A Burial at Sea (26 page)

“I never did,” said Billings.

“Mr. Quirke, you were there too, I believe.”

“I was,” said Quirke. “You did say so, Mr. Billings, I remember. I had never heard of a falling-out between them, but there seemed no reason not to believe it.”

There was a silence now, and Lenox began to feel the tide of belief turn, ever so slightly, in his favor.

“What’s this business of mutiny, Mr. Lenox?” said Lee at last. “I mislike your use of Evers. Was he involved?”

“He was only an actor, I promise. Mr. Pettegree, I really do think it would be best to free him.”

The purser nodded and left.

“No,” said Lenox, “the so-called mutiny was another piece of misdirection from you, Mr. Billings. You were on deck when the shot was rolled, were you not?”

“Yes, along with dozens of other men.”

“And yet only one other officer. At first I thought perhaps it was directed at you; now I believe you rolled it.”

“But how on earth is this anything but a suspicion?” said Carrow, plainly discomfited.

Lenox felt in his breast pocket. “Here’s the note that was left in Captain Martin’s cabin,” he said. “You’ll know better than I that few sailors on the ship can write or read.”

“Several can,” said Mitchell.

“There is a simple expedient I can think of to discover the truth,” said Lenox, who suggested it because he had tried it the evening before, when he had stolen into Billings’s cabin. “Perhaps you, Mr. Tradescant, might fetch a piece of paper, anything with writing on it, from our captain’s cabin.”

“I call that an outrageous violation,” said Billings, whose tone was almost too cool, too controlled.

Several of the officers looked as if they might agree.

“It’s not quite cricket,” said Lee.

“If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize—grovel—before Mr. Billings. What can be the harm in comparing his handwriting to the note’s?”

Tradescant shrugged, rose, and made for Billings’s cabin.

Billings shot up then, and shouted, red-faced, “No! You cannot do that!”

“Why not?” said Lenox.

“Lee is right—it’s not done!” Billings said.

But the vehemence of his reaction acted against him.

“We may as well see,” said Lee, shrugging. “Perhaps the comparison will exonerate you.”

Pettegree returned just as Tradescant left for Billings’s cabin, and as the door closed behind him Lenox saw Evers and McEwan speaking to each other excitedly.

Tradescant returned, his face grave. “Here is a letter Mr. Billings has written to his sister, Mr. Lenox. I have not read its contents, thinking that an invasion, but perhaps it may be used for comparison?”

Lenox took the note, and then put both it and the mutineer’s note out on the table. “As like as twins, you’ll see. No attempt to disguise the handwriting. That was foolish, Mr. Billings.”

All of the men in the room turned their gaze on the captain, who finally wilted under the inspection. “Well, so what if I wrote the note?” said Billings.

“You confess it?” said Carrow. “What can be your excuse?”

“The captain knew of it—was my accomplice.”

“And told you of Carrow’s medallion, too? Convenient that he’s dead.”

“You have no proof.”

“And yet there is more,” said Lenox. “Your nausea when we stood over Mr. Halifax’s body, or Mr. Martin’s, seems in retrospect overdone to me. No man has been at sea for more than fifteen years without seeing worse. It was an effective ruse, I’ll grant you.”

“They were my friend and my captain. I would hate to see the man whom such a sight did not nauseate.”

“And yet there is another piece of evidence, Mr. Billings, which suggests to me that you may have a stronger stomach than you let on. The captain’s log.”

“What of it? More trumpery, I don’t doubt.”

“Mr. Tradescant, you concluded from the gruesome treatment of both corpses that the hand that cut them had some surgical experience, however rudimentary, didn’t you?”

“Not a great deal, necessarily, but some, yes.”

“When you are ill, who acts as the surgeon?”

“Why, I have trained my assistant in more recent months. Before that it was Mr.”—realization dawned in the surgeon’s eyes—“Mr. Billings.”

“You toured the sick bay with Captain Martin once, and recommended amputation of a sailor’s leg. Would you have carried out the procedure yourself?”

“He would have,” Tradescant answered. “After battles he sewed the men up, just as I did. How could I forget?”

“How did you come by that skill?” Lenox asked Billings.

“Go bugger yourself.”

“His father was a surgeon in a small town,” Carrow said quietly.

“Why would I have, you fools?” said Billings. “Why on earth would I have wanted to do that?”

“Ah,” said Lenox. “I have my suspicions on that subject, too. Your motive.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Lenox poured another glass of water, and realized, as he took a deep breath, what a thrill was running through him. He had finally found his old form. It had come too late to save Martin, but there might be justice. That was something.

Again he addressed the room. “When a murderer kills twice, you must ask yourself what unites the two people who have died. What did Mr. Martin and Mr. Halifax have in common?”

“Nothing, except a life on board the
Lucy
,” said Billings. “Spare me your speculation.”

“And one other thing, Mr. Billings: both stood in the way of your promotion from first lieutenant to captain.”

Lee laughed. “There you find yourself using landsman’s logic, I expect, Mr. Lenox. Billings outranked Halifax.”

“You have the right of it, Mr. Lee—he did. But let me spin you a story.”

“Wonderful,” said Billings. He jerked at his handcuffs. “I’ll have you all up before the admiralty for this. As for you, Lenox, you fool, I’ll leave you in Egypt to rot.”

“I have wondered since Halifax was murdered why the killer did it on this ship, this contained, unprivate, undepartable vessel, rather than on land. But then I thought yesterday: what if he was only given a motive when he came on board?

“Then several facts came to me. The first was something my brother had told me, that Martin was destined for great things, indeed was rumored to be receiving command of a warship within the next several months. The second was something Martin himself told me in Plymouth, when we dined together. He said that he had to meet with the admiralty the next day, to make or break his lieutenants’ careers—a prospect he loathed. Is it possible that he recommended Halifax take the ship after him, ‘receive his step,’ as a naval man would say? I know Halifax had numerous connections, relations even, within the admiralty. Men who wanted to see him do well. And what did you have? A few surgical tricks you picked up as a child?”

This hit home, Lenox saw; Billings tried not to, but he winced, pained at hearing the truth out loud. The detective wondered if it was as plain to the other men in the wardroom as it was to him.

“That train of thought led me to remember something Halifax told me over the last supper he ate. He said that at sea not all men get their wishes. Not all lieutenants are made captain, however much they may feel they deserve it. I wondered at the time if he was referring to himself, but now I suspect he was referring to you. I think his relations had told him the
Lucy
would be his upon her return from Egypt. By killing Martin and Halifax both, you became captain both now and, perhaps, for the future. An acting captain who does well often retains his command, does he not?”

Heads bobbed all over the room.

“Is that what Martin told you, Mr. Billings, that you would never be captain of the
Lucy
—that Halifax was to have it next, while Martin himself moved on to a new, larger ship? Perhaps he even offered to take you with him? But you wished to be a captain. It’s only natural that you would, I know.”

“End your squawking, man.”

“Over whisky, the first night at sea, was it? Half a bottle was gone—too much for one man, but enough for three. I imagine the three of you meeting together. What was it you told me in our first supper together? That whisky was your favorite drink? Martin was a considerate man; he would have understood that you needed a tipple, to keep yourself together at the bad news. A life at sea, and never a command of your own.”

“Absurd.”

“Is it? What was it you said earlier? That you had worked too long to get her to be robbed of the
Lucy
?”

“It’s true, damn your eyes.”

“It is not difficult to imagine that at the conclusion of your drinks together, you might have asked Halifax to join you for a stroll upon the deck. Perhaps even a trip up the rigging. You couldn’t have stopped for a knife, so it had to be a penknife. Was it on the spur of the moment, or did you hatch the plan the moment Martin broke the news to you?”

“Why would I have done any of that? Why would I have flayed him open?”

“Ah. There I have dark suspicions of your character, I fear, Mr. Billings. Perhaps we may discuss them later.”

Billings looked around the room, and spoke. “All of you—Carrow, Lee, Mitchell, Quirke, my dear chaplain—I have served with you long and short whiles. This man has been aboard the
Lucy
for a fortnight and has accused me of murder. Please, let us all return to our senses.”

It was the surgeon who finally spoke. “Why did you write that note? Or roll the shot?”

A look of disdain came into Billings’s eyes. “This charlatan’s story is true, as far as it goes. The
Lucy
was to be Halifax’s. I was trying to send Martin a message.”

“Once you’ve admitted that, haven’t you admitted everything?” said Carrow. His eyes were pained, but no longer incredulous.

“No. I never would have raised a hand in violence to either of them. Why would I have killed Mr. Martin?”

“The captain?” said Lenox. “You went back and asked him specifically, after Halifax had died, whether your prospects had changed. A few glasses more of whisky gone from the bottle. When he denied you again, you had to kill him.”

“I didn’t do it.”

Carrow interjected. “But the penknife, your opportunity, my medallion, your surgical training—surely there can be no other answer?”

“I never thought you would betray me.”

“I wish you had never betrayed us.”

Billings smirked. “Prove it, then. You cannot, because it’s not true. The mutiny, yes. But not the murders.”

“So this is to be your stratagem?” Lenox said. “Save yourself the gallows?”

“There’s no proof that I murdered Halifax or Martin, damn you.”

“It was a deuced awkward thing of you to do, Billings, even if it was only the mutiny,” said Lee.

“Oh, shut up, Lee, and stow your asinine home county accent.”

“Oh, I say!” cried Lee, moved more than he had been at any point heretofore in the proceedings. “I say, you go too far!”

Lenox nearly laughed. “You speak of proof. I wonder, Mr. Tradescant, about your patient.”

“Which one?”

“Your long-term patient. What was his name?”

“Costigan.”

“You told me several days ago that he was awake?”

“Yes. But fractious, and anxious.”

“And muttering all manner of things, you told me? About what?”

“It’s nigh on impossible to understand him.”

“How long will it be before he could speak, should you stop giving him his sedative now.”

“A matter of an hour or two. But why?”

“What was his initial injury?”

“A blunt trauma across the back of the head, from a beam, we presumed.”

“I think he may have witnessed our murder, this unfortunate Costigan, or known of Billings’s plans. Billings, is that true?”

It was this that finally did Billings in. He sat there insolently, grinning, a dazed look in his eyes. He said nothing.

“When was he brought to your surgery?”

“Not half an hour before we discovered Halifax,” said Tradescant wonderingly.

“And Mr. Carrow,” said Lenox, “where did Costigan work?”

“He was a flier, a topman.”

“Then he might have had cause to go up the—”

“Mizzenmast, yes. Oh, Billings.”

They all turned to him, and the same distant grin was fixed on his face.

“We shall have to speak to him,” said the surgeon gravely.

“There’s only one thing left,” said Lenox. “Admit that you killed them, Billings. You, and you alone.”

Their eyes were all focused on Billings, and so none of them saw the man who had slipped in. He spoke, and they turned together with a cry of surprise.

“In fact we killed them together,” the voice said. “Both of them.”

It was Butterworth, Billings’s steward. He was carrying a gun.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

“Known Mr. Billings since he were a boy in trousers, I have,” said Butterworth. “And it won’t be any of you sees to him. Uncuff him now, Lennots, do it.”

Hands raised, Lenox walked over to Billings and uncuffed him.

Billings stood and looked down the wardroom table, a warm, polished red, full of flickering light from the windows, and spat. “None of you is worth a damn. I killed ’em; I’d do it again.”

“You helped, Butterworth?” said Lenox quietly.

“Shut up.”

“How long have you been helping him?” Lenox asked. “Has he always been … this way?”

A pained look appeared on Butterworth’s face, but he only said, “Shut up,” again, and poked his gun into Lenox’s stomach. He looked at Carrow. “Get us up to a jolly boat, hey. We’ll take the
Bumblebee
. Else this one gets a bullet through him.”

Billings’s face was demonic. “Or I could get my penknife, Mr. Lenox. Can we make time for that anyhow, Butterworth?”

“Not now, young master. Now we must go. You come with us, Lennots. You’re to be our hostage. The rest of you sit on your bottoms and don’t breathe a word, or I’ll shoot this great toff.”

The walk to the deck seemed to take forever. Butterworth had the gun shoved into Lenox’s back, and the detective prayed that the man knew how to use it properly. An accidental shot would mean the end of his life.