Night Of Error

He looked startled. 'Dead! When did that happen?'

I told him all about it and he said, 'A damned sticky end -even for Mark.' Then he immediately apologized. 'Sorry – I shouldn't have said that.'

'Quit it, Geordie,' I said irritably. 'You know how I felt about Mark; there's no need to be mealy-mouthed with me.'

'Aye. He was a bit of a bastard, wasn't he? How's that wife of his taking it?'

'About average under the circumstances. She was pretty broken up but I seem to detect an underlying note of relief.'

'She's best remarry and forget him,' said Geordie bluntly. He shook his head slowly. 'It beats me what the women saw in Mark. He treated 'em like dirt and they sat up and begged for more.'

'Some people have it, some don't,' I said.

'If it means being like Mark I'd rather not have it. Sad to think one can't find a good word to say for the man.' He took the paper out of my hand. 'Got a car I can use? I haven't been in one for months and I'd like the drive. I'll get my gear from Esmerelda and go out and pick this stuff up for you.'

I tossed him my car keys. 'Thanks. It's the same old wreck -you'll find it in the car park.'

When he had gone I finished up my paperwork and then went to see the Prof, to pay my respects. Old Jarvis was quite cordial. 'You've done a good job, Mike,' he said. 'I've looked at your stuff briefly and if your correlations are correct I think we're on to something.'

'Thank you.'

He leaned back in his chair and started to fill his pipe. 'You'll be writing a paper, of course.'

'I'll do that while I'm on leave,' I said. 'It won't be a long one; just a preliminary. There's still a lot of sea time to put in.'

'Looking forward to getting back to it, are you?'

'I'll be glad to get away.'

He grunted suddenly. 'For every day you spend at sea you'll have three in the office digesting the data. And don't get into a job like mine; it's all office-work. Steer clear of administration, my boy; don't get chair-bound.'

'I won't,' I promised and then changed tack. 'Can you tell me anything about a fellow called Norgaard? I think he's a Swede working on ocean currents.'

Jarvis looked at me from under bushy eyebrows. 'Wasn't he the chap working with your brother when he died?'

That's the man.'

He pondered, then shook his head. 'I haven't heard anything of him lately; he certainly hasn't published. But I'll make a few enquiries and put you in touch.'

And that was that. I didn't know why I had taken the trouble to ask the Prof, about Norgaard unless it was still that uneasy itch at the back of my skull, the feeling that something was wrong somewhere. It probably didn't mean anything anyway, and I put it out of my mind as I walked back to my office.

It was getting late and I was about ready to leave when Geordie returned and heaved a battered, ancient suitcase onto my desk. There it is,' he said. They made me open it – it was a wee bit difficult without a key, though.'

'What did you do?'

'Busted the lock,' he said cheerfully.

I looked at the case warily. 'What's in it?'

'Not much. Some clothes, a few books and a lot of pebbles. And there's a letter addressed to Mark's wife.' He untied the string holding the case together, skimmed the letter across the desk, and started to haul out the contents – a couple of tropical suits, not very clean; two shirts; three pairs of socks; three textbooks on oceanography – very up-to-date; a couple of notebooks in Mark's handwriting, and a miscellany of pens, toiletries and small odds and ends.

I looked at the letter, addressed to Helen in a neat cursive hand. 'I'd better open this,' I said. 'We don't know what's in it and I don't want Helen to get too much of a shock.'

Geordie nodded and I slit the envelope. The letter was short and rather abrupt:

Dear Mrs Trevelyan, I am sorry to tell you that your husband, Mark, is dead, although you may know this already by the time you get this. Mark was a good friend to me and left some of his things in my care. I am sending them all to you as I know you would like to have them.

Sincerely,

P. Nelson

I said, 'I thought this would be official, but it's not.'

Geordie scanned the short note. 'Do you know this chap, Nelson?'

'Never heard of him.'

Geordie put the letter on the desk and tipped up the suitcase. 'Then there are these.' A dozen or so potato-like objects rolled onto the desk. Some of them rolled further and thumped onto the carpet, and Geordie stooped and picked them up. 'You'll probably make more sense of these than I can.'

I turned one in my fingers. 'Manganese nodules,' I said. 'Very common in the Pacific.' '

'Are they valuable?'

I laughed. 'If you could get at them easily they might be -but you can't, so they aren't. They lie on the seabed at an average depth of about fourteen thousand feet.'

He looked closely at one of the nodules. 'I wonder where he got these, then? It's a bit deep for skin-diving.'

They're probably souvenirs of the IGY – the International Geophysical Year. Mark was a physical chemist on one of the ships in the Pacific.' I took one of the notebooks and flipped the pages at random. Most of it seemed to be mathematical, the equations close-packed in Mark's finicky hand.

I tossed it into the open suitcase. 'Let's get this stuff packed away, then we'll go home.'

So we put everything back, higgledy-piggledy, and carted the case down to the car. On the way home Geordie said, 'What about a show tonight?' On his rare visits to a city he had a soft spot for big gaudy musicals.

'If you can get tickets,' I said. 'I don't feel like queueing.'

'I'll get them,' he said confidently. 'I know someone who owes me a few favours. Look, drop me right here and I'll see you at the flat in half an hour, or maybe a bit longer.'

I dropped him and when I got to where I lived I took Mark's suitcase first because it came handiest, then I went back to the car for Geordie's gear. For some time I pottered about estimating what I'd need for a trip away with him, but I had most of what I needed and the list of things I had to get was very short and didn't take long to figure out.

After a while I found myself looking at the suitcase. I picked it up, put it on the bed and opened it and looked at the few remnants of Mark's life. I hoped that when I went I'd leave more than a few books, a few clothes and a doubtful reputation. The clothing was of no particular interest but, as I lifted up a jacket, a small leather-bound notebook fell out of the breast pocket.

I picked it up and examined it. It had obviously been used as a diary but most of the entries were in shorthand, once Pitman's, but adapted in an idiosyncratic way so that they were incomprehensible to anyone but the writer – Mark.

Occasionally there were lines of chemical and mathematical notation and every now and then there was a doodled drawing. I remembered that Mark had been a doodler even at school and had been ticked off often because of the state of his exercise books. There wasn't much sense to be made of any of it.

I put the diary on my dressing table and turned to the larger notebooks. They were much more interesting although scarcely more comprehensible. Apparently, Mark was working on a theory of nodule formation that, to say the least of it, was hare-brained – certainly from the point of view of orthodox physical chemistry. The time scale he was using was fantastic, and even at a casual glance his qualitative analysis seemed out of line.

Presently I heard Geordie come in. He popped his head round the door of the bedroom and said triumphantly, 'I've got the tickets. Let's have a slap-up dinner first and then go on to the theatre.'

That's a damned good idea,' I said. I threw the notebooks and the clothing back into the case and relied the lid down.