Authors: Charles Finch
Evers, blushing, his face angry, said, “No, no, no payment necessary. I’ll leave it off with McEwan.”
McEwan smiled gently, and Lenox recalled that the two men, so superficially dissimilar, were friends. “Hey now, go on, Johnny, take a payment. A couple shillings, Mr. Lenox?”
“I would have thought at least a crown or two. Call it two crowns?”
“For a drawing?” said Evers doubtfully.
“For a drawing.”
“A fool and his money are soon parted, I suppose.”
“Oy! Have some respect!” said McEwan, a drop of genuine anger in his voice.
“’Pologies, ’pologies, ’pologies. Yer can have it for a crown, Mr. Lenox—there, I bargained you down, how do you like that?”
“Very well—a prime sort of transaction.”
“What was the other thing you wanted to ask of me?” said Evers.
“Ah. Now that … that is trickier by far, I’m afraid…”
Fifteen minutes later Lenox began the descent, well pleased with the conversation, and having even given himself a moment to stand in the crow’s nest and admire the Mediterranean. He found that they were within sight of land—“Oh, have been for days,” McEwan said offhandedly—which meant that he was gazing upon Africa for the first time.
Once, before Jane, really, travel had been a great preoccupation and passion of his, and he had spent hours with mapmakers and travel booksellers, had read of the great Arabian and African and Arctic adventures. Now those wintering roots stirred, life shooting up through them. To be in Africa! The savannahs, sparsely dotted with trees, the great game—lions, zebras, elephants—and of course the natives, so mysterious to him, frightening if he were honest with himself. Were they truly savage?
It was easy, he had always felt, for an Englishman, dotted at the center of a great empire, with London as a heart pumping blood out to the most distant veins, to feel that he too was the center of the empire. Of the world. But it was state of mind that Lenox deplored in his own class; he was happy to hunt fox at Lenox House, and drink tea, and watch the local blacksmith bowl cricket. But he never presumed that these things were all the world could offer, or that they were right. He had very little time for the red-faced squires, convinced of French beastliness and Victoria’s place at God’s right hand, who did? Unfortunately they populated the benches of Parliament.
With McEwan’s encouragement and aid, Lenox made it down the rigging and to deck with only seven or eight moments of utter terror, which was an improvement on his previous rate.
“Thank you, my dear man,” he said when they had successfully gained the deck.
“Not at all, not at all,” said McEwan, who was rather irritatingly breathing as gently as if he had been out for a spring stroll. “You must be next door to famished though, I reckon. Sir.”
“At the moment I would prefer a glass of brandy to a piece of mutton.”
McEwan clicked his tongue. “Oh, I’ll never understand that, not ever. But here we are, come along.”
And so Lenox retired to his cabin, to think over the next morning’s assembly.
CHAPTER FORTY
The ship’s low morale, its air of suspicion, was still present when Lenox walked the quarterdeck at eight o’clock the next morning. He wondered how the discovery of the murderer would alter that mood. It would come as a shock to the men, he imagined.
He ate a breakfast of mushrooms and eggs, fried together in one of the many scruffy cast-iron pans that McEwan hung on nails near his hammock; he feared that the cook would steal them if they were left in the galley, and swore that their heavy bottoms made food taste better. After Lenox had eaten this breakfast he took, for fortification, a small glass of wine, savoring it as he looked through his porthole. He thought of home.
When it was nearly ten o’clock he had a quick word with McEwan, sent the steward to do a small task, and then went to the wardroom. Soon all the men who ate there every night were gathered around. There was Billings, of course; the grim Carrow; Mitchell, with his temper; Lee, with his drawl; Rogers, the drunken chaplain, a figure of affectionate fun among the bluejackets; quiet Tradescant, Quirke, and Pettegree, who always stood rather apart. Alastair Cresswell had been temporarily elevated to the post of fourth lieutenant, but he was on deck, strutting around and giving his old gun roommates orders. At any rate Lenox had no need of him.
“Gentleman, welcome,” he said.
“Who did it?” asked Mitchell without preamble.
“We must go more slowly than that.”
“Puffery and showmanship,” Mitchell muttered.
“Good lord,” said Carrow, “some respect for Her Majesty’s representative.”
“You will speak with deference, Mr. Mitchell,” Billings added.
“Thank you, Mr. Carrow. Mr. Billings. We do need to move slowly, Mr. Mitchell, not to indulge my rather poor sense of showmanship, but because there is a long story to be told.”
“Well?” said Mitchell.
“First I wonder whether you would be so kind as to permit me to look outside of the doors. I have no wish to be overheard, even by your stewards.” Lenox rose and checked the doors. Nobody lurked behind any of them, though Lee’s man was cleaning his cabin.
“Here, follow me into the wardroom. Would you mind stepping up on deck for the half part of an hour or so?” said Lenox.
The steward looked at Lee. “Go on, do it,” said the lieutenant, and the man went.
Lenox sat again. “I confess that after Halifax died I suspected all of you, at one time or another. Mr. Tradescant, you have a surgeon’s hands; it crossed my mind that you might share the same predilections as some of your less honorable brethren. Please accept my apology.”
“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 further 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.”