There was a pause as all five men contemplated Halifax’s corpse. The ship pitched slightly.
“Mr. Tradescant, is there somewhere you and I could examine the body in greater detail?” said Lenox.
The captain spoke up. “How many are resident in the surgery?” he asked.
“Only one, sir. An able seamen named Costigan took a smack to the head from a flying spar. He’s sleeping it off under sedation.”
“Then clear a table there. We’ll bring the body down.”
“If the three of you could do that,” said Lenox, “I might inspect the area and then follow you down. Where is the surgery?”
Tradescant told him, and then hurried down to ready a table. Carrow, Billings, and Martin—to his credit—all helped wrap Halifax’s body in the sailcloth and begin the arduous work of transferring its bulk down below deck.
Lenox stood in the moonlight for a moment after they had gone, looking out at the water.
It was strange. Though his primary feelings were of sorrow for his friend Halifax and alarm at the nature of the murder, he had to admit to himself that in some recess of his mind he was excited by the prospect of a proper case. It was one of those facts he would never have told a soul, but which it was useless to deny to himself.
He missed this work. Had missed it every day at first, when he entered Parliament three years before, and then every other day, and finally once a week, once a month …
Much of his work he had passed onto his protege, Lord John Dallington. Their weekly meetings about those cases, often held over supper in some public house or gentlemen’s club, full of animated speculation and intense parsing of clues, comprised Lenox’s favorite hours of the week. How he missed the chase! Life in politics was absorbing, remarkably absorbing, but it never inspired in him the same feeling of vocation that being a detective had: that this was his purpose on earth not from sense of duty and ambition, like Parliament, but from instinct and preference. He knew he would never be as good at anything as he had been at being a detective. Sacrificing that had been painful. The profession had brought him no honor—had in fact discredited him in the eyes of many of his caste as a fool—but what pleasure it had given him! To be on the trail!
So part of him couldn’t help but revel in this opportunity. No doubt someone would come forward, but if they didn’t … well, it was impossible to call in Dallington or the Yard here. This was a chance to live again what had once given him such keen happiness and focus, and which he thought he had given up for good.
CHAPTER TEN
He stooped down to look at the spot where Halifax’s body had lain.
There was a great deal of blood that had spilled out from him, but it had left unmarked a patch of the deck that roughly conformed to the man’s shape. Lenox stepped into this area so that he could survey the deck more easily.
As he stepped over the blood and into this clearing he heard a creak underfoot. He looked down and realized that the board he had stepped onto had a deep crack through its middle. The exposed wood looked to Lenox’s eye raw and unweathered, unvarnished by time—newly splintered—and knowing that the ship had just come out of repairs he felt sure that it was a fresh fissure. But from what?
A first puzzle.
The blood was coagulating thickly on the quarterdeck. He took a small ebony stick out of his pocket, roughly the size of a twig, like a smaller version of a conductor’s baton. It was intended to be a line marker for use while reading, but in fact Lenox had never used it after its proper fashion. He only carried it because Lady Jane had bought it for him, many years before.
Now he used it to drag through the blood, looking for any objects that might have been left behind, hidden in that maroon murk. Nothing was apparent to the naked eye, and on his first trawl he found nothing. Still, he decided to try it again and the second time came upon a small object he had missed before. It was roughly the size and shape of a coin.
He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and deposited the object in its center, then folded it carefully and put it in his pocket for later inspection. Then he spent ten minutes or so looking over the area very carefully again, though without finding anything.
He broadened his search, moving in concentric circles around the entire quarterdeck and looking for anything out of place or unusual. But his efforts went unrewarded: besides the crack in the wood of the deck and the coin- shaped object, nothing out of the ordinary presented itself to his (keen, he hoped) eye.
He went downstairs, following the surgeon and the officers by some fifteen minutes.
They were all stood around Halifax’s body, which was on a table roughly waist-high. In a dim corner of the long, low-ceilinged room Tradescant’s sole patient slumbered on. There was plenty of light around the cadaver, however.
Tradescant had a bucket of water and a sponge and was very carefully sluicing Halifax’s wounds, then drying them with a cloth. When he saw Lenox he plucked something from the table and held it up: several blue threads.
“From the wounds around his heart. No doubt from his nightshirt.”
“Have you found anything else?”
“Not yet. We were correct in our surmise that the … surgery on Lieutenant Halifax’s body came after his death, whose cause was this flurry of stabs to the heart.” Tradescant pointed to an area cleansed now of blood but still brutal-looking. “At the moment I’m only trying to wash him.”
Lenox approached the table. Martin and Billings were some feet off, staring impassively on; Billings had a handkerchief over his nose.
“I wonder if all of his organs are intact,” the detective said.
“Sir?”
“Or if an organ might be missing altogether—liver, spleen, stomach.”
Tradescant peered into the body. “That will take a moment or two. Why do you ask?”
“The peculiar nature of these cuts to his torso—that they’re not random or angry, like the initial stab wounds, but surgical. It makes me wonder if the murderer had some specific aim.”
“I see.”
“Such a method isn’t unknown. Burke and Hare were surgeons in Edinburgh, though they preferred smothering, which is why we call it burking now. Then there was the American killer Ranet in 1851, working around Chicago. He extracted the livers of his victims.”
“Why?”
“He was a cannibal, I’m afraid.”
Billings, already looking pale, rushed out of the room.
Tradescant nodded. “I’ll do a thorough examination of the abdominal region, then,” he said.
“The heart is still there?”
“Yes—that I can say with certainty. For the rest, give me a moment.”
Lenox found that he liked Tradescant; the man was admirably calm despite his advancing age, steady- handed, and frank.
“In that case, Captain, perhaps we might have a word?” said Lenox.
“I was just about to suggest the same. First I must attend to the ship, however, since Halifax cannot. Come on deck with me if you like.”
It was past five in the morning now, and the vast black sky had begun to show the pale blue light, at first almost like lavender against the black of night, that comes at dawn. Martin, with creditable energy, ran briskly up to the poop deck, gave several orders there, and then dismissed Carrow, ordering him to send up the next watch before he went to sleep.
“And get this quarterdeck swabbed and holystoned,” he added, then disappeared below deck, holding up a finger to Lenox to tell him to wait.
New men arrived on deck as the exhausted men of the middle watch strung up their hammocks in between the cannons on the gun deck and fell asleep. Soon these awakened sailors were cleaning: the broad slap of the swabs, mixed with hot water, diluting and then vanishing Halifax’s blood. Groggy at first, they exchanged quiet
