A Burial at Sea

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was midday before he would hear of it. Indeed, he woke up thinking that despite the murder, the ship felt exceedingly affable to him, after his supper in the gun room, and when he went on deck following his eggs and tea the only thing on his mind was the ship’s rigging, and a possible ascent of it.

Lenox’s trip with Martin to that perch of the mizzenmast where Halifax had died had piqued his interest. The climb had been precarious, but now he felt determined that he would go higher. He wanted to conquer the ship in all of her dimensions. Nobody would be able to lord over him Old Joe Coffey, the seventy-year-old sailor who had his grog in the crow’s nest, if he climbed there himself.

The morning was placid, thankfully, the wind nearly still. Carrow was the officer on duty. Lenox was torn between the desire to go up the rigging and the desire to ask him about the medallion. In the end the detective in him won out. The crow’s nest would have to wait.

“Is it a bad time to have a word?” he asked Carrow.

“Not an ideal one—but if it’s about Halifax?”

“It is, in fact. I understand you served on the Chesapeake?”

Carrow turned to him, his somber face filled with surprise. “I did. Who told you?”

“Nobody. I saw a medallion of yours, actually, thanking you for your service. A parting present from the captain, I thought.”

“How on earth did you see that?”

“You know the object to which I’m referring?”

“I do, and I wish I knew how you did.”

“Do you have the medallion?”

“Yes, I do—I keep it in a box with my watch and my cuff links. As far as I know it hasn’t gone missing. I hope you haven’t been among my things.”

“I haven’t. Would you mind if I saw the medallion with my own eyes?”

“You must explain to me, Mr. Lenox—”

“Would you indulge me by showing me the box, before I do?”

Carrow flung an angry word or two at the bosun, who was at the ship’s wheel, that he would be available below deck in the event that he was needed. “I’ll be gone five minutes.”

They went to Carrow’s cabin, though when they actually arrived at the door the lieutenant held a hand up. Lenox waited in the wardroom and Carrow came out with the box a moment later.

More than enough time to hide the medallion, if he had been the one to steal it back. Though it was just as likely to be a gesture of resentment at Lenox prying into his life.

“Here is the box,” Carrow said.

Lenox watched him open it. “I see your cuff links.”

“Yes, they were from my father. My watch, as I said. A personal memento”—this when he hastily palmed a dried rose in his hand—“and here!” he said triumphantly. “My medallion! Now, before another question from you, please tell me how you knew of it!”

Lenox was struck dumb. Carrow passed him the medal.

“Is there a duplicate of this?” he asked.

“No, I received it and have treasured it since then. It hasn’t left the box other than once or twice, on full dress occasions. To the best of my knowledge.”

“The best of your knowledge is, in this instance, insufficient, I’m afraid. That medallion was in my hands yesterday.”

“How?”

“It was found next to Halifax’s body.”

Now it was Carrow’s turn to look startled. “How can that be?” he said. “How is it in my box, if that was the case?”

“I don’t know. It was stolen from my cabin yesterday afternoon, after I had been examining it. Did you lend it to Halifax? Would he have taken it?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you wore it?”

“Not for some six months at least, when we dined with an Indian pasha in full uniform. Since then it has been in this box. Or had been, I would have said.”

“I see.”

Lenox was silent for a long while now. Carrow stood by him in a state of increasing consternation. Finally he said, “Well? Have you concluded that I killed Halifax? I know in detective stories it was always the chap who found the body. Only one problem with that, of course—”

“Yes, you were on the poop deck with my nephew, I’m aware. No, I don’t suspect you. What puzzles me is how the medallion came to be next to the body. I think it possible that you’ve been framed.”

“I want to give this scoundrel his lashes for myself,” he said in a froth of anger, “this, the mutiny…”

“It would have been pointless of the criminal to frame an officer on duty during the commission of the murder, however, and that is what puzzles me. I wonder if there was some other motive.”

“There could not be. I was—”

Lenox looked up. “Did you say mutiny?”

“Excuse me?”

“Mutiny—I heard you mention the word?”

“Yes. There was shot rolled down the main deck last night, as the first watch gave way to the middle.”

“Can you tell me what happened in greater detail?”

“Do you think it might be relevant to the case?”

“Of course!” said Lenox. “An officer is murdered and mutiny against the officers of the middle watch—they may well be linked, yes.”

Carrow frowned. “That makes it all the more serious. Perhaps you had better speak to Captain Martin. I need to be on deck, anyhow.”

“I’ll do that,” said Lenox. “Keep a close eye on that medallion. And I’ll ask you—as I’ve asked the only other person I mentioned it to, Captain Martin—to keep its existence quiet.”

“I will.”

Carrow walked off. What Lenox hadn’t mentioned was that Carrow had had the perfect opportunity to steal the medallion back, as good as anyone else in the wardroom, when Lenox and Mitchell had spoken on deck while Billings was on duty. What might Carrow be hiding?

His mind full of questions, Lenox sought out the captain in his quarters. It was nearly noon, meaning that the naval day would begin soon. But there might be time for a quick word still.

He knocked on the door and was called in. The captain was sitting at his desk, writing in a large book of red leather—his log of the voyage, evidently. Normally this contained only measurements of latitude and speed, that sort of thing, but now he was writing, Lenox could see, an account of some sort. A half-empty bottle of spirits was at hand, though there was no glass to be seen, and there were the leavings of three or four cigars in an ebony ashtray.

Martin set down his pencil. “Mr. Lenox, how may I help you?”

“Are you writing in reference to this mutiny?”

“For heaven’s sake don’t call it that—one disgruntled bastard is all it was.”

“Apologies.”

“There’s absolutely no evidence of a concerted attempt at revolt. This is one of the most contented ships in Her Majesty’s navy.”

“So it had struck me.”

Martin leaned back in his chair, put his pen down, and rubbed an eye. “It’s a terrible business.”

“I came to see whether it might be connected to Halifax’s death.”

“The problem with one mutinous sailor,” the captain went on without looking at Lenox, “is that every other fool on board begins to wonder why their comrade is aggrieved, and whether they should be too. You hear of one man getting shorted half a ration of grog and leading an entire ship into revolution against the captain for it. They’re not all clever men, these sailors—more courage than intelligence.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“It was while the first watch gave over to the middle watch, which means there was a hopeless muddle of people on board. Shot was rolled down the main deck.”

“You’ll have to explain.”

“It’s rather an old-fashioned method of—well, of warning, I suppose you would say. One of the great iron balls that goes in our guns, weight about a pound, is rolled down the deck toward the officers and midshipmen. If it picks up enough speed it can hurt a man quite badly.”

“If so many people were on board someone must have seen who did it.”

“It was dark, of course, and the balls aren’t very large.”

“Do you think whoever rolled the shot killed Halifax?”

Martin sighed. “I hope not. It would be going things backward—an expression of unhappiness preceded by something as violent and inhuman as that murder. Normally you would imagine the events in reverse order. But it may be. It’s impossible to say. I spoke with some of the leading seamen, good long-serving Lucys, the quartermaster, the captain of the maintop … none of them had heard any stirring of discontent.”

“And indeed the ship seemed a picture of happiness, after the storm,” Lenox said. “Certainly nobody looked likely to disobey orders, and as far as I observed there were no black stares behind the officers’ backs.”

“Precisely.”

“That’s what makes me think it’s connected to Halifax.”

Martin stood. “This trip has been a curse. Shot rolled aboard my Lucy! Never once did it happen in the Indias, and now we’re four days from Plymouth Harbor and it does. Well, I must be on deck.”