the muscles underneath were as hard as granite, the limb quivered slightly, like a steady engine. If I recalled Dr. Watson's words correctly than Matlock was not suffering the same fever that Holmes and I had.

Which meant that Smith had yet another exotic disease to do his dirty work for him.

I rounded on the seaman, feeling the cold, icy rage fill my breast and clear my mind.

"All sicknesses are to be reported to the infirmary immediately. Why wasn't I or another officer told?"

The fellow backed away from me, swallowing.

"Matlock told us 'ee was just tired. There wasn' no reason…and then he wouldn' let us…'ee was a strong-willed man was Matlock…told us to shove off and mind our own business."

"You were told to report illness." I said more sharply, cutting him off. "Cases like this can damage the wellbeing of the entire ship!"

"Midshipman it wasn't my fault - 'ee -" The fellow cringed, his voice rising to a whine.

I glared at him and gripped his coat giving him a slight shake to stop his flapping mouth.

"You are a member of this crew and you are as responsible as I. I want the name of every man who knew of this and failed to report it."

I hissed the words as him from between clenched teeth, my face only inches from his.

A sound…a terrible sound, arrested my attention and I turned to see Matlock twitching violently on his bunk, a whistling gurgle coming from his throat.

I shouted and went to his side, trying to hold him still - but his muscles were still rigid.

"Matlock...Matlock!"

But he never heard me, his eyes stared blankly ahead and he took a long slow, rattling breath…and fell still and as hard as stone.

The dread in my chest hardened to a cold calculation. I felt his neck and found no pulse.

He was dead.

I sighed a small prayer over the unfortunate seaman, pulling the bedsheets over his head and turning to face his mate again.

The man had gone, fled no doubt from fear of the illness and my reprimand. I would find him later. There was something more important to attend too.

Holmes and the Doctor had to be told, for it did not take a great imagination to understand that this would only be the first case of sickness on board…and possibly only the first death.