A Watery Grave (4 page)

Then he put his great gnarled hands on the desktop, lifted himself partway out of his chair to stare at Wiki, and demanded of the sheriff, “Is this the fellow what found her?”

“Yessir,” said the sheriff.

“I see.” There was a short, tense pause, while Wiki silently met the penetrating stare of the bright, small eyes. It was impossible to read Stanton's expression. Then, just as abruptly, Stanton slumped back in his chair, saying impatiently to the sheriff, “Well, go and interview the servants, go. They're assembled, just as you requested.”

The servants were standing in the same line, except there were more of them, the stable hands having joined the assemblage. The sheriff was silent a long moment, his fists on his belt and his paunch pushing out his vest while he scanned the long row deliberately. Then he gestured in Wiki's direction and said, “Any of you folks seen this fellow before?”

Silence—silence so profound that Wiki became aware of a clock ticking somewhere down the hallway. He could hear George Rochester's breathing and the creak as the sheriff shifted. All eyes were fixed on him, and most of the mouths were gaping open in what looked like utter incomprehension. Then at last an elderly man in a long apron cleared his throat and said, “No, Mr. Sheriff sir.” And heads were shaken all along the row.

“You're certain?”

“Not likely to forget an Injun, sir. Wouldn't let 'im in the house in the fust place.”

The sheriff pursed his lips, his expression brooding. He said, “Your mistress was taken away in the night. Did none of you see the man who came to get her?”

Again there was silence. Then the same old retainer said reluctantly, “I saw 'im, sir.”

“When?”

“In the middle of the night, about eleven or twelve. I heard someone come in, so I got up and looked down the stairwell from the attic floor where the house servants live and saw 'im run up the stairs and go into Mrs. Stanton's room.”

“And was it
this
fellow?” demanded the sheriff, jerking a thick thumb at Wiki.

“Of cuss not!” the servant exclaimed, appalled at the very notion. “You think I'd watch a dirty Injun go into the mistress's room without raising hell? Not on your life, sir!”

“So who
was
the man who went into her room?”

Dead silence. Then the old man said reluctantly, “Her 'usband.”

“Tristram Stanton?”
This time the exclamation came from Rochester. Everyone looked at him, and he went bright red and blurted, “Last
night?
”

“It was Mr. Tristram Stanton,” the old retainer insisted. “It might've been the middle of the night, but the lanterns in the hall were lit. He looked up when 'e 'eard me and called out, ‘Go back to bed, Peter, I don't need you tonight'—it was him, I'd swear it on the Bible.”

“How long was he there?” said the sheriff.

“Not long—it was less'n hour later that I 'eard 'im gallop off.”

George Rochester tried to interrupt again, but the sheriff raised his palm to silence him, saying to the servants in general, “Did anyone else see Mr. Stanton?”

There was a pause while the assemblage looked at each other and shook their heads, but then the young maid who had let them in bit her lip and said nervously, “Aye, sir, I did—but it was later'n twelve, more like two or three.”

Again she looked very frightened. However, she went on gamely, “I 'eard footsteps running up to young Mr. Stanton's study and then run out again, and so I looked and it was Mr. Tristram hisself goin' down. He didn't see me, but I saw 'im. I thought he was off a-hunting rabbits, the way he do sometimes, 'cos he was carryin' a gun.”

“A gun!”

“Yessir. A long one.”

“Wa'al,” said the sheriff, looking brisk and businesslike, “I reckon we should have a look at his study.”

Tristram Stanton's study was identical in shape to the one that belonged to his father, but it had a very different atmosphere, being devoted to science rather than accounting. A telescope and various spyglasses were set on a bench beneath the big window. The top of the big desk held astronomy journals instead of the paraphernalia of business; and the wall was hung with weapons, including pistols, knives, cutlasses, and dirks. The centerpiece of the display was supposed to be a pair of fine hunting rifles, but one of them was missing.

The sheriff went over, and carefully lifted down the remaining rifle. “My,” he said in professional admiration. “Oh me, oh my.” Beautifully crafted, it had two barrels, one above the other, which were designed to rotate. “A revolving rifle—you fire one barrel, turn it, fire the other—get two shots in quick succession,” he explained, and reverentially set the weapon down on the desk, away from the piles of journals and alongside a well-brushed top hat that had been left there, brim up, with a pair of fine leather gloves tucked inside.

Then he looked at Wiki and said, “Wa-al, I guess the mate to that there gun was the one that fired the shots into the boat—which puts you and your two little pistols in the clear, Mr. Kernacker-Indian.”

Wiki inclined his head, veiling his huge sense of relief. George Rochester, however, wasn't even listening. He blurted, “But it can't have been Tristram Stanton who came here last night!”

The sheriff frowned. “The servants seem certain of what they saw.”

“The servants must have been mistaken,” Rochester insisted, “because I know for a fact he was somewhere else last night—at the Pierce plantation up Newport News way!”

“You're absolutely certain of this?”

“I certainly am! There was a big crowd, and I doubt if I exchanged five words with him, but I know for a fact he was there. He entertained the whole table with a mighty interesting account of Commodore Thomas ap Catesby Jones's trials and tribulations in getting the expedition underway. You've no idea of the political machinations! Even the procurement of suitable ships was a major endeavor! We drank a toast to poor Commodore Jones
in absentia.
What with the politics and palaver, it's no wonder he declined the command of the expedition, and that they were reduced to giving Charles Wilkes—a mere lieutenant!—the job.”

“Table?” said the sheriff, looking baffled. “It was a banquet?”

“A feast!” cried Rochester, greatly animated. “And the table was a famous great one with seating for twenty. Over the first five removes we ate just about everything, animal and vegetable, under the whole blessed sun—a whole squad of menservants heaving along great trenchers of fish, fowl, and meat, sweet potatoes, hominy, and greens—then off came the upper cloth to make way for a complete fleet of desserts, served on the damask linen underneath. And even when the pies and pastries were gone, the banquet was by no means over! Away went the damask, dishes of raisins and almonds were set out on the wood, the port and madeira circulated—and Tristram Stanton was there the whole blessed time.”

The door to the passage opened, and Tristram Stanton himself walked in. He stopped short but betrayed no emotion as he took in the fact that his private study was full of men, merely nodding at the sheriff before walking over to the desk. Then he became absorbed with picking up the rifle and studying it carefully, turning it over in his hands.

Wiki frowned, thinking that Stanton's appearance did not quite match his memory of the horseman who had arrived so precipitately at the riverbank this morning. Stanton had changed into clothes suitable for a recently bereaved husband, with black silk stock and black vest, but this did not seem to account completely for the alteration in his appearance. Then Wiki realized that Tristram Stanton's hair was slicked back with some kind of oil, so that it did not flop forward anymore. Feeling curious, he slid closer to the desk.

Stanton murmured, as if to himself, “This is one of a pair—signed by master gunsmith Henry Leman of Lancaster—the prize of my collection. I intended to carry them with me on the expedition.” He carried the gun to the wall display, carefully set it back on the pegs, turned and looked at the sheriff, his face quite blank.

The sheriff cleared his throat. “But one of the pair is missing.”

“So I see.”

They all waited, but Stanton did not go on. The sheriff said, “Could you tell me what you were doing last night?”

Stanton shrugged. “I was out.”

“At Newport News,” Rochester agreed.

For the first time Tristram Stanton glanced at the midshipman. There was another pause, and then he said, “Correct. I was a guest at a banquet at the Pierce place.”

“What time did this banquet begin?”

“The invitation was for four in the afternoon,” Rochester replied, when Stanton remained silent. “We chatted and drank grog until the feast, which opened at five.”

“And how long did it last?”

Again Stanton left it to Rochester to reply. “We were eating and drinking for six hours, I swear. I had not a notion how elaborate these old Virginians live!”

“And Mr. Stanton was there the whole time?”

“Certainly he was—as I have already told you! I took particular note of it because between the mutton and the ham a man came to the front door asking after him. It was a seaman from the
Vincennes
—I know it because I happened to be in the hall at the time and answered the bell. Now then,” mused Rochester, contemplating the ceiling, “what was his name? Certain I know the fellow—an able seaman, reefs, hands, and steers, a useful chap. Potts? Powers? No, that's it!—Powell—that's the name, Powell. Jim Powell, a steady fellow at sea, heavy drinker and gambler on land, alas, served on the old
Peacock
when we was surveying the Georges Banks—”

“Captain,” said the sheriff, “if you'd get to the point?”

“Ah!” Rochester started and blushed. “My apologies! Drifted off into memories a moment, but aye, I was the one who opened the door, passing it at the time, and one don't stand on ceremony and wait around for a servant after three or four glasses of good wine, you know. H'm!” he said, as he caught the sheriff's eye. “Asked for Stanton here, so I called out for him.”

“And you were there when Mr. Stanton came to the door?”

“No, no—because he didn't, you see.” Rochester caught another scowl and hastily elucidated, saying, “No, he scribbled a note and sent it to Powell by a servant. But,” he added, as if to make amends for his vagueness, “I certainly saw the seaman stow the note in his hat afore he got underway.”

“And you and Mr. Stanton were still there at three this morning?”

“We were drinking madeira at three! It has been a long night, and I can't say I feel the better for it,” George candidly confessed, betraying his puritanical New England roots. “We was sailing back to Norfolk as dawn was breaking; and when I got back on board the dear
Swallow,
the watch was swabbing the decks. And hard on the heels of that came the order to trip and stand farther down the river, and so, withal, my bed and I are strangers.”

Tristram Stanton stirred, his distinctive voice impatient. “Gentlemen,” he said, pointedly opening the door. “I believe that is all, and I trust you are satisfied. As my friend here described, it was a very long night—and I have a funeral and a great deal else to arrange. So if you will excuse me?”

The sheriff hesitated, but then he nodded at the deputies and led the way past Stanton, who was still holding the door. Wiki was the last to leave. As he moved away from the desk he unobtrusively wiped one finger around the inner edge of the top hat that had been left on the desk. There was not the slightest trace of oil.

When he arrived in the entrance hall, Rochester, the sheriff, and the deputies were all ahead of him, yet his nape prickled with an instinct that he was being watched from behind. Wiki glanced back up the stairway—and his gut lurched. Tristram Stanton's father was standing on the balcony of the second floor, his hands braced on the balustrade, and he was leaning forward to stare down the stairwell. Again his gaze was fixed on Wiki, but this time his face was full of expression; it was alive with hatred and fury, thick lips drawn back from tobacco-stained teeth.

Three

When they arrived at the Portsmouth waterfront, a whaleboat from the brig
Swallow
was waiting for them, the six oarsmen at the ready to step the mast, unfurl the sail, and get back to the ship. George Rochester was as impatient as a dog to be off and away, but the sheriff held them back.

He said to Wiki, “Mebbe you've noticed I never questioned you about your reasons for lurking about the riverbank at dawn.”

“That's true!” said Rochester, who felt some lively curiosity about this himself.

“Heard you got into an argument last night—with a lieutenant named Forsythe,” observed the sheriff, ignoring George.

“Forsythe?” exclaimed Rochester, appalled. Lieutenant Forsythe was an unpleasant customer who had not just a naturally foul temper but a burning grievance as well. Though he outranked Rochester, he had been assigned to the
Vincennes
as a junior officer, while Rochester—a mere passed midshipman!—had been given the command of the
Swallow.
That Wiki Coffin was a particular crony of Rochester's would have been like a red rag to a bull.

“He insulted your pretty companion, I hear,” said the sheriff, “and spouted some unpleasantries at you as well. Called you something worse than ‘Indian,' huh?” The burly southerner shook his head in wondering pity. “Did you really expect him to pay attention when you called him out?”

“Called him out?”
Rochester echoed, horrified. “You challenged Forsythe to a
duel?
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” he said, and clicked his tongue. Wiki's adaptation to the American way of life was nothing short of miraculous, but occasionally he did make a blunder. However, he had never made a mistake of this magnitude before.