Anatomy of Murder

4

Captain James Westerman got up very quickly when they entered the room. He had been reading in his armchair in the large room that was currently his home. For a moment he seemed confused about what to do with the book that he now held in his hands, then, having laid it very carefully on the side table, he came toward them with a swift, awkward stride.

Harriet moved forward and said his name. His face brightened as she did so. She held her face to one side to be kissed but found herself instead folded hard in his arms. The strength of the embrace drove the air out of her lungs. “Harry, Harry, Harry. .” he said. His stubble was rough against her skin. “You are my wife.”

She made her body as soft as possible, her voice steady, closing her hands behind his back as best as she could. “I am, James.” His hand swam down her spine and pulled her firmly against him, pressing his mouth against her throat. Then he suddenly released her, and stepping back, took her shoulders in his hands and studied her. He was smiling widely, his eyes glittering like the water on a fair day.

“My beautiful wife.”

He then turned toward his son. Stephen had set down his model by the door and now approached slowly with his hand extended in front of him. “. . And my boy!” Ignoring the hand, James picked Stephen up under his arms and swung him around. Harriet saw a moment of fear in the child’s eyes and began to step forward, but before the thought could catch into form, she heard her son’s fierce high laugh. James gathered the boy to his chest and bent over till the lad was almost upside down, giggling and struggling. James tipped him back up and threw him in the air again before setting him down on his heels and crouching down so they were eye to eye.

“And what will you be when you grow up, Stephen?”

“A sailor, sir.”

James roared with laughter. “That’s my lad! That’s my good boy!” Stephen flung his arms around his father’s neck and James patted his back. “That’s my good boy! And you shall have fair winds and fine battles and a pretty wife and a clever son just like me.”

Harriet lowered herself carefully into the chair James had vacated and glanced at the book he had been puzzling over. It was a child’s book of simple rhymes and stories. On one of the blank pages she saw that someone had tried to write a word, then, troubled by it, had fiercely scrubbed it out and filled the page instead with angry black lines. It took her a moment to recognize the hand as James’s.

He and Stephen were now examining the model of the Splendor. Stephen was explaining how part of the side planking came away to expose the gun decks. Each battery was in position with its crew. Stephen introduced each of the tiny figures and James nodded slowly over them.

“There is one missing,” he said suddenly, with a frown.

Stephen sat back on his heels. “Who, Papa?”

“The Frenchman,” said James slowly.

Stephen put his head on one side and bit his fingertip. “I have no other figures, Papa.” Then, with sudden cheerfulness: “Might we use the cook?” He pushed his fingers into the boat and pulled out a tiny being hardly bigger than his fingernail. He looked up at his father’s frowning face. “Will it do, sir?” James nodded slowly. “Where does he go, Papa?”

James reached in a finger through the planking and tapped a spot Harriet could not see.

“In the sick bay, sir?” His father nodded and Stephen placed the little figure on its back. James picked up the figures on the quarterdeck one by one, examining each till he found the one with epaulettes. He lifted it level with his eyes and looked into its tiny features.

“Ha!” he said, with apparent joy, and placed his model self next to the Frenchman. Stephen watched him.

“What are you talking about with the Frenchman, Papa?”

James bit his thumb. “He was crying. I made him cry more.” He began to sing some tune Harriet did not recognize. Stephen looked confused, but curious. James suddenly turned toward his son.

“Are you a spy?”

“No, sir!” Stephen said smartly, and lifted his chin. “Death to traitors, sir!” James laughed very heartily and clapped him on the back, then leaning close to the little boy and looking up at Harriet, he whispered: “Is she a spy?”

Stephen laughed. “No, sir! That is Mama. She is very clever.”

James met Harriet’s eye for a moment. “Pretty, too!” Harriet looked away.

Stephen pushed one of the gun carriages to and fro on its tiny wheels.

“I do not think baby Anne is a spy either, sir. I can’t answer for her character, but she is very little.”

A slow delighted smile spread over James’s face.

“I have a daughter too.” He turned to Stephen and took his shoulders. “You must look after them, Stephen. Do not let the spies get them!” Stephen looked a little afraid, but nodded bravely. “Good lad, good lad,” James said, rather distracted, then turned away, singing the same tune again. He brought his palm suddenly to his forehead with a slap that made Harriet jump. “I cannot get that song out of my head. Hate it. Smells bad.”

Stephen took the tiny figure of his father from the sick bay and placed it on the quarterdeck with the other officers and fitted the side planking back in place. James turned to watch him and put out a hand to touch the rigging. His fingers drifted down the main topgallant, and skimmed the mizzen staysail.

Stephen looked up at him and said quietly, “What are your orders, Captain?”

“Are we provisioned and watered, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where stands the wind?”

“North by northwest, sir.”

“Very good.” James traced the stern with a fingertip. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft Harriet had to strain to hear it. “You may set topsails, Mr. Westerman.”