A Burial at Sea

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

One of the most remarkable things Lenox had discovered about life at sea was the near total credulity of the lower deck. On his way to the surgery several days before Lenox had passed by one of the messes, where a short, fattish fellow was barbering his fellow sailors, and telling them with utter certainty that a mermaid had stowed away on board. All of the other men nodded solemnly and said they had heard of similar things on other ships. During the game of Follow the Leader one man had averred with complete confidence in Lenox’s hearing that McEwan had royal blood, to which they attributed his unusual grace.

He sought out Evers now in order to discover what tale the man believed of Butterworth, and how he had heard it. Lenox found the man in his mess, face still stern but attitude slightly gentler than it had been before their rendezvous in the crow’s nest.

“Mr. Lenox,” he said. “Haven’t seen you aloft, sir.”

“The once was enough.”

“The more you go up the less you can do without it, sir.”

“Would that I were an albatross, as you think, that I might fly up there without the assistance of ropes or rigging.”

Evers roared with laughter. “No, no,” he said. “You’re no albatross.”

“I came to thank you for the drawing you sent me. And the note on the back.”

“For the drawing you’re very welcome—but what note can you mean?”

“The one you wrote on the back. About Butterworth.”

“I didn’t write any such thing.”

“Are you sure?”

“If I weren’t, sir, I could confirm it to myself by telling you that I can’t read nor write. Very few of us can, Mr. Lenox.”

“I see. Thank you, then, for the drawing alone. You sent that to my cabin?”

“Along with McEwan, yes.”

“Thank you.”

Somebody must have nipped into his cabin, then, and written on the back. More sneaking around the wardroom.

Then there was the widespread illiteracy of the sailors, which was news to Lenox. “The Lu is ares. Beware.” What were the chances a small group of sailors had a man among them to write? Perhaps that was why unwritten forms of mutiny—rolling shot—were more popular.

It was all quite strange.

He made his way now to the captain’s cabin. The door to it was open, and within Slaton was scrubbing at the royal blue carpet, attempting to remove the red stain from it. He looked a frail figure, and Lenox knelt down to assist him.

“No, no, I can do it!” cried Slaton, breathless.

“Please, take a moment of rest, then. Would you like a cup of tea? Or there’s whisky on the desk.”

“The whisky is Captain Martin’s.”

“I feel sure he would want you to have a glass—here, I shall pour it.”

“Well then, I thank you,” and Slaton, exhaustion etched on his features, sat down heavily in an armchair near the cabin’s broad bow window.

Lenox poured the glass and brought it to the steward. “I have a note here, from Lieutenant Billings—or Captain Billings, I should say. He has granted me permission to look through the cabin.”

Lenox held out the note. He had expected a fight, but Slaton merely glanced at it and nodded. “Very well.”

“You have read it?”

“I cannot read, sir, but I can see Mr. Billings’s mark.”

There was a moment of silence as Slaton sipped at the whisky. “May I ask,” said Lenox at length, “did Captain Martin regularly drink whisky?”

“Not above once or twice a year.”

“Do you know why he had it out now?”

“No.”

“Can you think of a reason why he might have?”

Slaton looked up at the ceiling, brow furrowed. “He sometimes asked for it, to celebrate, like, a victory in battle or a promotion. Or when one of Her Majesty’s ships was lost, he would take it out for a drink.”

“How often?”

“Once every year, or two years, perhaps, sir,” said Slaton. “I can’t think why he had it now.”

“Was anyone promoted recently?”

“Mr. Carrow, I suppose, after Mr. Halifax died.”

“Hardly a cause for celebration.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know how long it has been on Captain Martin’s desk?”

“Now that you mention it, I recall seeing it, full up like, on the first day of the voyage, sitting there.”

“I see.” What to make of any of that? It didn’t click any idea into place; merely another fact to add to the tally. “If you don’t mind, then, I will look through this cabin, Mr. Slaton. Perhaps you might rest.”

Again Lenox had expected a fight, but Slaton simply nodded, drank off the last of the whisky, and stumbled away, looking for all the world a defeated man.

The cabin smelled strongly of soap, and the scrubbing brush was still sitting on the floor in a small mountain range of studs. Otherwise, however, it looked much as if Captain Martin might step in from the noon sighting at any moment. There was a bookcase, full of battered leather volumes—looking closer Lenox saw that they mostly had naval titles—a desk, which was relatively uncluttered, and that was dominated by the great leather captain’s log, a washstand, and a bed, narrow and freshly made. Other than these standard items the cabin had a wide bow window that followed the curve of the ship, with a ledge that would have been at about shoulder height if one sat in one of the armchairs by it. On this ledge was an empty teacup, a silver spoon cradled under it on the saucer, and a book opened facedown, to save the reader’s place. A sad final reminder of the interruption of Martin’s life.

Lenox started here. He examined the teacup and smelled it for anything strange, without result, and then looked at the book. Perhaps unsurprisingly it was the Book of Common Prayer, bound in red and inscribed on the flyleaf by Martin’s wife, Emily, “for comfort at sea.” Lenox felt a pang when he read this. Two deaths. The second he might have prevented, and thereby given the world forty further years of service from a good man.

After replacing the book and teacup in their previous positions, he began his customary scan of the room. He started in the back right corner and surveyed it in five-foot-wide segments from floor to ceiling, looking for anything strange. When he reached the bookcase he stooped down and looked beneath, but found only a fallen bit of India rubber.

The contents of the bookcase itself were interesting, but ultimately not helpful. There were a great many books from India, apparently given Martin on his recent voyage to that nation. There were also books of knots, of seamanship, of celestial navigation, all the manuals of which one would expect a captain to be in possession. He turned the books upside down and shook, but none offered any loose paper, and when he glanced through their pages they were all unblemished by handwriting.

He shook the bedclothes loose, but found nothing within them, nor under the thin, heavy mattress Martin had slept on. The desk and bookcase alike held a series of small items he glanced at in turn: a pewter bowl full of seaglass, a fat Bible no longer or wider than Lenox’s index finger, with Martin’s name on the inside flap, dated ten years before, a marble inkstand and pen, the bottle of whisky, an etching of a pretty, lively looking young woman, perhaps Martin’s wife or sister. None of it, save the whisky, indicative.

In all the search took not more than twenty minutes. He looked above the door and beneath the bed, and through the dreary items of Martin’s washstand, his soap, his razor. Lenox reminded himself to examine Martin’s private dining room and the small galley beside it, as well as the wardrobe outside the door.

But first he turned, rather despairingly, to the captain’s log.