Bear Island. Alistair MacLeanЧитать онлайн книгу.
I’m beginning to gather. I think our answer will lie there. I’ll have Captain Imrie impound his supplies and have them analysed on our return. To get back to the opportunity factor. Antonio came up to the dining saloon here, had the same as the rest of us—’
‘No fruit juices, no soup, no lamb chops, no potatoes,’ the Count said.
‘None of those. But what he did have we all had. Then straight back to his cabin. In the second place, who would want to kill a harmless person like that—especially as Antonio was a total stranger to all of us and only joined us at Wick for the first time? And who but a madman would administer a deadly poison in a closed community like this, knowing that he couldn’t escape and that Scotland Yard would be leaning over the quay walls in Wick, just waiting for our return?’
‘Maybe that’s the way a madman would figure a sane person would figure,’ Goin said.
‘What English king was it who died of a surfeit of lampreys?’ the Count said. ‘If you ask me, our unfortunate Antonio may well have perished from a surfeit of horseradish.’
‘Like enough.’ I pushed back my chair and made to rise. But I didn’t get up immediately. Way back in the dim and lost recesses of my mind the Count had triggered off a tiny bell, an infinitesimal tinkle so distant and remote that if I hadn’t been listening with all my ears I’d have missed it completely: but I had been listening, the way people always listen when they know, without knowing why, that the old man with the scythe is standing there in the wings, winding up for the back stroke. I knew both men were watching me. I sighed. ‘Decisions, decisions. Antonio has to be attended to—’
‘With canvas?’ Goin said.
‘With canvas. Count’s cabin cleaned up. Death has to be logged. Death certificate. And Mr Smith will have to make the funeral arrangements.’
‘Mr Smith?’ The Count was vaguely surprised. ‘Not our worthy commanding officer.’
‘Captain Imrie is in the arms of Morpheus,’ I said. ‘I’ve tried.’
‘You have your deities mixed up,’ Goin said. ‘Bacchus is the one you’re after.’
‘I suppose it is. Excuse me, gentlemen.’
I went directly to my cabin but not to write out any death certificate. As I’d told Goin, I did carry a medical library of sorts around with me and it was of a fair size. I selected several books, including Glaister’s Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology, 9th edition (Edinburgh 1950), Dewar’s Textbook of Forensic Pharmacy (London 1946) and Gonzales, Vance and Helpern’s Legal Medicine and Toxicology, which seemed to be a pre-war book. I started consulting indices and within five minutes I had it.
The entry was listed under ‘Systematic Poisons’ and was headed ‘Aconite. Bot A poisonous plant of the order Ranunculaceae. Particular reference Monkshood and Wolfsbane. Phar. Aconitum napellus. This, and aconitine, an alkaloid extract of the former, is commonly regarded as the most lethal of all poisons yet identified: a dose of not more than 0.004 gm is deadly to man. Aconite and its alkaloid produce a burning and peculiar tingling and numbing effect where applied. Later, especially with larger doses, violent vomiting results, followed by paralysis of motion, paralysis of sensation and great depression of the heart, followed by death from syncope.
‘Treatment. To be successful must be immediate as possible. Gastric lavage, 12 gm of tannic acid in two gallons of warm water, followed by 1.2 gm Unnic acid in 180 ml tepid water: this should be followed by animal charcoal suspended in water. Cardiac and respiratory stimulants, artificial respiration and oxygen will be necessary as indicated.
‘N.B. The root of aconite has frequently been eaten in mistake for that of horseradish.’
I was still looking at, but no longer reading the article on Aconite when it was gradually borne in upon my preoccupation that there was something very far amiss with the Morning Rose. She was still under way, her elderly oil-fired steam engines throbbing along as dependably as ever, but her motion had changed. Her rolling factor had increased till she was swinging wickedly and dismayingly through an angle of close on 70 degrees: the pitching factor had correspondingly decreased and the thudding jarring vibration of the bluff bows smashing into the quartering seas had fallen away to a fraction of what it had previously been.
I marked the article, closed the book, then lurched and stumbled—I could not be said to have run for it was physically impossible—along the passageway, up the companionway, through the lounge and out on to the upper deck. It was dark but not so dark as to prevent me from gauging direction by the feel of the gale wind, by the spume blowing off the top of the confused seas. I shrank back and tightened my grip on a convenient handrail as a great wall of water, black and veined and evil, reared up on the port side, just for’ard of the beam: it was at least ten feet higher than my head. I was certain that the wave, with the hundreds of tons of water it contained, was going to crash down square on the fore-deck of the trawler, I couldn’t see how it could fail to, but fail it did: as the wave bore down on us, the trough to starboard deepened and the Morning Rose, rolling over to almost forty degrees, simply fell into it, pressed down by the great weight of water on its exposed port side. There came the familiar flat explosive thunderclap of sound, the Morning Rose vibrated and groaned as over-stressed plates and rivets adjusted to cope with the sudden shearing strain, white, icily-cold water foamed over the starboard side and swirled around my ankles, and then it was gone, gurgling through the scuppers as the Morning Rose righted itself and rolled far over on its other side. There was no worry about any of this, no threat to safety and life, this was what Arctic trawlers had been built for and the Morning Rose could continue to absorb this punishment indefinitely. But there was cause for worry, if such a word can be used to express a desperately acute anxiety: that massive wave which had caught the trawler on her port bow, had knocked her almost 20 degrees off course. She was still 20 degrees off course, and 20 degrees off course she remained: nobody was making any attempt to bring her round. Another, and a smaller sea, and then she was lying five more degrees over to the east and here, too, she remained. I ran for the bridge ladder.
I bumped into and almost knocked down a person at the precise spot where I’d bumped into Mary dear an hour ago. Contact this time was much more solid and the person said ‘Oof!’ or something of that sort. The kind of gasp a winded lady makes is quite different from a man’s and instinct and a kind of instantaneous reasoning told me that I had bumped into the same person again: Judith Haynes would be in bed with her spaniels and Mary darling was either with Allen or in bed dreaming about him: neither, anyway, was the outdoor type.
I said something that might have been misconstrued as a brusque apology, side-stepped and had my foot on the first rung when she caught my arm with both hands.
‘Something’s wrong. I know it is. What?’ Her voice was calm, just loud enough to make itself heard over the high-pitched obbligato of the wind in the rigging. Sure she knew something was wrong, the sight of Dr Marlowe moving at anything above his customary saunter was as good as a police or air raid siren any day. I was about to say something to this effect when she added: ‘That’s why I came on deck,’ which effectively rendered stillborn any cutting remarks I’d been about to make, because she’d been aware of trouble before I’d been: but, then, she hadn’t had her thoughts taken up with Aconitum napellus.
‘The ship’s not under command. There’s nobody in charge on the bridge, nobody trying to keep a course.’
‘Can I do anything?’
She was wonderful. ‘Yes. There’s a hot-water electric geyser on the galley bulkhead by the stove. Bring up a jug of hot water, not too hot to drink, a mug and salt. Lots of salt.’
I sensed as much as saw her nod and then she was gone. Four seconds later I was inside the wheel-house. I could dimly see one figure crumpled against the chart-table, another apparently sitting straight