The boat started to move, pushing its way through the narrow waterway, emerging a few moments later into the main channel. Beyond, through the rain, the smoke drifted up from Hellgate. Chavasse crouched there by the rail, very cold, trembling slightly, drained of all emotion.
And then he realized a strange thing-he was still clutching Rossiter’s knife in his right hand. The channel widened as they moved through the estuary out to sea and he stared down at the ivory Madonna.
“And how many men have you killed in your career, Chavasse?”
The words seemed to whisper in his ear as if Rossiter himself had spoken. With a sudden gesture of repugnance, Chavasse flung the knife from him. It glinted once, then sank beneath a wave. Somewhere overhead, geese called as they moved out to sea, and he got to his feet wearily and went to join Darcy in the wheelhouse.
