A Watery Grave (12 page)

“I would not have presumed to ask,” said Grimes, on a note of reproof.

“Did you notice his mood?” When Grimes hesitated, Wiki prompted, “I should have imagined that he was reluctant to go out when there was so much packing and planning to do.”

“Oh, he was very cheerful. So splendid he looked, all rigged out in his best formal fig—claw-hammer coat, stiff white shirt; vest, fit for a royal presentation he was. I know it because he brought the clothes to me to brush and sponge. I'd never before seen him look so grand.”

“And … a top hat?”

“Of course! He never went out without one.”

“Did you see him when he got back?”

“When I saw him again I was on the
Porpoise.
It was well past noon next day.”

“And what was his mood like then?”

“Excited—excited. Just had the news, you see, that we was being shifted onto the
Vincennes.
”

“Did he know why he was being moved?”

“They said Mr. Stanton wouldn't be able to join the expedition on account of his wife committing suicide,” Grimes added, and looked away as he said the last word, blinking hard.

“The news of the suicide affected Mr. Burroughs?”

“Not so anyone would notice,” Grimes said, adding rather defensively, “The shift to the
Vincennes
preoccupied our minds so—we was busier than ever.”

“And when it became officially known that she had not committed suicide at all—that it was a case of murder—?”

“He said nothing about it to me, though I noticed he went a bit quiet—abstracted, as if he had something on his mind. He would stop in the middle of something and stare into space, if you know what I mean. But then he'd get busy again—we had so much to do, and he was so looking forward to the voyage.”

“Did the sheriff talk to Mr. Burroughs—or to you?”

“No, sir, neither of us. We passed his boat once when we was pulling over to the
Vin
with a load of equipment, and he looked around with an inquisitive expression on his face, but he didn't call out or anything. He was heading for shore, and I guess he was on some kind of errand.”

“I see,” said Wiki slowly. Everything had fallen into place—but still something nagged. Then he was roused from his deep reverie by Grimes giving a little cough and saying, “Is that all, sir?”

Wiki gave up trying to pin down the stray thought and stood up, narrowly missing a clout on the head from a bag of onions. “I thank you,” he said. “You've been most helpful.”

As he emerged from the house onto the bustling deck, he hesitated, blinded by the sudden bright sun. There was a burly figure standing by the weather mizzenmast shrouds. For a moment he thought the silhouette was Tristram Stanton, but when his sight adjusted he recognized Lieutenant Forsythe.

Neither said a word. Wiki turned on his heel and headed for the gangway, where the boat from the
Swallow
waited.

Ten

At six that evening a gun was fired on the
Vincennes,
and the flags were lowered to half-mast. All hands were lined up in good order on the decks of their ships to witness the burial of the remains of Astronomer Burroughs. Though the service was taking place on the flagship, Wiki thought that most sailors would have been able to follow the words from memory—
We therefore commit his body to the deep
—as the distant canvas bundle slid down the plank from under the flag that had been draped over it.

No doubt, mused Wiki ironically, the chaplain was inspired to add at least some words of the prayer that put the whole raison d'être of the exploring expedition in a nutshell—
Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, that we may be a safeguard unto the United States of America, and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions
—a prayer that was heartily echoed by the ever-growing host of American whalers, sealers, and merchantmen who risked the reefs, shoals, and savages of the great Pacific. They were men like his father, who, through organizations like the East India Marine Society of Salem, had lobbied the U.S. government for many years to send out an expedition to chart those reefs and shoals and at the same time subdue those savages who might threaten the safety of American mariners—a responsibility Captain Wilkes was acutely aware of and, as he had said publicly and often, was determined to carry out to the letter.

Three ragged musket volleys cracked as the corpse hit the water with an unheard splash to be lost forever in the deep blue sea—and Wiki still did not know what Stanton's cousin had looked like.
Confound it,
he thought, he should have asked Wilkes to let him see the body—it was just primitive superstition that had held him back.

During the second dogwatch he tapped on the door of the captain's cabin, and when he heard a grunt from within he turned the handle and went inside. George was busy with papers at his desk, so Wiki lowered himself to the edge of the settee that ran under the stern windows. While he waited, he slumped into his favorite thinking position, forearms along his thighs, his hands lightly clasped between his knees. The five chronometer clocks ticked heavily in the creaking silence, not quite in rhythm with each other.

He was thinking deeply about Jim Powell's claim that it had been Lieutenant Forsythe who had sent him to Newport News to collect the note from Tristram Stanton. Powell was a notorious liar—but was he lying now? The memory of the scene in the Norfolk tavern was as vivid in Wiki's mind as the pattern of the carpet under his feet, but none of it carried any kind of hint that Jim was going to head off on a mission for Forsythe instead of staying behind, as he had promised to do.

As a memory, it was markedly unpleasant. When Forsythe had stormed in the door of the ordinary, Wiki had been in close conversation with Janey, his pretty fair-haired companion of the evening, expecting no kind of trouble whatsoever. They had been sitting in a nook with Janey's friend—a red-haired, Irish-looking girl—and her beau, Jim Powell, who had joined them without being asked. Wiki had been secretly wishing that Powell would take the redhead away and leave them alone when the door had crashed open and Forsythe had burst in on his way toward the tap. Then, when he clapped eyes on Wiki and Janey, he'd stopped dead.

Wiki remembered the southerner's glowering look. For some unknown reason he had been spoiling for a fight, and the sight of Rochester's half-caste friend in intimate conversation with a fair-haired southern girl had given him the excuse that he wanted. Wiki remembered every single insult, and how Forsythe's derisive laughter at the very idea of dueling with a half-caste Kanaka had hurt worse than all the insults put together—but he did not remember anything to indicate that shortly afterward the foul-mouthed lieutenant would send Jim off to Newport News to fetch a note from Tristram Stanton.

And what about Burroughs—had he indeed been the man who impersonated Stanton that night at the house? And was there a link between Burroughs and Forsythe? All three men were Virginians, Wiki mused. When George at last put down his pen and turned in his chair, Wiki said at once, “
E hoa,
what did Burroughs look like?”

George grimaced. “Ghastly. His end wasn't pleasant. When we cut him down his head flopped to one side and his mouth fell open—and there was some gore running from where he'd banged his head, as well as the horrid burn of the rope on his neck. And his face was swollen and purple—almost black. But it was mostly his expression that sent chills up my spine—a look of startled horror.”

Wiki winced because so much of the description matched his memory of the dead body of Stanton's wife. That both had ultimately died of a broken neck seemed very ironic.

He said, “I meant his physical description. Could you tell he was related to the Stantons?”

Rochester considered the idea. “Burroughs's body was about the same kind of build as Tristram Stanton's—barrel-chested, I guess. I didn't see him standing up—not exactly, but my impression was that Burroughs was a bit shorter.”

“Being shorter wouldn't be noticeable from a stairway.”

“That's true,” Rochester agreed with his eyebrows hoisting high, but then added, “You have to remember that it would have been a simple matter for a thinner man to pad himself out to pass as Stanton, too. Just about any man could have gotten away with it, just as long as his hair and clothes fitted the general appearance.”

“So what color was Burroughs's hair?”

“Hard to remember because my attention was taken up by that awful face. It was dark and coarse like Tristram Stanton's, I think, and his ears stuck out the same way.”

“He had sideburns?”

“I do remember sideburns.” Rochester fingered his own fluffy side-whiskers, studying Wiki thoughtfully. “You seem quite determined that Burroughs was the man who went to the Stanton house that night. You've learned something, old fellow.”

“Burroughs was invited to join the expedition only because of Stanton's strong recommendation—I heard that from Captain Wilkes himself. And Burroughs's servant, Grimes, told me outright that he thought Burroughs had bribed Stanton to put in a good word for him.”

Rochester's brows had reached his hair. “I remember you saying that Stanton was short of the ready. You reckon a big sum of money was involved?”

“The way I reckon things happened, no money at all was involved. I think Burroughs was asked to do Stanton a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“To go to the plantation house the night his wife was murdered.”

“My God, Wiki! Are you trying to tell me that Tristram Stanton
bribed
Burroughs to put his wife out of the way—and Burroughs agreed to do it?”

“I think the sheriff would jump to that conclusion if he were here.”

“H'm,” said Rochester, and pulled at his long nose, thinking deeply. Then he looked at Wiki and said shrewdly, “So you've made up your mind to delve a bit further to prove him right or wrong or whatever. But how can you hope to do that?”

“He left a letter of authority with Captain Wilkes, deputizing me to carry on with the investigation.”

George's mild blue eyes opened wide. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Wiki produced the document and once again watched incredulity chase disbelief on the reader's face. “But why
you?
” George exclaimed when he was finished.

“Captain Wilkes was equally amazed,” Wiki dryly replied.

“So that's why he came on board to talk with you when the boat delivered Stanton,” said Rochester, light dawning. “I wondered about that. He'd already left that letter with Captain Wilkes?”

“So it seems,” Wiki said, having worked this out himself. “And, having left it, he had to get me up to date—share his thoughts and findings, just in case something happened that justified this letter being handed over.”

“And Captain Wilkes considered Burroughs's suicide a justification for telling you that you're now sheriff's deputy? Because he was Stanton's cousin?”

“So he said.”

“And your guess is that the sheriff would reckon Burroughs's suicide was a virtual admission of guilt?”

Wiki hesitated, thinking that the sheriff had seemed to believe that the murderer was still on the loose in Virginia, because he had talked about hunting down the missing rifle. However, he shrugged and said, “That's what I told Captain Wilkes at any rate.”

“Well,” said Rochester, frowning, and stopped. He shifted uneasily in his chair and then said, “I didn't know the fellow at all—but I find it hard to believe that Burroughs was the kind of man who'd go along with murder. It just ain't logical that he'd do it, not even to get a position with the expedition. If anyone ever found out—”

Wiki meditated that Burroughs's assistant would never believe it, either. Then George went on, “Maybe he was bribed to get the body out of the house and into that derelict boat and then shove her along on her way to the sea. You've said already that she could've been dead of opium poisoning before anyone arrived.”

“You've forgotten the little matter of her broken neck,” Wiki said dryly.

“Maybe he dropped her after she was dead, and her neck snapped.”

Wiki grimaced. “I don't think that's possible,” he said, though he didn't feel all that certain. “If the body was still warm, it would have been completely limp; and if rigor mortis had set in, which takes a couple of hours, she would have been as stiff as a board.”

“Well, it's an answer to why she didn't raise hell when the imposter walked into her room. Yup,” said George decisively, “I reckon she was as dead as the dodo when Burroughs—if that is who it was—arrived.”

“But I don't see how Stanton could possibly predict she'd kill herself before Burroughs came to dispose of the body,” Wiki objected.

“You said Stanton confessed that he'd sent her a note that would have upset her considerable.”

“I can't think of any message cruel enough to make sure of that—and anyway, it was never delivered.”

Rochester's eyes opened wide again. “How the devil do you know that?”

“Jim Powell told me.”

“Powell?”

“Aye. He said it fell out of his hat into the mud, and so he threw it away, because Wilkes had once beaten him for delivering a muddy letter.”

George shook his head, looking baffled, and then hazarded, “You saw Powell on the
Vin?
”

“I saw him on the
Porpoise
last night.”

“But I thought he was on the flagship.”

“Well, he's not.” Wiki wondered briefly what Captain Wilkes would say if he knew that there was at least one man in the fleet with murder against him in his heart.