Free A Burial at Sea by Charles Finch Page A

sir.”
    “You went down after Carrow?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And then he dismissed you.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Lenox badly wanted a word with his nephew, but knew this wasn’t the moment to have it.
    “Did you see anyone in the rigging of the mizzenmast at around the same time?” he asked.
    “No, sir,” said Carrow. “It was dark, of course, and beyond that you wouldn’t expect anyone to be up skylarking in the middle watch, barring, I don’t know, a squall or some enemy action.”
    “Quite right,” said Martin.
    “How many men would have been on deck during your watch, Lieutenant?” asked Lenox.
    “A few more than twenty.”
    “Where would they have congregated?”
    “Sir?”
    “Are they at work the whole while?”
    “Oh—no, sir. Unless they have orders they would be on the main deck, or perhaps up at the fore of the ship, sitting along the bowsprit.”
    “At the other end of the ship from the quarterdeck, in other words.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I see. Another question, if you don’t mind—which of the men on this ship are capable of violence, in your opinion?” he asked both the young lieutenant and Martin.
    “Difficult to say,” Martin answered. “In the right circumstance, all of them.”
    McEwan chose this moment to lumber through the door with a biscuit in his hand. He retreated to his hallway, bowing as he left, when he saw that the room was occupied.
    “Except him, perhaps,” said Martin. “But of course the men will all fight. Carrow? You deal with the sailors more from day to day.”
    “There are a few bad tempers, sir.”
    Lenox shook his head. “No—a planned meeting, the surgical nature of Halifax’s wounds—I don’t think this was a moment of bad temper, but rather one of planned and executed malice. Still, Mr. Carrow, if you would put a list together of men you don’t trust, it would be useful.”
    Carrow looked unhappy, but nodded when he saw in Martin’s face a stern confirmation of this request. “They’re good men, sir,” he added, as if to formally express his unhappiness with the request.
    “One of them is not,” Lenox said. “Now, would one of you show me Lieutenant Halifax’s cabin? Then we shall see how Mr. Tradescant has progressed. With your permission, of course, Captain.”

 
     
    CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    Halifax’s cabin was a good deal smaller than Lenox’s. The detective—for the last few hours had made him such a creature again, which he knew because he felt that peculiar vibrant alertness in his mind that this work had always galvanized in him—visited it alone.
    “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to start us sailing again,” Martin had said. He looked tired but showed no signs of slacking energy. “You can find me on deck if you like. Tell me, first, what you think happened.”
    “I don’t know,” said Lenox, and Martin, perhaps used to his directives being followed and his questions answered frankly and fully, looked unhappy with the answer.
    “We can’t have a murderer roaming freely aboard the ship.”
    “At the very least—if we cannot rout out this murderer—everyone will be far more aware and cautious now. This is not a large place for hiding.”
    “Nothing could be worse for the mood of the men, though,” said Martin. “Suspicion everywhere—rumors, arguments, accusations. Still, it’s a short voyage, bless the Lord.”
    Halifax’s cabin (also off of the wardroom) felt personal in a way Lenox’s didn’t yet, the result of many months’ habitation. It was tidy but crammed: notes and sketches pinned on the wall over his tiny desk, clothes hung up on the back of his chair and the bed’s short posts, fishing tackle in the corner. Lenox searched through this assortment of items methodically, but ultimately without recompense. There was no note lying about—or indeed in any pocket or drawer Lenox could find—inviting Halifax to a rendezvous during the middle watch. Nor was there any object that didn’t seem natural in its