“Was his death unusual?”
Quirke and Billings recognized at once what the implication of the question was, and in vehement unison shook their heads. It was Billings who spoke. “No, it was the commonest thing in the world, a heavy storm. He had gone fore to instruct the men to lash down the boats, and a great wave thundered us and, as we suppose, sent him overboard.”
“Nobody saw it happen, then?”
“No, but several of us saw him go forward, and within not fifteen seconds felt the tremendous wave. I don’t think anybody was surprised that he was lost. Saddened, of course, but not surprised.”
“Did the captain elevate Lieutenant Carrow to the rank of second lieutenant?”
“Yes,” said Quirke, “but he was reckoned too young to keep it. Now he will.”
There was motive, if you liked, and Quirke, sensing as much, hastened to add, “But Carrow would never have done it. Bethell was his closest friend aboard the Lucy.”
Billings looked less convinced, but said nothing.
“Do you disagree?” asked Lenox.
“No! No, not at all. That is to say, I know Carrow and Bethell had a falling-out, at some point, but I would no more believe Carrow capable of murder than—”
Lenox here forestalled Billings’s defense of his friend, interrupting him to say, “Yes, I see. Thank you.”
Quirke flung his cigar end into the sea. “Anyhow it’s a filthy business, and I shall enjoy seeing the bugger who did it hang,” he said. “Until supper, gentlemen.”
After he had gone Billings begged off too, leaving Lenox alone with his thoughts and Fizz, the dog of the wardroom, who leaped up onto his lap—being not much bigger than a rugby ball—and snoozed happily there for some while, while Lenox contemplated his duties in Port Said, and, more often, the half-empty bottle of liquor he had seen in Captain Martin’s cabin. Impulsively he decided he would go confront the captain now about it. He put an indignant Fizz on the floor and walked toward the captain’s cabin.
Martin was sitting in an armchair by his lovely, curved bow window, which looked out upon the ship’s wake. In one hand was a small black calfskin Bible. At Lenox’s entrance he carefully marked his page in the book and placed it upon the window ledge.
“How are you, Mr. Lenox?” he said. His smile was dry. “I heard of your ascent to the crow’s nest.”
“I don’t envy the fellows who are up and down the rigging all day, anyhow.”
“I wish you hadn’t gone—it would have been terribly inconvenient for us if you had fallen and died. While you’re on board the Lucy I would appreciate it if you exercised greater caution.”
“There was a rope around my midsection, and Andersen was with me.”
“Both ropes and Andersen have been known to fail upon occasion.”
“I—” Lenox was about to respond when the image of Jane, pregnant, appeared in his mind’s eye. Instead he nodded. “You’re quite right. I won’t go up again.”
“Thank you. Now, what have you come to discuss with me?”
“May I sit?”
“Of course.”
Lenox turned to take his seat, stealing a glance at the desk; he saw from the label on the bottle that it was whisky, and from the looks of it no more was gone.
What kind of man drinks half a bottle of whisky in one night and none in the subsequent five? he thought.
He had been planning to ask the captain about the whisky, but decided at the last moment to hold off. Instead he said, “I’ve just heard a bit about Bethell, your former lieutenant.”
“It was a sad loss.”
“Did you consider then that he might have been pushed overboard?”
“Never for a second—nor do I accept it as a possibility now. The Lucy has been an exceedingly happy ship, Mr. Lenox.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t rule out the chance that a single man, whether out of madness or guile, might have killed Mr. Bethell.”
Martin shook his head. “No, as I say, I cannot believe it. Deaths of that type are part of naval life, unfortunately. Contrast Bethell’s death with Halifax’s and you’ll see that they cannot be by the same hand—cannot be linked.”
“Perhaps,” said Lenox.
“And you, are you any closer to finding out who killed Halifax?”
“Not far off now, I think.”
“I hope to God not.”
With that Lenox returned to his own cabin then, to dress for dinner. As he was fixing his tie McEwan’s voice called out to him.
“A note for you, sir,” he said.
“Come in.”
McEwan entered and handed over a blank envelope, offering along with it an exaggerated wink.
Lenox, puzzled, thanked the steward and took the envelope to open it.
Inside was one of the drawings Evers had made in the crow’s nest, a panorama, dated that very day and signed in a surprisingly precise hand. Lenox was touched. Then he noticed that the paper, slightly translucent in the bright sunlight, had something written on its reverse, in small handwriting along the battom. He turned the sheet over.
Butterworth knows something, was all it said.
The instant he read these words—and before he could begin to consider what he knew of Billings’s steward—the bell rang for supper.
In the wardroom the men shook hands and sipped sherry, exchanged jokes and the officers’ tales of the day’s hard sailing. The mood was amiable, and the food smelled wonderful from the galley. Lenox, though distracted, began to feel his tension dissipate.
Just as they were sitting to eat, however, a thin voice cried out from the crow’s nest, barely audible below deck: “Ship ahoy! American colors!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Fetch me my glass, Butterworth,” said Billings to the steward, who was behind his chair.
The captain had been planning to dine alone, but came through to the wardroom now. He was smiling. “An American ship. Come along, anyone who’d like to,” he said.
All of the men except one, Pettegree, rose and followed the captain, leaving their bowls of potato and leek soup behind to fall cold; for his part, the purser had a second bowl and then a third, delighted at his good fortune. The American ship wouldn’t be near for another quarter of an hour at least.
On the main deck they took turns looking at the ship through Billings’s glass (the captain kept his own), while with the captain’s approval Mitchell, who was on watch, gave orders for the ship to reverse itself toward the approaching vessel.
Soon Lenox could see her with his bare eye, a one-decked ship of middling size.
Martin spoke. “A sloop of war, clearly.”
Lee, when he took the glass, answered the captain almost immediately, “Yes, she’s the USS Constellation, I’d bet any sum. We met her once near the African coast, when I was aboard the Challenger. She captured a fat little bark with seven-hundred-odd slaves in her, set the slaves free, and imprisoned the slave traders. I would recognize her anywhere.”
“A good sailor?” Martin asked.
“Not fast. The Lucy could outrun her under jibs and staysails. But she’s steady, sir, and because the Americans make their ships of live oak she’s tolerably strong. It would be a mighty storm that broke her beams.”
There was a tangible buzz of excitement as the Constellation drew closer, among the officers and the men alike.
“Prepare the Bumblebee,” said Martin when they were less than a mile apart. “Cresswell and Lenox, you shall pilot her over there if they invite us on board. Mitchell, you shall stay on watch.”