by Joan Druett
Wiki said patiently, “The man who came to the house to collect Ophelia’s body posed as Tristram Stanton—and got away with it because he was wearing those clothes.”
Forsythe scowled this over, and then his eyes widened. “But it was John Burroughs who borrowed ’em!”
“Exactly.”
“So you reckon John Burroughs was the man who went to the house to collect Ophelia’s corpse, stow it in that rotten old boat, and then shove her off into the river?”
“Aye.”
“Then you’re the one who’s a fool,” Forsythe said flatly. “I don’t believe for a bloody instant that Burroughs had the guts to do anythin’ so daunting.”
“Where sailing with the expedition was concerned, he was brave enough,” Wiki pointed out. “He was prepared to pay his cousin money to put in a good word with Captain Wilkes. Instead, the Stantons asked him to collect Ophelia’s body. And, to make it easier for him to get away with it, they gave him this set of clothes.”
“So these clothes are proof of that? You’re bloody jestin’!”
“I’m not,” said Wiki. “It must have been a nasty moment when Burroughs tried to return the suit so publicly. Being a quick thinker, though, Tristram Stanton took the chance to plant the evidence on you. If he’s ever accused, he’ll simply suggest that your sea chest be searched. You’d have a very hard job explaining those clothes away.”
“Is that so?” said Forsythe. He was staring at Wiki, his eyes very narrow. “He was plannin’ to see me swing for Ophelia’s murder, huh?”
“If necessary.” Wiki paused, and said, “There’s something else on board this ship that would incriminate you, too.”
“Jesus lord,” said Forsythe, and jerked out a grunt of disbelieving mirth. “So what the hell else have you got for me, Mr. Deputy Coffin?”
“Come and see.” And Wiki led the way into his stateroom.
* * *
It was odd, he reflected, how much like the sheriff Forsythe looked as he lifted one of the rifles out of the box. There was the same air of professional admiration, though his expression held rank envy, too. “A Leman turn-barrel rifle,” the southerner said, as if to himself. “I’ve heard of ’em but never seen one before.”
“The sheriff called it a revolving rifle,” said Wiki, watching him. “You fire one barrel, turn it, and then fire the other, so you can get off two shots in quick succession.”
“Nice, very nice,” said Forsythe, and set the rifle back in the case. Then he picked up its twin, and inspected it in the same judiciously appreciative manner. Peering down the barrel with one eye half shut, he said, “So what have these rifles to do with incriminatin’ me?”
“One of them was used to shoot holes in the boat that was floating off with Ophelia’s corpse.”
“What—they shot her as well?” Forsythe exclaimed. He shook his head, his expression sour. “They sure was set on makin’ her as dead as last week’s mutton, huh? Poisoning was not enough, so they snapped her neck and shot her in the bargain.”
“I didn’t say she was shot,” Wiki said. “And I think breaking her neck must have been an accident, because it turned out to be such a big problem. Stanton had organized the scene to make sure of a verdict of suicide—he probably even calculated the tides, so that the boat would be sighted before it sank. But when her neck was broken, it was obviously impossible to believe that she’d done it herself, which led to a lot of panic.”
Forsythe grunted, thinking this over. Then he asked shrewdly, “Who panicked?”
“A maidservant testified that she saw Tristram Stanton running down the stairs about three in the morning, carrying one of these rifles. But it must have been Burroughs.”
“So these guns are Tristram Stanton’s.” Forsythe’s lips pursed in and out, but he did not seem unduly surprised.
Wiki said, “When I was at the Stanton house with the sheriff’s party, we saw one of these guns on display in his study—just one. Tristram Stanton told the sheriff he had bought the pair to bring along on the expedition. The other one was missing. He left it to us to work out that it had been stolen.”
“By Burroughs?”
“It must have been Burroughs,” Wiki said, though there was an uncomfortable nagging in the back of his mind that something critical had been missed. “As I said, he panicked. The boat was floating out of reach, so he galloped to the house, grabbed one of those rifles, and then raced back to the riverbank, hoping to sink it with a couple of well-placed shots before anybody noticed. It was an act of desperation, and because I was there it didn’t work.”
Forsythe scowled, slowly taking this in. “So how did these guns get into this room?”
“Somehow, Stanton must have managed to retrieve the gun from wherever Burroughs had hidden it. It seems obvious that he sent the gun case on board with his astronomical equipment. Then, while we were on passage, he hid it. And it has been hidden here ever since.” Wiki jerked his chin at the back of the signal locker.
Forsythe lapsed into silence, frowning this over. Then he shook his head again. “Men who knew him would find it bloody hard to believe that John Burroughs had that kind of guts.”
Wiki opened his mouth, but no words came out, because the nagging thought had abruptly materialized. The top hat, he thought—the top hat that had been left on Tristram Stanton’s desk. There had been no trace of hair oil on the inside of that hat.
Which meant that John Burroughs—who had dressed his hair with oil on the night of Ophelia Stanton’s murder—could not possibly have worn it.
Twenty-five
A hail echoed down from the deck above, and then Wiki felt the bump as a boat hit against the starboard side of the brig. He spun on his heel and sprinted eagerly up the companionway. To his great disappointment, however, Lieutenant Smith was alone.
Wiki demanded, “Where’s George Rochester? Did you give him the packet?”
“I don’t know where he is, and no, I did not give him the packet,” the tubby lieutenant said testily. “That’s why we’ve taken so long. The whole ship is searching—we’ve lost him!”
Wiki’s pulse started hammering with alarm. “What do you mean, you’ve lost him?”
“He vanished in the night. There’s a general search, but we can’t find him anywhere.”
My God, thought Wiki. His thoughts were tumbling over each other with incipient panic. It was like a horrible echo of the disappearance of Jim Powell, only happening faster.
He looked over to where the flagship floated on the dead calm a half mile away and said tensely, “I have to get over to the Vin.”
“Well, you can’t.”
“What?” Lieutenant Smith had sounded so disconcertingly like Forsythe that Wiki flinched.
“It’s simply not possible, not right now,” Smith pronounced.
“Why not?” Wiki demanded.
“Because they are beating the drum for quarters.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There is general upset and confusion over the disappearance of a man who is a popular officer and one of our own, and as it is a flat calm it was considered a live exercise of the cannon would boost the men’s spirits in this time of distress.”
Oh, dear Jehovah, Wiki thought as he stared with narrowed eyes at the distant flagship, they were playing games instead of keeping up the hunt. Was this the value Captain Wilkes placed on a man who was lauded as a popular officer?
He spun round and snapped at Smith, “Did you see him at all?”
“Of course I saw him,” Smith said angrily, flushing at his tone. “I saw him at the feast.”
“Then you must’ve talked to him, surely!”
“How could I?” Smith turned with a sniff, heading for the companionway. “He’s just a passed midshipman, you know.”
Wiki pursued him, anger making his movements jerky and fast. “And what the devil is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“That’s no way to talk to me, young man. It means that I was at
the top of the table with Captain Wilkes and Astronomer Stanton, and he was right down at the bottom with the other midshipmen, where he belongs.” Then Lawrence Smith added peevishly over his shoulder as he rattled down the stairs, “And an infamously noisy lot they were, too. Shouting, arguing, cheering—a disgraceful performance, truly.”
They arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Wiki put a hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder and spun him around, but still the choleric little eyes refused to meet his urgent stare. “What about after the feast was over?”
Shrugging Wiki’s hand away, Lieutenant Smith went over to the table and rang the little bell he kept specially for summoning the steward. “As the midshipmen and junior lieutenants were leaving the table,” he said loftily, “Captain Wilkes included me in the gracious invitation he extended to a select few of the officers and scientifics to stop behind for a few circuits of the decanter—and you couldn’t possibly expect me to offend our commander with a rude refusal just on account of your friend! Then when it was over the hunt was up; and it was generally reported that Rochester was nowhere to be seen.”
Wiki said softly and dangerously, “So you were drinking madeira with Captain Wilkes while George Rochester was in trouble. You didn’t even try to give him the packet—and yet you had made your promise to me, as an officer and a gentleman.”
Smith did not even bother to pay attention to his words, let alone take note of the tone. Instead, turning away from Wiki as the steward poked his head out of the pantry, he ordered a pot of fresh coffee and for his private box of cake to be produced. That communicated, he condescended to look at Wiki again, his eyebrows lifted.
“While I sincerely regret your friend’s mysterious disappearance, Wiremu,” he enunciated, his tone elaborately patient, “you must accept the plain and simple fact that I was unavoidably detained at the time.”
“My God,” Wiki hissed. It took a physical effort to restrain himself from lifting his clenched fist. Then he registered a movement behind his shoulder.
Forsythe was standing in the doorway of Wiki’s stateroom. He said nothing but surveyed Lieutenant Smith with his lips turned down, his expression sour. Beyond him, Wiki could see the gun case, still open, with both the rifles inside.
Wiki said to him in a rush, “George Rochester went missing in the night, and instead of organizing a decent search they’re exercising the cannon.”
“But there has been an intensive search already—and the exercise is more appropriate than you think,” Lieutenant Smith protested before Forsythe had a chance to open his mouth. “It reflects the subject of debate at the feast last night. We thought it an excellent idea to demonstrate that our armament is amply sufficient for our purposes.”
Wiki scowled. “Debate? What debate?”
“The midshipmen and junior lieutenants were discussing the disadvantages and merits of cannons compared with carronades. At the tops of their voices,” Smith added with disapproval, and stopped to seat himself at the saloon table as the coffee and the cake box arrived. Then the steward was sent off again, for a napkin, a table knife, and a fork. As Wiki watched with rage and frustration boiling inside him, the lieutenant concentrated on cutting a generous portion of cake, which he slid onto his plate. Then he used the knife to slice the piece up precisely, before picking up a fork.
“You were saying?” said Wiki dangerously.
“The midshipmen became unduly heated on the topic of the armament of the flagship,” Smith said, after delivering a reproving glance. “And, I am sorry to say, some of the scientifics joined in the general ruckus.” He paused, pouring coffee. “Happily, however,” he finally went on, his voice muffled by the napkin he was dabbing at his mouth to catch up stray crumbs, “the condemnation of the role played by Thomas ap Catesby Jones was universal.”
Wiki was struggling to make sense of this. “Why Thomas ap Catesby Jones?”
“Because he was the one who concluded to reduce the armament of the flagship, of course! To the detriment of our safety if the savages should attack!” said Lieutenant Smith roundly; but then, flushing as he abruptly recollected that Wiki was one of the so-called savages, covered up his lapse by plying the napkin again.
“I must admit there was some general approval of his choice of personal weapons,” he allowed, after this tactful pause was over. “Personally, I do think the Elgin cutlass-pistol is a first-class weapon in such circumstances, and there were several voices raised in defense of the Hall breech-loading rifles that have been issued to the expedition. Though seemingly outdated, they are perfectly suited to the job, according to the experts. And so, in the end, quite a cheer was raised by the midshipmen for Commodore ap Catesby Jones.”
“They cheered for Captain Wilkes’s predecessor?” Wiki dryly inquired, thinking that Wilkes would not have been very pleased.
Then he frowned, struck by a sudden thought. Stanton was one of Wilkes’s cronies; and yet, at the Newport News banquet, he had been loud in his praise of Thomas ap Catesby Jones—or so Rochester had reported. In view of this, it did not seem like a diplomatic stance. In fact, it was distinctly odd.
Having chosen not to answer, Lieutenant Smith had poured more coffee and was sipping with enjoyment. Then he said, in a reminiscent kind of voice, “That round of cheers for Thomas ap Catesby Jones led to a somewhat farcical moment.”
“It did?”
“Yes. When the cheering had stopped, Astronomer Stanton called out, ‘I have not yet begun to fight!’—for a toast.”
And Lieutenant Smith let out a merry little giggle, along with quite a few crumbs.
Wiki froze. Then he said softly, “Astronomer Stanton called out the rallying cry of John Paul Jones when the cheer was up for Thomas ap Catesby Jones?”
“I knew you would see the joke,” Lieutenant Smith said, with an approving smile. “There was some little embarrassment at the time, but I am sure it will be remembered in the future with a laugh. After all, he is only an astronomer and can’t be expected to know any better.”
Wiki said carefully, “But I was under the impression that Astronomer Stanton was an admirer of Thomas ap Catesby Jones.”
“Oh no,” said Lieutenant Smith, “you are confusing him with Astronomer Burroughs, who, bless his departed but misguided soul, was a devoted admirer of Thomas ap Catesby Jones. In fact, it is a testament to Captain Wilkes’s tolerance of other loyalties that Astronomer Burroughs was allowed a place with the expedition.”
Wiki said numbly, “Oh, my God.” It was suddenly so clear.
He swung round to Forsythe, who was still leaning in the doorway, and exclaimed, “I was wrong!”
Forsythe blinked. Then he grinned sardonically and inquired, “Which time?”
“I was wrong when I said that Burroughs posed as Stanton to get into the house and collect Ophelia’s corpse! Instead, he posed as Stanton at the banquet!”
Forsythe’s grin slipped, his mouth hanging loose, his face completely uncomprehending.
Wiki said urgently, “Rochester told me that Stanton was in high spirits at the banquet—as if he had something to celebrate, which Burroughs did! All he had to do was pass as Astronomer Stanton at Newport News, and he would get a place with the expedition. I’m sure he didn’t know that it was to give Tristram Stanton an alibi. He probably did not even stop to ask why Stanton wanted him to do it, because the reward was so irresistible!”
Wiki’s thoughts were flying on, faster than he could tumble out the words. “And that’s why Jim Powell was sent to Newport News! Stanton sent him! Powell’s orders were to bring back a note from Burroughs—to let Stanton know whether the deception was working or not!”
No doubt just a brief message was all Tristram Stanton wanted—but, because of his ebullient mood, Burroughs had waxed eloquent. “That,” said Wiki with a perfect sense of rightness, “was when Astronomer Burroughs wrote that ode—the same ode that Grimes found discarded in a box of equipment.”
“Wrote an ode?” interrupted Lieutenant Smith sharp
ly. “What ode, pray?”
Wiki merely glanced at him, thinking that the poem had probably irritated Tristram Stanton extremely, because the last line—All’s well, all’s well, all’s well—was all that he needed, and without the repetition at that. “All’s well” was all the assurance Stanton needed that Burroughs’s masquerade was working—that he now had an alibi for the night.
“It was Tristram Stanton,” Wiki reiterated softly, looking at Forsythe, “who took a horse, went to the house, took your cousin to the pool, and set up the scene to look like an elaborate suicide. Not John Burroughs, but Tristram Stanton himself!”
Forsythe’s mouth drooped open, but then, to Wiki’s intense relief, he saw a spark of understanding in the dull eyes. “Stanton was the bastard what carried off her corpse?”
“His father might have been the man who poisoned her, but Tristram Stanton was the man who set it all up and disposed of the body.”
Forsythe pursed his lips but then nodded. “That works,” he said. “I couldn’t believe it of that soft swab Burroughs, but Stanton surely has the guts for somethin’ so cold-blooded.”
Lieutenant Smith burst in, “I don’t know what this is about—but it sounds to me like the disorderly kind of slander that should never occur in navy ships, and I am forced to protest!”
Wiki ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on Forsythe. “It also accounts for why Stanton’s clothes were so muddy—and why his boots were wet. He had to wade into the pool to punt the boat off.”
“So why did he snap her bloody neck, if his father had already poisoned her? Just to have a little fun with her corpse?”
Wiki shook his head, remembering the rush of superstitious horror that had engulfed him on the high bank of the stream as he had looked down at where Ophelia had been dumped in the boat—the preternatural knowledge of the violence that had been done there and the shocking abruptness of the release of the woman’s spirit.
“I think she regained consciousness while he was getting her off the horse at the top of the cliff overlooking the pool. There was a struggle—or maybe she fell. I’m sure her neck wasn’t broken on purpose because Tristram Stanton didn’t take any notice of it until some time after the boat had floated away. Then, perhaps remembering the way her head had lolled, he realized what had happened, panicked, and galloped back to the house for his rifle.”