“I have to admit,” Buchan said, “I came to this investigation with a number of preconceptions.”
He was sitting in the Peytons’ kitchen, a long ways beyond three parts drunk. He had arrived in the cutter that morning, coming straight across from his interview with Noel Young on Tommy’s Arm River, and no one seemed that much surprised to see him. The day was passed in distant pleasantries and Buchan had the marines assist in taking down the cutting room and salt house to protect them from the ice that would rake the coast come spring. The supper was a staid event with little conversation and both Mary and Cassie excused themselves as soon as they had eaten. Rowsell had been with them for the meal as well but left to lie in with the other marines just before nine. Peyton and his father stayed at the table with the officer as the dark settled and a harsh autumn frost reached for them where they sat. Peyton laid more wood in the fire than any sober person would consider sensible and he kept it roaring through the evening. None of them had seen the bottom of their glass in a while.
“Blindness,” Buchan went on, “to refuse to see what’s before your eyes because you have already decided on the truth of a matter. I have been half-asleep this whole time.”
Peyton raised his glass. “Welcome back to the land of the living, sir.” He felt giddy with misery.
Buchan slammed the table with the open palm of his hand. “I feel a little as if someone has pulled the rug from beneath my feet.”
John Senior said, “That’s just the rum.”
“I admire you, sir,” Buchan said to the older man. “I have said so on a number of occasions to a number of people, your son being one of them.”
John Senior drank off half his glass. “I could give a good Goddamn what you think of me,” he said. “Sir,” he added.
They all three burst into laughter and they went on longer than the thin joke warranted, until their guts ached from the effort and tears streamed down their faces.
Buchan cleared his throat, trying to stifle a last giggle. “I will be taking Mr. Reilly into St. John’s to be tried when the Grasshopper returns,” he said. He was still wiping away the moisture from his cheeks.
John Senior looked across at his son and then at the officer. “The hell you will,” he said.
He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Fidelity to the law, Mr. Peyton. I have no choice.”
“You promised a good word if ever it was needed.”
“Concerning past offences, yes. This is another case altogether. Mr. Reilly will hang, I’m afraid.”
John Senior said, “T’was me what killed him. I was the shooter.”
“Shut up now,” Peyton told him.
Buchan looked at the old man and then at his son. A squib of drunken uncertainty crossed his face. “An honourable gesture, sir. I expected nothing less from you.”
Peyton held up a hand to keep his father in his seat. “Mind,” he said. He refilled the round of glasses and sipped at the rum. “You have concluded your investigation, Captain Buchan.”
He gave a non-committal shrug. “I believe I have,” he answered.
“We are pleased and relieved to hear it,” Peyton said. He turned to his father. “I’ll need a few moments alone with the Captain.”
The old man looked to his son quickly, about to argue with him, but said nothing. In the few months since they’d gone down to the lake John Senior seemed to have lost his place in the world, everything around him had shifted, breaking up like ice rotten with spring heat. The nightmares he suffered off and on for years had become increasingly frequent and violent. He seemed sure of nothing any more. “I was just on my way to bed,” he said furiously. He got up from the table and he took his full glass with him up the stairs.
Peyton watched Buchan from across the table. He imagined the small room where they sat suddenly in motion, the two of them in an open boat with a heavy sea running. The sickening rise on a wave’s crest, the sudden plunging descent. He got up from his seat and walking unsteadily to the daybed, bending to reach into the chill underneath. Back at the table he placed the journal between them. “I understand you misplaced this a number of days ago.”
Buchan reached for the book. He held it in his hand and hefted it, as if guessing its weight. “I could have you flogged for this,” he said. He shook the journal at his host. “I could have you hanged.” He tried to sound more sure of himself than he felt. He let out a long breath of air. “But I suspect there was nothing much of use to you among the contents. And if I’m not mistaken, the actual thief is halfway to the gallows already.”