A Burial at Sea

It lasted throughout the night, and maybe longer, for Lenox couldn’t see from his cabin what was the darkness of night and what was the darkness of the storm. The rain fell torrentially the entire time, though the wind would occasionally subside. When this happened the waves gentled down too, only to rise in great heaving motion when the wind, seemingly without reason, erupted back into life.

He slept only fitfully, and in between sleeping he rolled off of his bunk and down to his desk, where by the light of a candle stub he wrote a long letter to Lady Jane, telling her of the storm and Teddy’s progress. Only in a postscript did he mention Halifax’s death, and concede that he was looking into the matter on the captain’s behalf.

What he wanted most of all was a word on that medallion with Carrow. It would have to wait until the storm was over, of course, but even through the worst weather it rankled in Lenox’s mind. What was the significance of two objects belonging to other officers being found in or near the murdered body of a third? And why would anyone other than Carrow, for whom it might have had sentimental reasons, take the risk of stealing it back?

It was puzzling, and Lenox worried that the part of his brain that had once sprung to life when it met this sort of clue was atrophied now, flabby with disuse. Suddenly he wished Dallington were aboard too. The way the young man had handled the poisoning in Clerkenwell that January, for instance … exemplary. He still made errors, but these were fewer and farther in between now. And—somewhat to Lenox’s unhappiness, he found—fewer and fewer cases came to Dallington through his mentor. The boy was building a reputation that wasn’t contingent on Lenox’s. As for Lenox’s own reputation: it was more exalted now, but he wondered whether people even remembered what he had once been.

All of this he considered writing to Jane, but in the end he decided not to trouble her with it. And so as to end on a happy note he wrote a second postscript:

Incidentally, you may be wondering why I haven’t written anything about what the child shall be named, which in Plymouth seemed at times like our only subject of conversation, other perhaps than the dangers of scurvy and pirates (neither of which, you will be pleased to learn, has beset the

Lucy

as of yet). This is because I have alighted in my mind on the perfect name for our daughter, should the child be a girl—as I feel convinced she will be—and as I well know your taste in these matters we may both consider the question as answered and put to rest.

What is this name? That you shall hear from my own lips, not four weeks hence, in London. Until then I remain, as above, your most loving Charles.

He signed and sealed this letter and put it between two pages of The Voyage of the Beagle. Then, feeling much better for it, he extinguished the candle with his thumb and forefinger and climbed his bunk again to fall to sleep.

When he woke the storm was gone—indeed, might never have been at all, but for the demeanor of the sailors: the sky was a motionless pale blue, glittering at one end with brilliant white sunlight. Lenox ate an apple on the quarterdeck and watched the men work. They appeased every single one of them at once exhausted and blissful. Even Lenox, though he might have been an albatross, received warm looks from some of the sailors.

Martin, too, was still on deck, and he came to the detective after fifteen minutes, looking pale and unshaven but as happy as everyone else aboard the Lucy.

“The storm has passed.”

“So I had observed,” said the captain. “The crew came through it beautifully.”

“But what of the purser?”

Martin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Carrow told me that these pursers dislike storms.”

Now Martin laughed. “Oh, yes—well, I daresay he lost some dry biscuit, and he won’t be happy that I’ve ordered double rations of grog for the men when they have their dinners at midday. Nevertheless they deserve it.”

“I congratulate you,” said Lenox. “No injuries?”

“Oh, a host of them! Tradescant has been up all night—eight or twelve of them down there, every kind of scrape and contusion and concussion you can imagine. Still, we may count ourselves lucky in such a storm that nobody died.”

“Will you go to sleep now?”

A stern look. “No. Not until the last man has gone off duty, and all have rested. There is work to be done— bilging, repair work—and of course we are fearfully off course, and must make up time. My steward should be bringing me coffee, however.”

The steward appeared as if on cue, carrying a tin mug letting off fragrant steam from the top. Martin took it down in three gulps and then set off for the orlop. As for Lenox, he went down to fetch a cup of coffee, too, and drank it as he gazed over the becalmed sea.

When the captain passed the quarterdeck again, Lenox waved him down.

“Yes?” said Martin.

“I need to interview Amos Lee, your fourth lieutenant. And I might as well have a word with the warrant officers, too.”

“Lee will be awake in an hour, I daresay—could you leave him to then? He put in a hard shift overnight. In fact I must think of raising up one of the oldsters to acting lieutenant, just for this voyage.” This put more to himself than his interlocutor.

“Oh, of course,” said Lenox.

“Who do you think killed Halifax?”

“I don’t know. But there are enough clues that it shouldn’t be long before I do, I hope. I simply need a more complete picture of the suspects.”

“The suspects?”

Lenox described his suspicion that someone living in the wardroom had done the murder, enhanced now by the theft of the medallion. For a common bluejacket to be wandering around the wardroom would have been uncommon in the extreme, Martin agreed.

A steely look came into his eye. “When he is found out there will be no mercy, you may be sure of that,” he said. “A four-bag and a hanging.”

Lenox had to find out some minutes later from McEwan, who was eating about six breakfasts, that a four-bag meant forty-eight lashes on the back.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Amos Lee was almost completely different than Mitchell, his fellow officer: tall and fair where the other was small and dark, placid where the other bristled, of excellent manners where the other was rude. Of course Lenox had watched men who had seemed the gentlest of souls in his acquaintance swing from the gallows, for crimes that would have made thugs from the East End widen their eyes.

They spoke in the wardroom. Lee had an accent that Lenox had noticed among the younger generation of aristocratic public school graduates, which elongated every vowel, so that the word rather sounded like “raaawther” and London had about six o’s in it. The accent seemed to match Lee’s somewhat tired, heavy-lidded eyes. There was an air of boredom to him despite his polite attention to Lenox’s questions.

“How did you discover that Halifax was dead?”

“Mr. Mitchell told me the following morning.”

“May I ask how long you’ve been on the ship?”

“Certainly. I think it’s twenty-six months now, or thereabouts.”

“You must have been friends with Halifax, then.”

“Friendly, to be sure—there’s no way around that in the wardroom.”

“Do you have any inkling of who might have killed him?”

“No. I wish I had. Perhaps it was one of his men?” Lee ventured.

“I had heard he was quite popular among them?”