pointless to wake people from the forgetfulness of sleep to the iron realities of another day when the boat could go at least another hour without being emptied: true, many people were up to their ankles in water, and one of two actually sitting in it, but these were only tiny discomforts compared to what they would have to suffer before the sun went down again.
And then, suddenly, he saw something that drove away all thought of inaction, all thought of sleep. Quickly he shook McKinnon awake ? he had to, for McKinnon had been leaning against him and would have fallen had Nicolson risen without warning ? rose, stepped over the after thwart and dropped down on his knees on the next lower cross seat. Jenkins, the seaman who had been so dreadfully burnt, was lying in a most peculiar position, half-crouched, half-kneeling, his bloodied wrists still tied to the thwart, his head jammed against the tank leading. Nicolson stooped and shook him by the shoulder: the seaman fell further over on his side, but made no other movement. Again Nicolson shook him, more urgently this time, calling his name, but Jenkins would never be shaken awake nor hear his name again. By accident or design ? probably by design, and in spite of the ropes that bound him ? he had slipped off the thwart some time during the night and drowned in a few inches of bilge-water.
Nicolson straightened his back and looked at McKinnon, and the bo'sun nodded, understanding at once. It wouldn't do the lifeboat's morale any good at all if the survivors woke and found a dead man in their midst, and that they should slip him quietly over the side without even a shred of a burial service seemed a small price to pay for preserving the already fading reason of more than one who might lose it entirely if he opened his eyes only to find already in their midst what he knew must eventually come to all.
But Jenkins was heavier than he looked, and his body was awkwardly jammed between the thwarts. By the time McKinnon had cut free the securing ropes with his jack-knife and helped Nicolson drag him to a side bench, at least half the people in the lifeboat were awake, watching them struggle with the body, knowing that Jenkins was dead, yet looking on with eyes lack-lustre and strangely uncomprehending. But no one spoke; it seemed as if they might get Jenkins over the side without any hysterical outbursts or demonstrations, when a sudden high-pitched cry from for'ard, a cry that was almost a scream, made even the most tired and lethargic jerk their heads round and stare up towards the bows of the boat. Both Nicolson and McKinnon, startled, dropped the body and swung round: in the hushed stillness of the tropical dawn, the cry had seemed unnaturally loud,
The cry had come from the young soldier, Sinclair, but he wasn't looking at Jenkins, or anywhere in that direction. He was on his knees on the floorboards, rocking gently to and fro, staring down at somebody lying stretched on his back. Even as Nicolson watched, he flung himself to one side and pillowed his head on his forearms and the gunwale, moaning softly to himself.
In three seconds Nicolson was by his side, gazing down at the man in the bottom of the boat. Not all of his body was lying on the boards ? the backs of his knees were hooked over a thwart, the legs pointing incongruously skywards, as if he had fallen backwards from the seat on which he had been sitting: the back of his head rested in a couple of inches of water. It was Ahmed the priest, Farnholme's strange and taciturn friend, and he was quite dead.
Nicolson stooped over the priest, quickly thrust his hand inside the man's black robe to feel for the heart and as quickly withdrew. The flesh was cold and clammy: the man had been dead for hours.
Unconsciously, almost, Nicolson shook his head in bewilderment, glanced up at McKinnon and saw his own expression reflected there. He looked down again, bent over the body to lift up the head and the shoulders, and it was then that the shock came. He couldn't shift the body more than a couple of inches. Again he tried and again he failed. At his signal, McKinnon lifted one side of the body while Nicolson knelt down till his face was almost in the water, and then he saw why he had failed. The jack-knife between the shoulder-blades was buried clear up to the hilt, and the handle was caught between the planks of the bottom-boards.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nicolson rose slowly to his feet and drew his forearm across his forehead. It was already hot for the time of the day, but not that hot. His right arm hung loosely by his side, the butt of the Colt gripped tightly in his hand. He had no recollection of pulling it out of his belt. He gestured at the fallen priest.
'This man is dead.' His quiet voice carried easily in the hushed silence. 'He has a knife in his back. Someone in this boat murdered him.'
'Dead! You said he was dead? A knife in his back?' Farnholme's face wasn't pleasant as he pushed for'ard and knelt at the priest's side. He was on his feet in a moment, his mouth a thin white line in the darkness of his face. 'He's dead all right. Give me that gun, Nicolson. I know who did it.'
'Leave that gun alone!' Nicolson held him off with a stiff arm, then went on: 'Sorry, Brigadier. As long as the captain's unwell I am in charge of this boat. I can't let you take the law into your own hands. Who did it?'
'Siran, of course!' Farnholme was back on balance again, but there was no masking the cold rage in his eyes. 'Look at the damn' murdering hound, sitting there smirking.'
''The smiler with the knife beneath the cloak'.' It was Willoughby who spoke. His voice was weak and husky, but he was quiet and composed enough: the night's sleep seemed to have done him some good.
'It's not under anyone's cloak,' Nicolson said matter-of-factly. 'It's sticking in Ahmed's back ? and it's because of my damn' criminal carelessness that it is,' he added in the bitterness of sudden recollection and understanding. 'I forgot that there was a boat jack-knife as well as two hatchets in number two lifeboat… Why Siran, Brigadier?'
'Good God, man, of course it's Siran!' Farnholme pointed down at the priest. 'We're looking for a cold- blooded murderer, aren't we? Who else, but Siran?'
Nicolson looked at 'him. 'And what else, Brigadier?'
'What do you mean, 'what else '?'
'You know very well. I wouldn't shed any more tears than you if we had to shoot him, but let's have some little shred of evidence first.'
'What more evidence do you want? Ahmed was facing aft, wasn't he? And he was stabbed in the back. So somebody in the front of the boat did it ? and there were only three people farther for'ard than Ahmed. Siran and his two killers.'
'Our friend is overwrought.' It was Siran who spoke, his voice as smooth and expressionless as his face. 'Too many days in an open boat in tropical seas can do terrible things to a man.'
Farnholme clenched his fists and started for'ard, but Nicolson and McKinnon caught him by the arms.
'Don't be a fool,' Nicolson said roughly. 'Violence won't help matters, and we can't have fighting in a small boat like this.' He relased his grip on Farnholme's arm, and looked thoughtfully at the man in the bows. 'You may be right, Brigadier. I did hear someone moving about the boat, up for'ard, last night, and I did hear something like a thud. Later on I heard a splash. But I checked where the priest had been sitting.'
'His bag is gone, Nicolson. I wonder if you can guess where?'
'I saw his bag,' Nicolson said quietly. 'Canvas, and very light. It wouldn't sink.'
'I'm afraid it would, sir.' McKinnon nodded towards the bows. 'The grapnel's gone.'
'Weighted to the bottom, eh, Bo'sun? That would sink it all right.'
'Well, there you are then,' Farnholme said impatiently. 'They killed him, took his bag and flung it over the side. You looked both times you heard a noise and both times you saw Ahmed sitting up. Somebody must have been holding him up ? probably by the handle of the knife stuck in his back. Whoever was holding him must have been sitting behind him ? in the bows of the boat. And there were only these three damned murderers sitting there.' Farnholme was breathing heavily, his fists still white-knuckled, and his eyes not leaving Siran's face.
'It sounds as if you were right,' Nicolson admitted. 'How about the rest of it?'
'How about the rest of what?'
'You know quite well. They didn't kill him just for the exercise. What was their reason?'
'How the devil should I know why they killed him?'
Nicolson sighed. 'Look Brigadier, we're not all morons. Of course you know. You suspected Siran immediately. You expected Ahmed's bag to be missing. And Ahmed was your friend.'
Just for a moment something flickered far back in Farnholme's eyes, a faint shadow of expression that seemed to be reflected in the sudden tense tightening of Siran's mouth, almost as if the two men were exchanging
