A Burial at Sea Page 20

  “Of course,” said Tradescant.

  “Mr. Mitchell, your anger marked you out. Mr. Billings, your penknife killed Halifax. Mr. Quirke, red hair has been known to indicate a fiery temperament. To all of you I apologize as well.”

  Mitchell said nothing, and Billings merely inclined his head. Quirke laughed. “A story for my children, me a suspect,” he said.

  The men who had not been named—Lee, Carrow, Pettegree, Rogers—looked at each other uncomfortably.

  “I accept your apology, too,” said Lee, and there was a nervous chuckle.

  “The first thing to understand, gentlemen, is that the mutiny—the rolled shot, the note on Mr. Martin’s desk after we discovered his corpse—is true, a real threat.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Lenox called.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Billings asked.

  “Yes. You will lay eyes upon the chief mutineer now.”

  McEwan entered.

  “You!” said Carrow.

  “Sir?” said McEwan.

  “Look for the man behind him, Mr. Carrow,” said Lenox.

  It was Evers, sporting a red welt on his cheek that hadn’t been there the day before.

  “What the devil is this about?” he shouted, full of rage.

  “Mutiny,” said Lenox. “I find that word carries a great deal of weight on this ship.”

  “Is this true?” said Billings.

  “No,” said Evers. “Course not, sir.”

  “What is your evidence, Mr. Lenox?”

  “Mr. McEwan, at my behest, infiltrated the gang. This was their leader. I have four other names.”

  “Mr. McEwan?” said Billings.

  “Aye, sir. They meant to take the ship for themselves.”

  Evers shot a hateful look at McEwan.

  “Did you kill Captain Martin?” asked Billings.

  “They did not, not directly,” Lenox said, “nor Halifax. Yet they were complicit, with an officer of this ship.”

  A murmur broke out in the room, as the men stared at one another.

  “I cannot believe Mr. Evers guilty,” said Carrow, standing up. “He serves on my watch, and he is a good man—hard, but good.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Carrow,” said Billings. “Though I wish we might hang him now, we will judge him on Sunday, as we do all criminals on board, and you may speak for him then.”

  “Captain,” said Carrow stiffly, and sat again.

  “Mr. Evers, on whose behalf were you working?” said Billings.

  “Nobody’s, sir. I weren’t never no mutineer. I been a Lucy eight years.”

  “Will you say nothing further?”

  “I’m innocent, sir.”

  “Mr. McEwan, bind his hands behind him—yes, there is your rope—and take him to the brig. Mr. Pettegree, you will go with him? I know you have a key.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  This done, and Pettegree returned, all eyes reverted again to Lenox. “How is this related to the murders?” Billings asked.

  “First, let me ask a question, if you would permit, Captain.”

  “Go on.”

  “Mr. Carrow, you are Evers’s watch captain, are you not?”

  “I am, but to suggest that I had any role, whatsoever, in—”

  “And you discovered both bodies, I know.”

  “Yes, that was my misfortune. The first time I was in the company of—”

  “Of nobody, sir,” said Lenox. “My nephew, Teddy, went down to the gun room to rest, ill, on his first night aboard the ship. Nobody else was on the poop deck at that time.”

  Carrow looked disconcerted. “Well,” he began, but Lenox interrupted.

  “Do you deny that you were alone?”

  Now the second lieutenant’s face turned defiant. “I don’t deny it. I suppose I am at fault for attempting to protect the reputation of your nephew, Mr. Lenox. The other lads would have been merciless with him.”

  Lenox stood. “Captain,” he said, “the crux of my case is a man’s hands. A sailor’s hands. Yours, for instance, have all the traits of a sailor’s, do they not? Perhaps I might show these gentlemen what I mean.”

  “Look here,” said Carrow, standing again, “if you mean to imply that I killed either Halifax or, the Lord forbid, my own captain, you’ve lost your senses, Mr. Lenox.”

  “Let him speak,” said Billings. “Hands, you were saying, Mr. Lenox?”

  “May I see yours?”

  Lenox’s heart was beating rapidly. Billings held out his hands, and with a quickness of movement of which he had no longer believed himself capable, Lenox had a pair of shackles out and clasped over the captain’s wrists.

  Billings’s face, at first puzzled, showed an instant of pure, terrifying rage. Then the captain composed himself. “What’s the meaning of this?” he said. “What demonstration is this?”

  “None at all,” said Lenox. “Merely a ruse. Mr. Carrow, I must add you to my list of apologies, and Mr. Billings, I’m afraid I must take yours back. For this man, gentleman, your captain—though I hope not for much longer—is the monster who murdered Mr. Thomas Halifax and Mr. Jacob Martin.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “Of all the bloody nerve!” said Billings. “Unlock me at once! I’ll hang you for treason, on the same rope as Evers!”

  “Mr. Evers is innocent. There was no true mutiny among the men of the Lucy. It was never likely, given their loyalty. Mr. Pettegree, perhaps you would fetch Evers up. The welt he gave himself was an excellent touch, I must say, but alas, it was all arranged between us.”

  Pettegree didn’t move, and the other men looked wary, understandably. Mitchell went so far as to say, “He’s a madman.” It wasn’t clear to whom this condemnation referred.

  “You had better explain yourself,” Carrow said. “How can you possibly be so sure?”

  “I wasn’t, I confess,” said Lenox. “But the relief in your eyes yesterday, Mr. Billings, when I told you I suspected Mr. Carrow—and again I must apologize, sir—was unmistakable. You hid it well, but that was the final piece of evidence I needed. Confirmation.”

  “This is an outrage,” said Billings. “The Lucy is my ship—my ship, you understand! I’ve worked too goddamn long to be robbed of her by the likes of you!”

  “Watch your language, surely, Captain,” said the chaplain, his face anxious.

  “To hell with your language,” said Billings. “Unshackle me, Lenox, you bastard!”

  “You had better start explaining why you suspect our captain, sir,” said Lee, more serious than Lenox had seen him look before. “To cuff him like a criminal at the table here, on what is now his own ship—it has been badly done.”

  “I wanted Mr. Billings under our guard, and shackled. A captain can be a dangerous thing, free on a ship. He could have any of us hanged, or put in brig, if he liked. The men would take his word over his lieutenants’. That was why I led him to believe that his plan had worked, and that I believed Mr. Carrow guilty. I wanted you relaxed, Mr. Billings, and unsuspecting. And I wanted to gauge your face as I spoke to Evers. You’ll excuse the charade, gentlemen.”

  Lenox rose, and took a glass of water from the pitcher that stood on the sideboard.

  “Do you remember, Mr. Billings, after we discovered Mr. Martin’s body, and you said to me, that I would likely find your watch chain, or Mr. Carrow’s, about his body? I began to suspect you then. Nobody other than Mr. Martin, Mr. McEwan, and Mr. Carrow knew about the medallion found beneath Halifax’s body.”

  “Martin told me,” said Billings.

  “I doubt it. He understood the importance of secrecy. No, I think you put the medallion near Halifax’s body, hoping to make it seem as if it had been torn from his breast in the fight. Was that why you stole it back, too? To shift my suspicion onto Carrow?”

  “This is preposterous.”

  “Then there was Mr. Mitchell’s tie chain, an object that was closely associated with him. Left by you, to furthe
r muddy the waters, I assume?”

  “Is that where the damn thing has gone?” Mitchell said. “I’ll have it back, thank you.”

  Lenox waved an impatient hand. “Later, later. Tie chain or no tie chain, Billings, it was always Mr. Carrow you hoped I would arrest, wasn’t it? I wonder whether you slipped my nephew something, to make him ill. No? Too far-fetched? At least consider, then, our discussion about Mr. Bethell, who was once the ship’s second lieutenant. You saw that I suspected Bethell’s death might be related to Halifax’s, and pitched me a story about Carrow and Bethell having a falling-out, just before the man’s death.”

  “Did you say that, Billings?” asked Carrow, his voice throaty. “You know he’s the closest friend I’ve ever had at sea.”

  “I never did,” said Billings.

  “Mr. Quirke, you were there too, I believe.”

  “I was,” said Quirke. “You did say so, Mr. Billings, I remember. I had never heard of a falling-out between them, but there seemed no reason not to believe it.”

  There was a silence now, and Lenox began to feel the tide of belief turn, ever so slightly, in his favor.

  “What’s this business of mutiny, Mr. Lenox?” said Lee at last. “I mislike your use of Evers. Was he involved?”

  “He was only an actor, I promise. Mr. Pettegree, I really do think it would be best to free him.”

  The purser nodded and left.

  “No,” said Lenox, “the so-called mutiny was another piece of misdirection from you, Mr. Billings. You were on deck when the shot was rolled, were you not?”

  “Yes, along with dozens of other men.”

  “And yet only one other officer. At first I thought perhaps it was directed at you; now I believe you rolled it.”

  “But how on earth is this anything but a suspicion?” said Carrow, plainly discomfited.

  Lenox felt in his breast pocket. “Here’s the note that was left in Captain Martin’s cabin,” he said. “You’ll know better than I that few sailors on the ship can write or read.”

  “Several can,” said Mitchell.

  “There is a simple expedient I can think of to discover the truth,” said Lenox, who suggested it because he had tried it the evening before, when he had stolen into Billings’s cabin. “Perhaps you, Mr. Tradescant, might fetch a piece of paper, anything with writing on it, from our captain’s cabin.”

  “I call that an outrageous violation,” said Billings, whose tone was almost too cool, too controlled.

  Several of the officers looked as if they might agree.

  “It’s not quite cricket,” said Lee.

  “If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize—grovel—before Mr. Billings. What can be the harm in comparing his handwriting to the note’s?”

  Tradescant shrugged, rose, and made for Billings’s cabin.

  Billings shot up then, and shouted, red-faced, “No! You cannot do that!”

  “Why not?” said Lenox.

  “Lee is right—it’s not done!” Billings said.

  But the vehemence of his reaction acted against him.

  “We may as well see,” said Lee, shrugging. “Perhaps the comparison will exonerate you.”

  Pettegree returned just as Tradescant left for Billings’s cabin, and as the door closed behind him Lenox saw Evers and McEwan speaking to each other excitedly.

  Tradescant returned, his face grave. “Here is a letter Mr. Billings has written to his sister, Mr. Lenox. I have not read its contents, thinking that an invasion, but perhaps it may be used for comparison?”

  Lenox took the note, and then put both it and the mutineer’s note out on the table. “As like as twins, you’ll see. No attempt to disguise the handwriting. That was foolish, Mr. Billings.”

  All of the men in the room turned their gaze on the captain, who finally wilted under the inspection. “Well, so what if I wrote the note?” said Billings.

  “You confess it?” said Carrow. “What can be your excuse?”

  “The captain knew of it—was my accomplice.”

  “And told you of Carrow’s medallion, too? Convenient that he’s dead.”

  “You have no proof.”

  “And yet there is more,” said Lenox. “Your nausea when we stood over Mr. Halifax’s body, or Mr. Martin’s, seems in retrospect overdone to me. No man has been at sea for more than fifteen years without seeing worse. It was an effective ruse, I’ll grant you.”

  “They were my friend and my captain. I would hate to see the man whom such a sight did not nauseate.”

  “And yet there is another piece of evidence, Mr. Billings, which suggests to me that you may have a stronger stomach than you let on. The captain’s log.”

  “What of it? More trumpery, I don’t doubt.”

  “Mr. Tradescant, you concluded from the gruesome treatment of both corpses that the hand that cut them had some surgical experience, however rudimentary, didn’t you?”

  “Not a great deal, necessarily, but some, yes.”

  “When you are ill, who acts as the surgeon?”

  “Why, I have trained my assistant in more recent months. Before that it was Mr.”—realization dawned in the surgeon’s eyes—“Mr. Billings.”

  “You toured the sick bay with Captain Martin once, and recommended amputation of a sailor’s leg. Would you have carried out the procedure yourself?”

  “He would have,” Tradescant answered. “After battles he sewed the men up, just as I did. How could I forget?”

  “How did you come by that skill?” Lenox asked Billings.

  “Go bugger yourself.”

  “His father was a surgeon in a small town,” Carrow said quietly.

  “Why would I have, you fools?” said Billings. “Why on earth would I have wanted to do that?”

  “Ah,” said Lenox. “I have my suspicions on that subject, too. Your motive.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Lenox poured another glass of water, and realized, as he took a deep breath, what a thrill was running through him. He had finally found his old form. It had come too late to save Martin, but there might be justice. That was something.

  Again he addressed the room. “When a murderer kills twice, you must ask yourself what unites the two people who have died. What did Mr. Martin and Mr. Halifax have in common?”

  “Nothing, except a life on board the Lucy,” said Billings. “Spare me your speculation.”

  “And one other thing, Mr. Billings: both stood in the way of your promotion from first lieutenant to captain.”

  Lee laughed. “There you find yourself using landsman’s logic, I expect, Mr. Lenox. Billings outranked Halifax.”

  “You have the right of it, Mr. Lee—he did. But let me spin you a story.”

  “Wonderful,” said Billings. He jerked at his handcuffs. “I’ll have you all up before the admiralty for this. As for you, Lenox, you fool, I’ll leave you in Egypt to rot.”

  “I have wondered since Halifax was murdered why the killer did it on this ship, this contained, unprivate, undepartable vessel, rather than on land. But then I thought yesterday: what if he was only given a motive when he came on board?

  “Then several facts came to me. The first was something my brother had told me, that Martin was destined for great things, indeed was rumored to be receiving command of a warship within the next several months. The second was something Martin himself told me in Plymouth, when we dined together. He said that he had to meet with the admiralty the next day, to make or break his lieutenants’ careers—a prospect he loathed. Is it possible that he recommended Halifax take the ship after him, ‘receive his step,’ as a naval man would say? I know Halifax had numerous connections, relations even, within the admiralty. Men who wanted to see him do well. And what did you have? A few surgical tricks you picked up as a child?”

  This hit home, Lenox saw; Billings tried not to, but he winced, pained at hearing the truth out loud. The detective wondered if it was as plain to the other men in the wardroom as it was to him.

  “T
hat train of thought led me to remember something Halifax told me over the last supper he ate. He said that at sea not all men get their wishes. Not all lieutenants are made captain, however much they may feel they deserve it. I wondered at the time if he was referring to himself, but now I suspect he was referring to you. I think his relations had told him the Lucy would be his upon her return from Egypt. By killing Martin and Halifax both, you became captain both now and, perhaps, for the future. An acting captain who does well often retains his command, does he not?”

  Heads bobbed all over the room.

  “Is that what Martin told you, Mr. Billings, that you would never be captain of the Lucy—that Halifax was to have it next, while Martin himself moved on to a new, larger ship? Perhaps he even offered to take you with him? But you wished to be a captain. It’s only natural that you would, I know.”

  “End your squawking, man.”

  “Over whisky, the first night at sea, was it? Half a bottle was gone—too much for one man, but enough for three. I imagine the three of you meeting together. What was it you told me in our first supper together? That whisky was your favorite drink? Martin was a considerate man; he would have understood that you needed a tipple, to keep yourself together at the bad news. A life at sea, and never a command of your own.”

  “Absurd.”

  “Is it? What was it you said earlier? That you had worked too long to get her to be robbed of the Lucy?”

  “It’s true, damn your eyes.”

  “It is not difficult to imagine that at the conclusion of your drinks together, you might have asked Halifax to join you for a stroll upon the deck. Perhaps even a trip up the rigging. You couldn’t have stopped for a knife, so it had to be a penknife. Was it on the spur of the moment, or did you hatch the plan the moment Martin broke the news to you?”

  “Why would I have done any of that? Why would I have flayed him open?”

  “Ah. There I have dark suspicions of your character, I fear, Mr. Billings. Perhaps we may discuss them later.”

  Billings looked around the room, and spoke. “All of you—Carrow, Lee, Mitchell, Quirke, my dear chaplain—I have served with you long and short whiles. This man has been aboard the Lucy for a fortnight and has accused me of murder. Please, let us all return to our senses.”