The Devil's Mask by Christopher Wakling

can’t.’
    I took a step forward and the man held up a hand.
    â€˜Which isn’t to say that I wouldn’t if I could. But I didn’t sail with the ship, Sir, so I’d be taking a liberty in guessing how those that did found the voyage.’
    The man explained this as if to a half-wit, but at least he’d dropped the ‘lad’ in addressing me as ‘Sir’.
    â€˜No, all that sailed with her has vanished ashore. Bar the stragglers. If you’re quick you may still find one or two sloping around.’
    â€˜I see.’
    â€˜Which is understandable, considering. No matter how much they enjoyed the scenery afloat, there’s things they’ll have missed.’ The man scratched at his throat again, becoming expansive. ‘But if you and the Dock Company are really asking whether she turned a profitable trip, I’m looking around me here and I’m thinking she might have done. They stuffed her full. I know that in every bone.’ The man’s hand moved from his throat to the back of his neck. He glanced up. ‘Still, it’s a marvellous help, the loading gear. That should make sure we get the job done on time.’
    I looked up too as the crane, trailing its chain and an empty hook, swung back across the deck. Somebody barked an order and the man flinched, then continued more gruffly, ‘Provided nobody gets in our way, that is.’

Eleven
    Although the hook passed well above my head, I took a couple of steps backwards and followed its progress with my eye. The Captain was standing at the rail of the upper deck. He appeared to waver there, silhouetted against the rushing sky. It seemed he’d been watching the conversation, for he now forced out a smile – the silver shards in his beard twitched – and called down, ‘Good morning to you. Maybe I can help.’
    I shaded my eyes and nodded and skirted a deflated mountain of tarpaulin to make my way up to him, pocketing my notebook again in order to hold on as I climbed the steps. The Captain met me at the top with his hand extended. As I shook it, the sun broke through again and the two of us were enmeshed in a net of shadow cast by the empty rigging and masts.
    â€˜I’m here on behalf of the Dock Company,’ I explained. ‘My client wants particulars of your latest voyage.’
    â€˜Captain Charles Addison,’ he said smilingly. ‘A pleasure to meet you …’
    â€˜Inigo Bright, of Carthy and Co.’
    â€˜And I’d be pleased to furnish you with whatever “particulars” I can,’ the Captain went on. ‘What are you after? Details of the goods we’ve traded are all set out in the ship’s ledgers. As is an account of the delay we suffered. The stormdamage. It’s all in the log. Our limp back to Speightstown. That’s Barbados. The refit costs.’
    The Captain still hadn’t let go of my hand. He pumped it one last time and the white daggers either side of his mouth twitched upwards again. There was something odd about Addison’s eyes. They were red-rimmed, sunken deep beneath his weathered brow. He held my gaze and I blinked. The pupils, that was it. Given the brightness, they were too black, too large, too round.
    â€˜The log you say. And ledgers. Well, I’m sure my client will want to inspect both.’
    â€˜You’re welcome to them. All of it.’ Addison waved at the mass of goods stacked on the deck and, smiling at the joke, said, ‘Everything’s … quite literally … above board.’
    The Captain’s garrulousness did not suit him. It was as unnatural as the light now flashing in his eyes, which appeared less reflected than released, as though it were burning from within. I let him go on.
    â€˜Yes, we were away longer than expected, or longer than the owners would have liked, because in a sense they should expect it, don’t you see? The Windward Isles. Wind! Christ, did