“What is it?” Lenox said when they caught a glimpse of silver beneath the water. “You, fetch the cook!” he said to a passing sailor.
They had pulled the fish in when the cook came and told them it was a sea bream. “And twelve pounds or I’m a liar,” he added.
That night the wardroom ate the fish in white wine and lemon, and toasted many times over to the memory of Halifax.
The next day there was wind again, and the ship sailed upon it again. Lenox felt an urge to see Billings.
The Lucy’s former first lieutenant was in a brig on the lowest deck, with the rats, the supplies, and the goods for trade that the ship had taken on in Egypt. It was lightless and bleak there, and the brig itself was a very small room, without room for a grown man to lie down fully. When he saw it Lenox felt a pang of sympathy for Billings. Softness, that.
“Lieutenant,” he said.
“That you, Lenox?”
“Yesterday I went fishing with Halifax’s rod and reel.”
“Go and throttle yourself with the reel, if you please.”
“Do you feel any remorse?”
There was a pause. “I want to do it again.”
“So now you admit that you killed them?”
“It’s my word against yours, down here.”
Lenox sighed. “You’re getting enough to eat and drink?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good day, then.”
These were the last words he ever exchanged with Billings. Within eight months the man was hanged, though not before he gained a measure of Fleet Street notoriety as the “Surgeon of the Lucy,” a sobriquet that seemed terribly unfair to Tradescant. Lurid details emerged of Billings’s childhood, of his father, and a report from Egypt indicated that a hastily covered corpse answering to Butterworth’s description had been discovered near Port Said.
The episode had one sequel that mitigated the awfulness of the murders in Lenox’s mind. Some three months after he was back in London Lenox received a call from Halifax’s father, Mr. Bertram Halifax. In person and character he was exactly like his son: gentle, quick to smile, kind-spirited.
“I came to thank you for your letter, Mr. Lenox. It was most thoughtful of you.”
“Your son seemed a wonderful fellow.”
“Ah, he was! Never cried as a baby, you know. That’s rare. Always smiled, from birth on.” The father’s voice was shaky now. “A splendid lad, I swear it.”
“Could I take you to lunch?” Lenox asked. “I’d like to hear more about him.”
The elder Halifax recovered his nerve, and answered cheerfully in the affirmative. As they ate they found each other’s company congenial, and thereafter the two men met every six weeks or so, perhaps every two months, for lunch, until after a year they had become true and firm friends.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
When they were three days from London—they were taking Lenox and Billings there, before the Lucy went on again to Plymouth—Teddy Lenox knocked on his uncle’s cabin door.
“Come in!” called Lenox.
“Hello, Uncle Charles.”
“Teddy! How are you?”
“Could I have a crown, Uncle, please?”
“A crown! That’s a great deal of money. What do you want to buy?”
“Nothing.”
“I can get you that for cheaper than a crown. Come now, tell me what’s happened?”
The boy’s bottom lip started to tremble, until he screwed it up tight. At last he managed to choke out the words, “I owe it to Pimples.”
“You’ve been gambling?”
“Follow the Leader,” Teddy managed to say, and then he burst into tears.
“There, there,” he said. “You shall have it, but your father shall hear of it, d’you understand?”
Teddy nodded miserably, but already his face looked a little bit brighter. “Thank you.”
“And you must never gamble again.”
“Oh, never!”
So that was what had caused the lad’s mood. How clearly Lenox remembered the stormy emotions of that age, when anything might seem like the end of the world! What it made him think of most of all was the child growing in Lady Jane, and the thousand such moments that awaited him in the next twenty years, as the child grew into an adult. It filled him partway with fear, but mostly with happiness.
“Well, here you are,” he said, and handed over the money. “And in the bargain I’ll give you a cup of tea. McEwan!”
“Thank you, Uncle Charles!” said Teddy, the coin in his tightly clenched fest. “I’ll pay you back out of my pocket money, I promise.”
“Well, and interest begins at nine percent. There, McEwan, fetch us some tea—and some biscuits, why not?” With his own child he would have to be sterner, but that was a father’s job, and an uncle might be a gentler touch.
The smile returned to Teddy’s face after that, and again he was thick with his fellow midshipmen, all of them somewhere between boyhood and manhood. On the final night of the voyage Carrow had them all to eat in the captain’s dining room, and delivered a very fine toast in Lenox’s honor. In turn Lenox rose and spoke of the Lucy and her men, and how fond he had grown of her.
“She has come to seem like home to me in these few short weeks—”
“You could always join up,” said Carrow, and everyone laughed.
“Not just at the moment, thank you,” said Lenox, and laughed too. “At any rate, I wanted to thank you all. Thank God the Queen has you all serving in her navy.”
“The Queen!” shouted Pimples, and the toast was taken up by everyone else, shouted in high spirits, and then they drank.
The next morning was breezy and wet. They saw land at eight, and by ten they were close indeed to Greenwich, where they would dock. Lenox had packed his trunk, and Teddy, by special dispensation from Carrow, was permitted fifteen minutes on land to see his father, before the Bootle returned to fetch Billings.
The last thing Lenox packed was his sheaf of notes from the meeting with Sournois, the first thing he would pass to Edmund.
“McEwan!” he called out when his cabin was bare again.
The steward’s head popped around the doorway, its cheeks full. “Sir? A last cup of tea, sir, or a sandwich?”
“Come in here, would you?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you want to leave the Lucy? Come work for me?”
“Oh, no, sir!”
“Tell me then, what reward I can give you for saving my life—and for tipping me off about Follow the Leader, too.”
“None, sir, please.”
Lenox went to his desk and found a piece of paper. “Here’s what I’ll do, then. Have you been to Harrods?”
“No, sir. I’ve heard of it.”
“They’ve everything you can imagine to eat—ostrich eggs and chocolates from Ghent and cakes and pies, food as far as the eye can see. Next time you’re in London, take this note to the food hall, and have twenty pounds of credit as a thank you from me. They’ll know my signature. That should keep you in cold chicken and marmalade for a year or so.”
McEwan’s eyes widened. “Thank you, sir!”
“No, it is you who must accept my thanks. You’ve been a wonderful steward.”
A few moments later the anchor went down. The officers were standing in a ring, offering him a formal good-bye. Lenox shook them each by hand, Tradescant, Carrow, the chaplain, and said his thanks. A moment later he was over the gunwales and into the Bootle.
Both he and Teddy looked back at the Lucy for a moment, and then turned their gaze toward the docks at Greenwich. This was the day they had been due to return; Edmund would come, he knew, but he had told Lady Jane not to, only to wait at home.