“MacBeth.”
“A Scottish king, on a Scottish death. Why did Adam insist on being on this ship?” Duncan pressed. “What did you do to drive him to his death?”
Woolford stared at his engraved flask a moment, then raised it with a salute to Duncan and drained it. “‘Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself,’” he offered. He closed the trunk and then silently gestured Duncan forward, into the shadows. They walked past another canvas partition until they reached the thick, curving planks of the hull, where the sound of the coursing sea was unusually loud through the wood.
“I discovered it the day after Adam’s death,” the officer declared as he pulled away a small crate from the hull and extended his lantern.
An unnatural fear gripped Duncan. He steadied himself on the crate as he stared at a ten-inch-wide hole chipped into the hull beside one of the heavy support timbers. Someone was trying to sink the ship. “How thick-” he began.
“The hull planks are eight inches, if the ship’s carpenter’s to be believed. By my calculation less than an inch separates us from the brine.”
“Are you saying Adam did this?”
“So I assumed. But when I came back again after he died, I found fresh chips on the deck.”
“You did not tell the captain?”
“The captain has no imagination. He is like an artilleryman, all about hasty aim and loud explosions. He would rail about the Scots, then steer the ship for Halifax.”
Duncan knelt, studying the size of the chips. The hole was immediately to the left of the large timber, hidden in its shadow. It would have been hard to spot on a casual inspection, as would have been the bayonet he pulled from behind the nearest trunk. “Surely you should tell the ship’s carpenter,” he enjoined.
“And scare away the culprit?” Woolford said. “Officially no one knows about this.” He pushed the trunk against the hole.
“Officially?”
“In the army we have official files which go to the public, to the king. The unofficial ones have more texture, more interesting details.”
“Like the truth.”
“Usually enough material for any number of truths. Rather like Shakespeare.”
“Like the letters we opened.”
Woolford gestured him back toward the ladder. “I thought you reacted quite evenly. Splendid performance.” He turned, and a cool grin returned to his face as he saw Duncan’s bewildered expression. “Surely you understood Frasier’s letter even if Reverend Arnold did not.”
“Frasier has a troubled spirit.”
“Frasier,” Woolford declared, “has told the Company that they have a spy from the army within their ranks. Be grateful for your cell. Be grateful for the protection of Reverend Arnold. The other prisoners and the captain have similar intentions for you. But there is a big difference. The captain wants to throw you to the sharks. The men in the Company would prefer to find an ax and do it piece by piece as you watch.”
Duncan, suddenly very weak, leaned against the hatch as he watched Woolford’s lantern moving upward, a dying star on a bleak night. In the Highlands, one who openly stood at the side of the English might be an enemy, but at least one with whom honest battle could be done. But a secret turncoat was the lowest form of life, best dealt with by a blade in the spine on a foggy night. Duncan was the rot Frasier meant to slice away.
He found his way to the candlelit table in a daze and stared at the flame, trying to calm himself before returning to his work. He had transcribed one letter when he became aware of a presence behind him.
A thickset man stepped from the shadows. “I have these,” Cameron said, extending a folded scrap of sailcloth. “The vicar asked me to clean the professor’s shoes, to help brush his clothes, get the body ready.”
Duncan laid the cloth on the table and opened it. It contained glass, small shards of green glass.
“When I went back for his shoes, these pieces were on his cabin floor. Should have thrown them over. But I shoved them in a corner under his bed.”
Duncan pushed at the shards with the end of his quill. They matched those he had seen embedded in Evering’s knee. The larger pieces were slightly curved. “What was it, Cameron?”
“A man in cheer may take a shot of whiskey and smash the glass,” the keeper suggested.
“Too small for a dram cup. More like a vial,” Duncan said, and suddenly realized exactly what the shards were from. It had been a dosing cup, one of the small columns used for administering medicines to the sick. He lifted the biggest shard to his nose. It offered a faintly acrid scent. “Was the professor ill?”
“Never a sign of it.”
But there had been someone ill, Duncan realized. The woman who had jumped off the ship.
Duncan studied the big man. During their long voyage Cameron had shown nothing but contempt for Duncan. “Why do you tell me this?”
“I watch the post box for the Company, log in the letters, give them to the ship’s clerk. That bastard Woolford, he took a letter of mine. The men in the hold know what is happening. We know when we get to the colonies one of us is to be hanged.” Cameron stepped closer, reaching into his pocket to extract a folded paper. “But there be another letter I haven’t shown them.”
With a wrench of his heart Duncan saw it was his own letter, in which he had cursed the king and all things English. The dollop of candle wax he had used to seal it was broken. “Everyone knows ye were free that morning Evering’s body was found.”
“I was the one who discovered him,” Duncan pointed out.
“Just the kind of clever trick a killer with a gentleman’s education might use, to divert attention.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
Cameron feigned a look of disappointment. “Let’s not waste our time, McCallum. You and I both know all they want is a nice story for one of Reverend Arnold’s sermons, then a proper hanging to make certain the men heed their new master. So you keep my name out of it and I’ll keep yours out.” Cameron waved the letter before Duncan’s face, then returned it to his pocket. “Do we have an understanding?”
“It’s only a letter.”
Cameron seemed pleased with Duncan’s resistance. “There was another piece of paper, a fragment which Mr. Lister took. Only he don’t know I saw it first. I might write out a statement, all legal-like, attesting to what I saw. All about the professor’s appointment with McCallum at the hour of his death.”
Duncan buried his head in his hands a moment before looking up and nodding.
“But I have questions to be answered, Cameron.”
The keeper shrugged. “I wish it over as much as ye.”
“You were in charge of the prisoners scrubbing the forward deck the day before Adam died.”
“Aye. Frasier and myself.”
“Someone on that work party picked the lock on Lieutenant Woolford’s chest.”
Cameron’s body seemed to tense. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“I saw some of your gleanings when they first appeared. Some were still wet. Because someone had placed them in a wash bucket to hide them. The trunk had foodstuffs from England. Cones of sugar that could be slipped into a pocket. An irresistible temptation to some.”
The keeper’s face clouded. “Young Frasier has a terrible sweet tooth.”
“Young Frasier,” Duncan agreed, “was sucking on a piece of sugar an hour later. And you were suddenly brimming over with trinkets for wagering. It was you who started the betting contests that day. Reverend Arnold would be disappointed to learn his keepers were involved in the thefts on the ship.”
The keeper’s face hardened. His hand went to the letter, as if to remind Duncan.
“Why then? Why force the trunk on the day Woolford announced the Company’s destination? Like you said,” Duncan added when Cameron did not reply, “we have a bargain, you and I.”
“Wasn’t my idea. I just helped the lad. Frasier allowed how he couldn’t do it without help.”