‘Early night?’ he said casually. It would be ill-fitting to make an open enquiry about the judge.
‘Coming to need them,’ said the registrar. ‘These proceedings are taking longer than I anticipated.’
‘I warned you I would extend them as long as I thought it would take to come to the truth of the matter.’
‘You did that,’ remembered the official. He gathered his papers into his briefcase.
‘And I believe we’re uncovering a strange state of affairs,’ added the Attorney-General.
‘There are some strange aspects,’ conceded Baumgartner. He seemed to hesitate, waiting for Flood to continue the conversation, then said, ‘I am afraid you must excuse me.’
‘Of course,’ said Flood, ‘I’ll walk with you to my carriage.’
‘The judge wanted to get away early tonight,’ offered Baumgartner, falling into step. ‘So he won’t be very pleased.’
‘Pleased?’ queried Flood.
‘By the request from Mr Pisani for an application in chambers.’
‘No,’ agreed Flood immediately, perfectly concealing any reaction. ‘I’m sure he won’t.’
Thirty minutes later he was sitting, as was his custom before dinner, upon the balcony of his home overlooking the Spanish mainland. Tonight he was unaware of the view, immersed in thought. What application was Pisani making in the privacy of the judge’s rooms? And on a day when, for the first time, the objections to cross-examination had remained strangely muted? There could only be one logical explanation, decided the Attorney-General. The man had become unhappy with his clients’ case. And was attempting to preserve his integrity by communicating that unhappiness to the man heading the enquiry. His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, carrying the transcripts of the day’s hearing. Flood sat gazing down at them, musing. If his surmise was correct, it made it even more important to send his account as quickly as possible to London, to show the authorities, just how astute he had been from the very beginning in recognising the falsehood. He took up the evidence, hurrying to the study in which, so very recently, he had been confronted by Dr Patron’s stupidity. Now that seemed almost immaterial.
He had been working for almost an hour when there was movement at the door and he looked up at the housekeeper, who announced that dinner was ready.
‘I’m not eating tonight. Too busy,’ he said hurriedly.
‘A tray?’ enquired the woman.
‘Nothing,’ said the Attorney-General, curtly. He had more important things to attend to than food. Far more important.
There had been a brief lull, insufficient even to launch the boat to examine the splintering to the hull, and then one of the worst gales they had experienced set in, casting the ship about in such seas that it had been almost impossible to steer. The whole crew had had to turn to, so that it had been impractical to hold their customary Sunday prayer gathering, which Briggs had regretted. He had spared himself for a few moments from the deck just before Sarah had retired and they had prayed together, Briggs not thinking his wife over-dramatic for choosing as their hymn ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea’. He knew how concerned she was about the baby.
‘If anything happened, you’d save Sophia, wouldn’t you?’
He stared at her:
‘Happened?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Nothing is going to happen. It’s just a bad voyage, that’s all.’
The strange conversation had surprised him because he had believed her anxiety was over, now that Sophia had got her sea legs. The sickness had stopped and for the past two days she had been able to extend her diet to eggs and boiled fish. The weather had confined her to the cabin, but she was still weak and had not so far complained. Briggs was sure her health as well as her spirits would improve once they reached the warmth and shelter of the Mediterranean.
At first light, Sarah’s hymn proved more apposite than Briggs had imagined. Goodschall, who was standing watch, saw the other ship first, more than a mile to the lee and carrying far too much sail for the weather.
Richardson had summoned the captain, to approve the change of course, and for over an hour they had tacked to get nearer, to give what assistance they could. The seas were still high, so that their view of the ship was sporadic and they were still some way off when they lost sight of the sail.
Briggs decided it was too dangerous to send a look-out even part-way up the pitching mast and so they had continued on the course of the last sighting. Unasked, William Head brought from the galley everything disposable and stayed at the stern, casting it adrift at intervals so that they had a rough marker of their passage; when, by ten o’clock, Briggs decided they had crossed the point at which they had last seen the vessel, he was able to turn and retrace his route.
It was noon when they spotted what remained and then it was hardly enough to decide what sort of vessel she had been. The torn sail lay spread over the water and a shattered spar stuck up, held oddly in position by something unseen beneath the water.
Because it was impossible to know how much remained hidden underneath the sail, and aware of the potential danger to his own hull, Briggs hove-to some way off, putting out a sea anchor despite the swell. Goodschall volunteered to go up the mast to look for survivors. The Lorensen brothers lashed him into a safety line and remained at the foot of the mast, holding the rope in case he lost his footing.
After thirty minutes, the young German gestured that there was nothing he could see and Briggs brought him down. Both Richardson and Briggs had been sweeping the sea through glasses and now they concentrated upon the wreckage.
‘Could be part of a gaff,’ said Richardson, looking at the spar jutting from the water.
‘Might have been a brig, like us.’
‘Why was she carrying so much sail?’ wondered Gilling, who had joined them at the rail. ‘Not as if the storm were sudden, after all.’
‘Could have been illness aboard, with not enough hands to work her,’ said Richardson.
‘Then whoever remained should have short-sailed her,’ pointed out Briggs. He turned, seeing Sarah and recognising immediately her need for comfort. He moved away from the mates, putting his arm around her shoulders. It was a gesture his father would have criticised, in front of the crew.
‘Poor souls,’ she said, quietly.
‘Goodschall has looked for a long time. There’s no sight of anyone,’ said Briggs.
‘I know,’ said Sarah. She shivered. ‘How can it happen, as quickly as that? Not three hours ago it was a ship, with people aboard. We could see it…’
She threw her arm out.
‘… now that’s all there is left.’
‘Sometimes it’s very quick,’ said Briggs.
‘But so little… just a sail and piece of wood.’ Fear shuddered through her again. ‘I must pray for them,’ she said.
‘We all must,’ said Briggs. ‘Go back to the cabin.’
‘No,’ refused the woman, knowing that her husband was concerned that they might still come upon some bodies. ‘Sophia is content enough.’
‘Shall we put the boat out?’ asked Richardson.
Briggs shook his head. ‘Little point,’ he said. ‘And in this sea it would be far too easy for that spar to be driven through the hull. We’ll circle.’
The wind was still strong, so that it was a difficult manoeuvre. The stuck-up spar seemed to follow them around, rocking back and forth with the waves, like a gesturing finger. Occasionally the water broke over other debris clinging to the sail, proof that Briggs’s caution was well founded. Satisfied that no one was caught up or clinging to the wreckage they could see, Briggs continued to work the Mary Celeste in gradually widening circles.
There was no further trace of what, only a few hours before, had been a vessel as big as theirs.
After another hour, Briggs said to Richardson: ‘There’s nothing. Resume course.’