“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?”