Dead water

January shook his head. A lot of people presumably came from Philadelphia, and because that city was one of the business centers of the United States, it wasn't odd that they'd find their way to New Orleans.

Still . . .

Molloy's voice bawled an order, on the bow-deck by the sound of it. He was on watch till midnight, and probably longer, since the Silver Moon would be getting under way again at about that time. Just as well, thought January. The last thing they needed was for Molloy to glimpse Miss Skippen making her way along to Hannibal's room.

I have important news to impart.

A trick? An excuse to get into Hannibal's room so she could throw herself into his all-too-susceptible arms?

Some variation of the badger game?

Voices floated down after him as he descended again to the galley. The ladies emerged from the Saloon, chatting softly as one and then another disappeared into the ladies' toilet: “Dearest, would you like a little company in your stateroom?” trumpeted Mrs. Tredgold in a voice that she probably thought was gentle and confidential. “I can come sit with you—I have some of the finest China green tea, much better than the horrid stuff they use in the galley—I've told Tredgold and told him. . . .”

January leaned against the corner of the passway and took Rose's hand.

Hannibal tactfully faded into the darkness.

“Don't I know you from somewhere, sir?” asked Rose diffidently, and January settled down on the box at her side.

“My face is familiar,” sighed January, “but I can't quite place my name.”

“It looks like it should be Joe, or Jim, or maybe Pete. . . .”

And the two of them dissolved into giggles.

An hour or so later, January took his place on the wide bow apron of the upper deck. The lamp in the Ladies' Parlor had been put out, but a few still burned in the Saloon, where Quince and Lundy played cribbage. January caught the names of William Lloyd Garrison, and Henry Clay, and of the Colonization Society. He glanced down the promenade toward Hannibal's stateroom, wondering if Miss Skippen would approach from the bow end or the stern, and whether, if she passed him here on the bow, he could remain unobtrusive by simply standing away from the lanterns. At six feet three he was not the most unobtrusive of men. . . .

“Benjamin.”

Colonel Davis emerged from the door of the Saloon. January inclined his head respectfully, and after a moment's hesitation, the young planter came to his side.

“Benjamin, I regret to say I have been making inquiries pursuant to your case—” The corner of January's mouth twisted a little at the way it had become his case, and not Hannibal's—

“—and I must say I am becoming extremely troubled.”

YOU are becoming troubled??? Sir.

“I have inquired of the whereabouts of every person on this boat, and you are one of very few who cannot account for his movements at or about midnight last night. Now, I don't say this to worry you,” the Colonel added, raising a preemptory hand although January had made no attempt to interrupt. “I am much inclined to believe that you were where you say you were, in spite of Mr. Molloy's insinuations to the contrary. The man is a blackguard, a braggart, and a scoundrel . . . but a scoundrel who was in the presence of a witness when Mr. Weems met his end. And of those who have no alibi for the material time, you are the only one who seems to have had a connection with Mr. Weems.”

“I'm the only one whose connection can be proven so far, sir,” replied January slowly. “And you're right in that a man of my race will always be blamed before a man of yours—you know that's the way of the world.” At least it is in this country, he wanted to add but didn't. But he saw in Davis's eyes the acknowledgment of his tribute to the planter's worldliness.

Davis said, a little to January's surprise, “I won't desert you. Whomever else the sheriff decides to detain in Mayersville for his investigation, I plan to leave the boat and remain as a witness, to make sure that justice is served.”

“Thank you, sir,” said January, and wondered how much further into his confidence he could take this stiff- necked and arrogant young man, and whether Colonel Davis might be prevailed upon, instead, to remain on the boat as some kind of assistance for Rose. “I've been asking questions, too. . . . Were you aware that Mr. Quince, who also lacks an alibi, comes, like Weems, from Philadelphia?”

Davis looked surprised. “Where heard you that?”

“I understand it was spoken of in the Ladies' Parlor as common knowledge. Since both Weems and Mr. Quince dabbled in Abolitionist circles, it isn't impossible that they knew one another there. I understand also—though this is only hearsay and I'm sure he will deny it—that Mr. Lundy went to considerable trouble to come up-river on this particular boat, and appears to have been less than truthful about his reasons for doing so: the doctor he claims to be going to see in Lexington doesn't exist. And I'm not sure if you know that Mr. Weems was blackmailing Mr. Cain.”

“Blackmailing?” Davis's sparse, jutting eyebrows flicked upward, and the side of his face twitched. “That is a very serious charge to make on hearsay.”

“It isn't hearsay, sir. I heard Weems threaten Cain with exposure of some secret, the night Cain came on board at Donaldsonville.”

Davis was silent, stroking his wispy beard for a time. Then he glanced up at January. “That may be true—I have no way of knowing—but Mr. Cain was with Mr. Gleet the entire night.”

“Doesn't that in itself strike you as a little odd, sir?” asked January diffidently. “Considering that Cain generally avoids Gleet?”