An Ensuing Evil and Others

“The letters were signed each time ‘your own adoring P.’ In one letter, dated on the very evening we left Chatham, this lady, P, writes to Jardine that she fears for his life while on board the Deerhound. She suspects that her husband has discovered the affair and means to find an excuse to kill him. She begs him to find an excuse to absent himself from the ship at the earliest opportunity. There is some emotional material about them eloping to some foreign place together.”

Roscarrock drew his finger along the side of his nose thoughtfully. “The letters signed with the initial P, you say? I don’t think that will get you far. By coincidence, I know the names of the wives of three officers begins with P. Midshipman Hope is married to a young lady named Penelope. Lieutenant Gervaise’s wife is named Peggy, and Lieutenant Unstead’s wife is Phoebe….” Roscarrock suddenly paused as if a thought had struck him.

Midshipman Hart was nodding excitedly. “Lieutenant Unstead already challenged Lieutenant Jardine to a duel in Chatham. It was stopped by the Provost Marshal. The cause of the duel was that Lieutenant Jardine had insulted Lieutenant Unstead’s wife. Lieutenant Unstead’s wife is named, as you say, Phoebe.”

Roscarrock inclined his head as though unwilling to admit the possibility. “It is still a theory. How can you prove it?”

“By the miniature portrait, sir.”

“So far as I recall, no one on board, except Jardine, ever met Mrs. Unstead, so we have no knowledge of her features.”

“Then all we have to do is wait until we return to Chatham and then compare the portrait with the features of those of the officers’ ladies whose names begin with P. I will wager, however, that the features match those of Mrs. Unstead. Then we will have our assassin.”

Captain Roscarrock regarded the eager young midshipman with a serious expression. “Mr. Hart, I think you have done well. However, we cannot let a word of this slip out, because if it was thought that you had this evidence, your own life would not be worth that of a weevil in a ship’s biscuit. Do you have these letters and the portrait?”

Midshipman Hart reached into his uniform jacket and drew out a sheaf of papers and a small silver-framed oval object.

“I was going to give them to you, sir, so that you could lock them away until we return to Chatham.”

He handed them across.

Roscarrock gave them a cursory glance. “One thing, Mr. Hart.” He smiled softly. “Although you suspect Lieutenant Unstead, would it not be more appropriate to suspect all officers, for you might be doing him an injustice?”

“Indeed, sir. I am trying to keep an open mind in case I am wrong.”

“Why, then, am I not among your suspects? I could well play the part of a jealous husband.”

Midshipman Hart smiled and shook his head. “I did entertain the notion, sir, but then I dismissed it.”

“Dismissed it? On what grounds, pray?” demanded Roscarrock in amusement.

“I found out from your steward, sir, that your wife’s name begins with the letter M and not P.”

Roscarrock’s smile broadened. “You believe in attending to minutiae, Mr. Hart. You are right. My wife’s name is Mary. You will go far in the service. Very well. I shall keep these letters and the miniature portrait under lock and key until we are safely home in Chatham. Do not mention a word of such a find. Until we reach our home port, it might be wise to let it be known that your inquiries have been resolved and there is nothing suspicious about Jardine’s death.”

“Aye, sir.”

Roscarrock turned and placed the letters in his locker with the miniature portrait.

There came the sound of a ship’s bell.

“Nearly time for the burial service,” sighed Roscarrock. “Ask Mr. Gervaise to pass the word.”

Captain Roscarrock had been wrong. The fog was patchy and did not thin immediately. It lay around the Deerhound for two hours more after the committal of the bodies to the sea. Roscarrock impatiently paced the quarterdeck for a while, awaiting its clearance, but it hung with persistence. Now and then, Roscarrock heard officers exchanging a whisper and a chuckle. Crewmen passed to their duties, smirking. The reason was obvious. The news that Lieutenant Jardine had been killed in an accident was spreading round the ship. No glory for Lieutenant Jardine, just a casualty of bad fortune. It seemed that Midshipman Hart had spread the word that there was no more to the curious manner of the gunnery lieutenant’s death than ill fate.

Eventually, Roscarrock returned to his cabin and set himself to wait for the fog to clear. It was another hour before Midshipman Hart knocked on the door and touched his hat. “Mr. Gervaise’s compliments, sir. The fog is clearing rapidly now. There is a nor’-northwesterly wind beginning to blow.”

Roscarrock stood up. “Excellent. Take a run up aloft and scan the horizon. I don’t think the Frenchman has remained nearby, but we don’t want any surprises. I will come on deck immediately.”

Hart touched his hat again and turned out of the cabin.

Roscarrock reached for the brandy bottle and poured a generous glass from its amber contents.

Time seemed to pass interminably.

There was a sudden commotion on deck.

He raised his glass and swallowed quickly.

There was a cry: “Pass the word for the captain!”

Almost immediately one of the youngest midshipmen knocked at his door, a lad no more than fourteen years old.

“Mr. Gervaises compliments, sir,” came his childish piping treble. “Would you come on deck immediately, sir?”

Roscarrock grabbed his hat and followed the boy on to the quarterdeck.

He glanced around as he came out of the companionway. “What is it, Gervaise? Is it the Frenchman?”

Gervaises face was pale. “Young Hart, sir. He came on deck, sprang into the stays, and went scrambling up the mainmast to the crow’s nest. He was up there before I could warn him! Didn’t I mention earlier that the chain shot had frayed the rigging and splintered the spars there? All above the mains’1 was unstable. Young Hart just slipped, lost his footing, and came crashing down to the main deck.”

He indicated toward where a group of sailors were gathered around something that looked like a bundle of clothes.

Surgeon Smithers rose from his knees by it and glanced upward toward the captain. He stood his head in a studied fashion. “Neck clean broke, Cap’n,” he called.

Roscarrock turned back to Gervaise. “Was there no way the boy could have been warned before he went up the main rigging?” he demanded.

Gervaise shook his head. “What was the boy climbing up there for anyway?”

“I told him to go aloft,” replied Roscarrock. “I wanted a sweep around with the fog clearing to see if the Frenchman was anywhere in sight. I didn’t realize that he would go for the mainmast. I thought everyone had been warned that it was unstable. I presumed that he would use the mizzenmast crow’s nest, which would give a good clearance of the horizon, but…”

“Poor little sod,” muttered Lieutenant Unstead roughly. He had been standing behind Lieutenant Gervaise. “One more body to go over the side, I suppose. Fll get the sail-maker to stitch up another canvas and shot.”

An hour later the sloop was tacking across the wind, moving painfully slowly north-northwest across the bight toward the waiting British fleet.

Captain Richard Roscarrock sat at his desk and unlocked the cupboard, drawing forth the small miniature. He gazed down at the young, soft face, with the golden ringlets and pert red lips that smiled out from it. He stared in disapproval for a moment and then returned it, taking out the sheaf of letters that had been so emotionally addressed to Lieutenant Jardine and signed “your own adoring P.”

They were outpourings of a desperate and naive love. Hart had been right. The last letter had alerted Jardine to the young woman’s suspicion that her husband had found out about their affair and was a threat to Jardine’s life. It was clear that the husband, whose name was not indicated in the letter, was a fellow officer on board the Deerhound.

Roscarrock gave a low sigh, folded them up, and returned them to the locker.

He drew some clean sheets of paper toward him and reached for the pen and ink.