Lenox was struck dumb. Carrow passed him the medal.
“Is there a duplicate of this?” he asked.
“No, I received it and have treasured it since then. It hasn’t left the box other than once or twice, on full dress occasions. To the best of my knowledge.”
“The best of your knowledge is, in this instance, insufficient, I’m afraid. That medallion was in my hands yesterday.”
“How?”
“It was found next to Halifax’s body.”
Now it was Carrow’s turn to look startled. “How can that be?” he said. “How is it in my box, if that was the case?”
“I don’t know. It was stolen from my cabin yesterday afternoon, after I had been examining it. Did you lend it to Halifax? Would he have taken it?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you wore it?”
“Not for some six months at least, when we dined with an Indian pasha in full uniform. Since then it has been in this box. Or had been, I would have said.”
“I see.”
Lenox was silent for a long while now. Carrow stood by him in a state of increasing consternation. Finally he said, “Well? Have you concluded that I killed Halifax? I know in detective stories it was always the chap who found the body. Only one problem with that, of course—”
“Yes, you were on the poop deck with my nephew, I’m aware. No, I don’t suspect you. What puzzles me is how the medallion came to be next to the body. I think it possible that you’ve been framed.”
“I want to give this scoundrel his lashes for myself,” he said in a froth of anger, “this, the mutiny…”
“It would have been pointless of the criminal to frame an officer on duty during the commission of the murder, however, and that is what puzzles me. I wonder if there was some other motive.”
“There could not be. I was—”
Lenox looked up. “Did you say mutiny?”
“Excuse me?”
“Mutiny—I heard you mention the word?”
“Yes. There was shot rolled down the main deck last night, as the first watch gave way to the middle.”
“Can you tell me what happened in greater detail?”
“Do you think it might be relevant to the case?”
“Of course!” said Lenox. “An officer is murdered and mutiny against the officers of the middle watch—they may well be linked, yes.”
Carrow frowned. “That makes it all the more serious. Perhaps you had better speak to Captain Martin. I need to be on deck, anyhow.”
“I’ll do that,” said Lenox. “Keep a close eye on that medallion. And I’ll ask you—as I’ve asked the only other person I mentioned it to, Captain Martin—to keep its existence quiet.”
“I will.”
Carrow walked off. What Lenox hadn’t mentioned was that Carrow had had the perfect opportunity to steal the medallion back, as good as anyone else in the wardroom, when Lenox and Mitchell had spoken on deck while Billings was on duty. What might Carrow be hiding?
His mind full of questions, Lenox sought out the captain in his quarters. It was nearly noon, meaning that the naval day would begin soon. But there might be time for a quick word still.
He knocked on the door and was called in. The captain was sitting at his desk, writing in a large book of red leather—his log of the voyage, evidently. Normally this contained only measurements of latitude and speed, that sort of thing, but now he was writing, Lenox could see, an account of some sort. A half-empty bottle of spirits was at hand, though there was no glass to be seen, and there were the leavings of three or four cigars in an ebony ashtray.
Martin set down his pencil. “Mr. Lenox, how may I help you?”
“Are you writing in reference to this mutiny?”
“For heaven’s sake don’t call it that—one disgruntled bastard is all it was.”
“Apologies.”
“There’s absolutely no evidence of a concerted attempt at revolt. This is one of the most contented ships in Her Majesty’s navy.”
“So it had struck me.”
Martin leaned back in his chair, put his pen down, and rubbed an eye. “It’s a terrible business.”
“I came to see whether it might be connected to Halifax’s death.”
“The problem with one mutinous sailor,” the captain went on without looking at Lenox, “is that every other fool on board begins to wonder why their comrade is aggrieved, and whether they should be too. You hear of one man getting shorted half a ration of grog and leading an entire ship into revolution against the captain for it. They’re not all clever men, these sailors—more courage than intelligence.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“It was while the first watch gave over to the middle watch, which means there was a hopeless muddle of people on board. Shot was rolled down the main deck.”
“You’ll have to explain.”
“It’s rather an old-fashioned method of—well, of warning, I suppose you would say. One of the great iron balls that goes in our guns, weight about a pound, is rolled down the deck toward the officers and midshipmen. If it picks up enough speed it can hurt a man quite badly.”
“If so many people were on board someone must have seen who did it.”
“It was dark, of course, and the balls aren’t very large.”
“Do you think whoever rolled the shot killed Halifax?”
Martin sighed. “I hope not. It would be going things backward—an expression of unhappiness preceded by something as violent and inhuman as that murder. Normally you would imagine the events in reverse order. But it may be. It’s impossible to say. I spoke with some of the leading seamen, good long-serving Lucys, the quartermaster, the captain of the maintop … none of them had heard any stirring of discontent.”
“And indeed the ship seemed a picture of happiness, after the storm,” Lenox said. “Certainly nobody looked likely to disobey orders, and as far as I observed there were no black stares behind the officers’ backs.”
“Precisely.”
“That’s what makes me think it’s connected to Halifax.”
Martin stood. “This trip has been a curse. Shot rolled aboard my Lucy! Never once did it happen in the Indias, and now we’re four days from Plymouth Harbor and it does. Well, I must be on deck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As Lenox walked toward the quarterdeck that afternoon he looked at the faces of the sailors. Though it had been so short a time he felt he could read them already, having seen them sunken in dark suspicion after Halifax’s death, then, after that stale mood dissipated under the pressure of the storm, in good spirits. Now they were closed, guarded. He had no doubt whatsoever that the great majority of them were loyal to Martin, and puzzled by the incident (which he was, apparently, the last to hear of). But many of their faces seemed to say: The captain is a fine gentleman; the officers too; I have no quarrel with them; but I will hear why a man does before I judge him. They wouldn’t condemn a whisper of mutiny until they knew what lay behind it.
It made Lenox feel even more ill at ease than the murder had, in a way. If the worst came would he be strung up? Set adrift in a rowboat with five days’ provisions and a map? And what about Teddy?
It didn’t help when Evers, McEwan’s friend, the one who thought Lenox was an albatross, passed him without even touching his cap, an angry blank on his face.
Still, as the orders flew back and forth across the maindeck and the Lucy bore steadily onwards there was absolutely no outright dissent, and some of the sailors seemed to say their “Yes, sirs!” a bit louder than they had before, as if picking a side. Perhaps all those years afloat together would keep the ship going.