Dead water

Orleans, in confirmation or denial, another week for them to return. . . .

If the story of the theft hadn't broken in the meantime and collapsed the bank anyway.

If Granville hadn't fled.

“It is nevertheless a precept of American law that a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty.” Colonel Davis's clear, sharp voice cut into the silence. “And I see no proof on one side or the other. Certainly there are no grounds to deprive anyone of their liberty, especially if the vessel makes no stops between here and Mayersville. I think it equally likely that the murder could have been done by that girl who disappeared. Our best course would be to proceed to Mayersville and turn this entire affair over to the Issaquena County sheriff.”

“But without the fares from the plantations between here and Mayersville . . .” began Tredgold, who was completely ignored.

Molloy shrugged, and tossed down the rest of his whiskey. “If you want to trust an Orangeman, it's no skin off my behind. Now, with your permission, Captain . . .” He bowed ironically to Tredgold. “Colonel, I'll be after gettin' this vessel under way.”

Tredgold and Davis followed Molloy to the door, where low-voiced conversation ensued. January fetched Hannibal a cup of coffee from the big porcelain urns, and a biscuit, at which the fiddler shook his head. Men were coming quietly into the Saloon, edging past the muttered convocation in the doorway and being careful not to look at Hannibal.

“What girl was he talking about?” asked January, standing at Hannibal's side as a good servant should. “What went on last night?”

“What didn't?” The fiddler glanced up at him from dark-circled eyes. “It appears Julie escaped last night. Her shoes were found on the starboard promenade deck just before you came down. Gleet went storming up to Miss Skippen's stateroom to ascertain that, no, she wasn't there . . . Miss Skippen was sound asleep still and Gleet was damn lucky not to run into Molloy in her stateroom. Molloy had come down to get breakfast before going on watch at six, and was—according to Rose, anyway—on the stairs from the boiler-deck down to the kitchen when Jim started shouting.”

“Jim was the first one to see the body, then?”

Hannibal nodded. “He sleeps closest to the paddle, and got up before rosy-fingered Aurora even started thinking about spreading the light of dawn o'er meadow and lea. I suppose goddesses have to get their beauty-sleep sometime. It was still foggy then, and Jim thought the body might have been a clump of branches or debris; then he realized what it was and gave the alarm.”

“And when did you get down there?”

“Almost at once. Following the usual after-supper card game I wasn't sleepy, but didn't want to wake you by lighting a candle and reading—an unnecessary precaution, as it turned out, since you never stirred when Jim raised the alarm. I don't think you moved all night.”

“I did,” said January. “Or at least I think I did. . . .” It flashed across his mind that his nocturnal visitor might have been a dream, but he shook the thought away immediately. Rose might dream about waking up in the same room she'd gone to sleep in, but January knew himself better than that. “I'll tell you later.”

“Nisi Dominus custodierit civitatem, as the Psalmist says, frustra vigilat qui custodit eam. In any case I settled myself on a quiet corner of the bow-deck and played—in spite of the fog it was a relatively warm night. Later I came to bed, but I don't think I slept more than an hour or so before the alarm was raised. Do you think Weems might have encountered Julie as she was going overside, and Julie struck him to prevent him from giving the alarm?”

“She certainly could have,” said January thoughtfully. “She's a big girl—taller than Weems, and heavier. If she shoved or thrust him, he might have struck his head on a stanchion. Did the boat go over a bar at some time during the night?”

“Around eleven.” Hannibal glanced up at the clerestory windows that ranged around the top of the Saloon; the light dimmed and faded in them, warning of gathering clouds. Thunder muttered in the distance. “They barely scraped over. Does that make a difference?”

“Only that Weems must have gone overside sometime after that, or else his body would have been scraped off entirely. Where have they put the body?”

Hannibal, who had entirely too much imagination for his own good, looked slightly green at the image this conjured up, and said a little faintly, “In his stateroom.” He poured himself some more sherry. “Though whether Tredgold will let you have a look at it is . . .”

“Mr. Sefton.” Colonel Davis withdrew a morocco-leather memorandum-book from his pocket as he approached. “I understand you claim to have been playing the violin on deck after you left the Saloon?”

“At the time I hoped I wouldn't waken anyone,” sighed Hannibal. “Now I wish that I had. My man Benjamin has pointed out that Weems probably went overboard after we crossed over that bar at eleven—providing us with a terminus ad quem, anyway.”

“More than that.” The young planter consulted his notes, a nervous tic pulling sharply at the left side of his face. “According to Mr. Souter, the rudder was dragging and pulling shortly before midnight, as it does when it's picked up a branch. Mr. Molloy was just getting ready to come off watch when it happened, and cursed at it, Mr. Souter says. When Souter took over the wheel, he felt it, and whatever it was, it pulled loose in about an hour.”

January shivered. The man might well have ruined him—and hundreds of other investors—walking away without a thought to the lives he was wrecking. . . . But it was still a horrible way to die. Even in the deserts of Algeria, a thief would lose a hand, not his life.

“Mr. Weems left supper early,” Davis went on, glancing at Hannibal, whether for reaction or confirmation January could not guess. “Almost as soon as dessert was served . . .”

“And I stayed on,” pointed out Hannibal, “to entertain the company as usual after supper was over—not wishing to play the despot, I did not demand Ben accompany me after the day he'd had. If you recall, I was continuously in the Saloon from supper until well after midnight, engaged with either music or cards.”

“Yes,” agreed Davis, “yes, of course. As for where Mr. Weems was . . .”

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Thucydides turned from preparation of a pot of tea for the ladies breakfasting in the