“And yet there is another piece of evidence, Mr. Billings, which suggests to me that you may have a stronger stomach than you let on. The captain’s log.”
“What of it? More trumpery, I don’t doubt.”
“Mr. Tradescant, you concluded from the gruesome treatment of both corpses that the hand that cut them had some surgical experience, however rudimentary, didn’t you?”
“Not a great deal, necessarily, but some, yes.”
“When you are ill, who acts as the surgeon?”
“Why, I have trained my assistant in more recent months. Before that it was Mr.”—realization dawned in the surgeon’s eyes—“Mr. Billings.”
“You toured the sick bay with Captain Martin once, and recommended amputation of a sailor’s leg. Would you have carried out the procedure yourself?”
“He would have,” Tradescant answered. “After battles he sewed the men up, just as I did. How could I forget?”
“How did you come by that skill?” Lenox asked Billings.
“Go bugger yourself.”
“His father was a surgeon in a small town,” Carrow said quietly.
“Why would I have, you fools?” said Billings. “Why on earth would I have wanted to do that?”
“Ah,” said Lenox. “I have my suspicions on that subject, too. Your motive.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Lenox poured another glass of water, and realized, as he took a deep breath, what a thrill was running through him. He had finally found his old form. It had come too late to save Martin, but there might be justice. That was something.
Again he addressed the room. “When a murderer kills twice, you must ask yourself what unites the two people who have died. What did Mr. Martin and Mr. Halifax have in common?”
“Nothing, except a life on board the Lucy,” said Billings. “Spare me your speculation.”
“And one other thing, Mr. Billings: both stood in the way of your promotion from first lieutenant to captain.”
Lee laughed. “There you find yourself using landsman’s logic, I expect, Mr. Lenox. Billings outranked Halifax.”
“You have the right of it, Mr. Lee—he did. But let me spin you a story.”
“Wonderful,” said Billings. He jerked at his handcuffs. “I’ll have you all up before the admiralty for this. As for you, Lenox, you fool, I’ll leave you in Egypt to rot.”
“I have wondered since Halifax was murdered why the killer did it on this ship, this contained, unprivate, undepartable vessel, rather than on land. But then I thought yesterday: what if he was only given a motive when he came on board?
“Then several facts came to me. The first was something my brother had told me, that Martin was destined for great things, indeed was rumored to be receiving command of a warship within the next several months. The second was something Martin himself told me in Plymouth, when we dined together. He said that he had to meet with the admiralty the next day, to make or break his lieutenants’ careers—a prospect he loathed. Is it possible that he recommended Halifax take the ship after him, ‘receive his step,’ as a naval man would say? I know Halifax had numerous connections, relations even, within the admiralty. Men who wanted to see him do well. And what did you have? A few surgical tricks you picked up as a child?”
This hit home, Lenox saw; Billings tried not to, but he winced, pained at hearing the truth out loud. The detective wondered if it was as plain to the other men in the wardroom as it was to him.
“That train of thought led me to remember something Halifax told me over the last supper he ate. He said that at sea not all men get their wishes. Not all lieutenants are made captain, however much they may feel they deserve it. I wondered at the time if he was referring to himself, but now I suspect he was referring to you. I think his relations had told him the Lucy would be his upon her return from Egypt. By killing Martin and Halifax both, you became captain both now and, perhaps, for the future. An acting captain who does well often retains his command, does he not?”
Heads bobbed all over the room.
“Is that what Martin told you, Mr. Billings, that you would never be captain of the Lucy—that Halifax was to have it next, while Martin himself moved on to a new, larger ship? Perhaps he even offered to take you with him? But you wished to be a captain. It’s only natural that you would, I know.”
“End your squawking, man.”
“Over whisky, the first night at sea, was it? Half a bottle was gone—too much for one man, but enough for three. I imagine the three of you meeting together. What was it you told me in our first supper together? That whisky was your favorite drink? Martin was a considerate man; he would have understood that you needed a tipple, to keep yourself together at the bad news. A life at sea, and never a command of your own.”
“Absurd.”
“Is it? What was it you said earlier? That you had worked too long to get her to be robbed of the Lucy?”
“It’s true, damn your eyes.”
“It is not difficult to imagine that at the conclusion of your drinks together, you might have asked Halifax to join you for a stroll upon the deck. Perhaps even a trip up the rigging. You couldn’t have stopped for a knife, so it had to be a penknife. Was it on the spur of the moment, or did you hatch the plan the moment Martin broke the news to you?”
“Why would I have done any of that? Why would I have flayed him open?”
“Ah. There I have dark suspicions of your character, I fear, Mr. Billings. Perhaps we may discuss them later.”
Billings looked around the room, and spoke. “All of you—Carrow, Lee, Mitchell, Quirke, my dear chaplain—I have served with you long and short whiles. This man has been aboard the Lucy for a fortnight and has accused me of murder. Please, let us all return to our senses.”
It was the surgeon who finally spoke. “Why did you write that note? Or roll the shot?”
A look of disdain came into Billings’s eyes. “This charlatan’s story is true, as far as it goes. The Lucy was to be Halifax’s. I was trying to send Martin a message.”
“Once you’ve admitted that, haven’t you admitted everything?” said Carrow. His eyes were pained, but no longer incredulous.
“No. I never would have raised a hand in violence to either of them. Why would I have killed Mr. Martin?”
“The captain?” said Lenox. “You went back and asked him specifically, after Halifax had died, whether your prospects had changed. A few glasses more of whisky gone from the bottle. When he denied you again, you had to kill him.”
“I didn’t do it.”
Carrow interjected. “But the penknife, your opportunity, my medallion, your surgical training—surely there can be no other answer?”
“I never thought you would betray me.”
“I wish you had never betrayed us.”
Billings smirked. “Prove it, then. You cannot, because it’s not true. The mutiny, yes. But not the murders.”
“So this is to be your stratagem?” Lenox said. “Save yourself the gallows?”
“There’s no proof that I murdered Halifax or Martin, damn you.”
“It was a deuced awkward thing of you to do, Billings, even if it was only the mutiny,” said Lee.
“Oh, shut up, Lee, and stow your asinine home county accent.”
“Oh, I say!” cried Lee, moved more than he had been at any point heretofore in the proceedings. “I say, you go too far!”
Lenox nearly laughed. “You speak of proof. I wonder, Mr. Tradescant, about your patient.”
“Which one?”
“Your long-term patient. What was his name?”
“Costigan.”
“You told me several days ago that he was awake?”
“Yes. But fractious, and anxious.”