Gervaise did not seem unduly worried. “Rambert’s a cautious cove, sir. Remember how his squadron failed to support Admiral de Villeneuve off Cape Finisterre a few years back? It was Rambert then who ran for a fog bank to escape our squadron rather than engage us. I think he’ll keep his ship back and not venture after us.”
“Let’s hope you are right, Mr. Gervaise.”
Gervaise hesitated awkwardly. “Sir, what’s this Surgeon Smithers was chortling about Lieutenant Jardine’s death?”
Roscarrock swung round in annoyance. Damn the loose-mouthed doctor to hell! “What was Smithers saying?” he demanded.
“Oh, he seemed amused by the fact Jardine killed himself by accident and won’t get the glory of dying in battle. Is it true?”
“Lieutenant Jardine was killed by a gun recoiling into him, that’s all,” Roscarrock said shortly.
Gervaise abruptly began to chuckle. “Rless me! It’s really true? Not killed in action? No fame and glory in death for Jardine?”
Roscarrock’s eyes narrowed. “I am fully aware that you didn’t like Jardine, Mr. Gervaise.”
Gervaise stopped chuckling, and his mouth suddenly hardened. “Didn’t like him? That is an understatement. I hated him, and if I had been a better man with sword or pistol, like young Unstead, I would have called out the bastard long ago. Ask Smithers, as well. He once tried to foist his attentions on Smithers’s daughter Prudence.” The words were spoken softly, but there was vehemence in them.
Roscarrock turned away in embarrassment. He pretended to examine the drifting fog again. “Hands on deck for the committal of the dead to the sea in half an hour. I want to be under way immediately afterwards if this clears.” He made to turn down the companionway but then paused and added, “Make sure we can muster a fighting trim if Johnny Frenchman suddenly appears again.”
Lieutenant Gervaise raised a hand to his hat.
In his cabin, Roscarrock sat for a while absently drumming his fingers on his desktop while listening to the faint sounds of shouted orders and answering cry of the hands as they performed their various tasks to return the ship to readiness.
Little time seemed to pass before there was a sharp tap on the door.
It was Midshipman Hart. His face wore a satisfied expression. He seemed bursting with news.
“Come in, Mr. Hart,” Roscarrock invited. “From your expression, I presume that you have solved your mystery?”
“I believe that I now know the means whereby it can be solved.”
Roscarrock raised his eyebrows for a moment and then sat back, relaxing as far as his small wooden chair would allow. “So what is your conclusion?”
“Exactly as I said, sir. Lieutenant Jardine’s death was accomplished with malice aforethought. Knowing the gun drill was going to be held this morning, one of the officers of this ship cut the stay ropes some time during the night so that number-six gun would recoil back and strike the lieutenant. However, before the gun drill was due to take place, a real engagement ensued when we sighted the Frenchman. The result was just the same. The gun killed the lieutenant.”
“That much you have claimed before. You were going to report to me when you could sustain your hypothesis. Can you do so?”
Hart smiled broadly. “As you gave me permission to pursue the task, sir, I took the liberty of searching Lieutenant Jardine’s dunnage.”
“You searched his personal possessions?”
“I did so, sir. I believe that given what I have found, I can demonstrate the reality of my theory and present a prima facie case against an officer.”
Roscarrock leaned forward quickly. “How so?”
“It is well known that Lieutenant Jardine had innumerable affairs, that he was a ladies’ man, a seducer of women.”
Roscarrock spread his hands, palm downward on his desk. “Go on,” he instructed.
“There were several letters in his locker all written to him by the same female hand and signature together with a small portrait. A portrait of a young lady. A rather attractive young lady.”
“Well?”
“The letters were signed each time ‘your own adoring P.’ In one letter, dated on the very evening we left Chatham, this lady, P, writes to Jardine that she fears for his life while on board the Deerhound. She suspects that her husband has discovered the affair and means to find an excuse to kill him. She begs him to find an excuse to absent himself from the ship at the earliest opportunity. There is some emotional material about them eloping to some foreign place together.”
Roscarrock drew his finger along the side of his nose thoughtfully. “The letters signed with the initial P, you say? I don’t think that will get you far. By coincidence, I know the names of the wives of three officers begins with P. Midshipman Hope is married to a young lady named Penelope. Lieutenant Gervaise’s wife is named Peggy, and Lieutenant Unstead’s wife is Phoebe….” Roscarrock suddenly paused as if a thought had struck him.
Midshipman Hart was nodding excitedly. “Lieutenant Unstead already challenged Lieutenant Jardine to a duel in Chatham. It was stopped by the Provost Marshal. The cause of the duel was that Lieutenant Jardine had insulted Lieutenant Unstead’s wife. Lieutenant Unstead’s wife is named, as you say, Phoebe.”
Roscarrock inclined his head as though unwilling to admit the possibility. “It is still a theory. How can you prove it?”
“By the miniature portrait, sir.”
“So far as I recall, no one on board, except Jardine, ever met Mrs. Unstead, so we have no knowledge of her features.”
“Then all we have to do is wait until we return to Chatham and then compare the portrait with the features of those of the officers’ ladies whose names begin with P. I will wager, however, that the features match those of Mrs. Unstead. Then we will have our assassin.”
Captain Roscarrock regarded the eager young midshipman with a serious expression. “Mr. Hart, I think you have done well. However, we cannot let a word of this slip out, because if it was thought that you had this evidence, your own life would not be worth that of a weevil in a ship’s biscuit. Do you have these letters and the portrait?”
Midshipman Hart reached into his uniform jacket and drew out a sheaf of papers and a small silver-framed oval object.
“I was going to give them to you, sir, so that you could lock them away until we return to Chatham.”
He handed them across.
Roscarrock gave them a cursory glance. “One thing, Mr. Hart.” He smiled softly. “Although you suspect Lieutenant Unstead, would it not be more appropriate to suspect all officers, for you might be doing him an injustice?”
“Indeed, sir. I am trying to keep an open mind in case I am wrong.”
“Why, then, am I not among your suspects? I could well play the part of a jealous husband.”
Midshipman Hart smiled and shook his head. “I did entertain the notion, sir, but then I dismissed it.”
“Dismissed it? On what grounds, pray?” demanded Roscarrock in amusement.
“I found out from your steward, sir, that your wife’s name begins with the letter M and not P.”
Roscarrock’s smile broadened. “You believe in attending to minutiae, Mr. Hart. You are right. My wife’s name is Mary. You will go far in the service. Very well. I shall keep these letters and the miniature portrait under lock and key until we are safely home in Chatham. Do not mention a word of such a find. Until we reach our home port, it might be wise to let it be known that your inquiries have been resolved and there is nothing suspicious about Jardine’s death.”
“Aye, sir.”
Roscarrock turned and placed the letters in his locker with the miniature portrait.
There came the sound of a ship’s bell.
“Nearly time for the burial service,” sighed Roscarrock. “Ask Mr. Gervaise to pass the word.”
Captain Roscarrock had been wrong. The fog was patchy and did not thin immediately. It lay around the Deerhound for two hours more after the committal of the bodies to the sea. Roscarrock impatiently paced the quarterdeck for a while, awaiting its clearance, but it hung with persistence. Now and then, Roscarrock heard officers exchanging a whisper and a chuckle. Crewmen passed to their duties, smirking. The reason was obvious. The news that Lieutenant Jardine had been killed in an accident was spreading round the ship. No glory for Lieutenant Jardine, just a casualty of bad fortune. It seemed that Midshipman Hart had spread the word that there was no more to the curious manner of the gunnery lieutenant’s death than ill fate.