After the Inquest

"After the Inquest" by W. W. Jacobs is a captivating short story that explores themes of mystery, human folly, and the consequences of actions taken in haste. Following a peculiar incident that leads to an inquest, the narrative delves into the reactions and motivations of the characters involved. Jacobs, known for his wit and humor, skillfully intertwines elements of suspense and irony, ultimately revealing deeper truths about human nature and the complexities of social interactions. The story showcases his signature style, blending humor with a touch of the macabre, making it a memorable read.

• Fiction

								
It was a still fair evening in late summer in the parish of Wapping.
The hands had long since left, and the night watchman having abandoned
his trust in favour of a neighbouring bar, the wharf was deserted.

An elderly seaman came to the gate and paused irresolute, then, seeing
all was quiet, stole cautiously on to the jetty, and stood for some
time gazing curiously down on to the deck of the billy-boy Psyche
lying alongside.

With the exception of the mate, who, since the lamented disappearance
of its late master and owner, was acting as captain, the deck was as
deserted as the wharf. He was smoking an evening pipe in all the pride
of a first command, his eye roving fondly from the blunt bows and
untidy deck of his craft to her clumsy stern, when a slight cough from
the man above attracted his attention.

“How do, George?” said the man on the jetty, somewhat sheepishly, as
the other looked up.

The mate opened his mouth, and his pipe fell from it and smashed to
pieces unnoticed.

“Got much stuff in her this trip?” continued the man, with an obvious
attempt to appear at ease.

“The mate, still looking up, backed slowly to the other side of the
deck, but made no reply.

“What’s the matter, man?” said the other testily. “You don’t seem
overpleased to see me.”

He leaned over as he spoke, and, laying hold of the rigging, descended
to the deck, while the mate took his breath in short, exhilarating
gasps.

“Here I am, George,” said the intruder, “turned up like a bad penny,
an’ glad to see your handsome face again, I can tell you.”

In response to this flattering remark George gurgled.

“Why,” said the other, with an uneasy laugh, “did you think I was dead,
George? Ha, ha! Feel that!”

He fetched the horrified man a thump in the back, which stopped even
his gurgles.

“That feel like a dead man?” asked the smiter, raising his hand again.
“Feel”—

The mate moved back hastily. “That’ll do,” said he fiercely; “ghost or
no ghost, don’t you hit me like that again.”

“A’ right, George,” said the other, as he meditatively felt the stiff
grey whiskers which framed his red face. “What’s the news?”

“The news,” said George, who was of slow habits and speech, “is that
you was found last Tuesday week off St. Katherine’s Stairs, you was sat
on a Friday week at the Town o’ Ramsgate public-house, and buried on
Monday afternoon at Lowestoft.”

“Buried?” gasped the other, “sat on? You’ve been drinking, George.”

“An’ a pretty penny your funeral cost, I can tell you,” continued the
mate. “There’s a headstone being made now—‘Lived lamented and died
respected,’ I think it is, with ‘Not lost, but gone before,’ at the
bottom.”

“Lived respected and died lamented, you mean,” growled the old man;
“well, a nice muddle you have made of it between you. Things always go
wrong when I’m not here to look after them.”

“You ain’t dead, then?” said the mate, taking no notice of this
unreasonable remark, “Where’ve you been all this long time?”

“No more than you’re master o’ this ’ere ship,” replied Mr. Harbolt
grimly. “I—I’ve been a bit queer in the stomach, an’ I took a little
drink to correct it. Foolish like, I took the wrong drink, and it must
have got into my head.”

“That’s the worst of not being used to it,” said the mate, without
moving a muscle.

The skipper eyed him solemnly, but the mate stood firm.

“Arter that,” continued the skipper, still watching him suspiciously,
“I remember no more distinctly until this morning, when I found myself
sitting on a step down Poplar way and shiverin’, with the morning
newspaper and a crowd round me.”

“Morning newspaper!” repeated the mystified mate. “What was that for?”

“Decency. I was wrapped up in it,” replied the skipper. “Where I came
from or how I got there I don’t know more than Adam. I s’pose I must
have been ill; I seem to remember taking something out of a bottle
pretty often. Some old gentleman in the crowd took me into a shop and
bought me these clothes, an’ here I am. My own clo’es and thirty pounds
o’ freight money I had in my pocket is all gone.”

“Well, I’m hearty glad to see you back,” said the mate. “It’s quite a
home-coming for you, too. Your missis is down aft.”

“My missis? What the devil’s she aboard for?” growled the skipper,
successfully controlling his natural gratification at the news.

“She’s been with us these last two trips,” replied the mate. “She’s had
business to settle in London, and she’s been going through your lockers
to clear up, like.”

“My lockers!” groaned the skipper. “Good heavens! there’s things in
them lockers I wouldn’t have her see for the world; women are so fussy
an’ so fond o’ making something out o’ nothing. There’s a pore female
touched a bit in the upper storey, what’s been writing love letters to
me, George.”

“Three pore females,” said the precise mate; “the missis has got all
the letters tied up with blue ribbon. Very far gone they was, too, poor
creeters.”

“George,” said the skipper in a broken voice, “I’m a ruined man. I’ll
never hear the end o’ this. I guess I’ll go an’ sleep for’ard this
voyage, and lie low. Be keerful you don’t let on I’m aboard, an’ after
she’s home I’ll take the ship again, and let the thing leak out
gradual. Come to life bit by bit, so to speak. It wouldn’t do to scare
her, George, an’ in the meantime I’ll try an’ think o’ some explanation
to tell her. You might be thinking too.”

“I’ll do what I can,” said the mate.

“Crack me up to the old girl all you can; tell her I used to write to
all sorts o’ people when I got a drop of drink in me; say how
thoughtful I always was of her. You might tell her about that gold
locket I bought for her an’ got robbed of.”

“Gold locket?” said the mate in tones of great surprise. “What gold
locket? Fust I’ve heard of it.”

“Any gold locket,” said the skipper irritably; “anything you can think
of; you needn’t be pertikler. Arter that you can drop little hints
about people being buried in mistake for others, so as to prepare her a
bit—I don’t want to scare her.”

“Leave it to me,” said the mate.

“I’ll go an’ turn in now, I’m dead tired,” said the skipper. “I s’pose
Joe and the boy’s asleep?”

George nodded, and meditatively watched the other as he pushed back the
fore-scuttle and drew it after him as he descended. Then a thought
struck the mate, and he ran hastily forward and threw his weight on the
scuttle just in time to frustrate the efforts of Joe and the boy, who
were coming on deck to tell him a new ghost story. The confusion below
was frightful, the skipper’s cry of “It’s only me, Joe,” not possessing
the soothing effect which he intended. They calmed down at length,
after their visitor had convinced them that he really was flesh and
blood and fists, and the boy’s attention being directed to a small rug
in the corner of the foc’s’le, the skipper took his bunk and was soon
fast asleep.

He slept so soundly that the noise of the vessel getting under way
failed to rouse him, and she was well out in the open river when he
awoke, and after cautiously protruding his head through the scuttle,

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