The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (14 page)

“Then I shall see that it comes to no harm,” King muttered, before setting off for the companionway.

On the deck below there was a further surprise: at the entrance to the great cabin the marine sentry had been joined by corporal Jarvis and two further privates as well as three members of the late governor's entourage.

“Follow me,” King snapped at Jarvis, before thrusting the doors open in front of him and grunting “Not you,” back at the civilians.

As he entered there was a further scream, softer this time, and more refined. King bounded forward, almost colliding with the captain and his lady as they emerged from the Hatcher's private quarters. Banks was stony faced, and his wife appeared in an advanced state of shock. He caught King's eye and indicated the room behind him with a tilt of his head.

“See to that, will you?” he said.

King lowered his head and entered the sleeping cabin. His eyes, accustomed to the glare of daylight, took several seconds to adjust to the darkened room but he soon made out the governor's widow, who had collapsed in a heap upon the only easy chair and was sobbing steadily, like an ill-maintained pump. He glanced about, then swore under his breath. There was Healey, apparently standing in the corner of the room, his face distorted as much by the make up as an obscene death's head grin. Then King realised the man was not supporting himself at all, but slumped from a rope tied about a cleat in the overhead beam. His body draped down, and swayed gently with the ship's motion, ending with the lower legs that trailed redundantly on the floor.

“Marine!” King shouted, as the horror rose up inside. A private appeared beside him and King continued, more controlled and almost gently: “My compliments to Mr Manning, and would he kindly attend?” Then, before the man could leave: “And the master at arms as well, if you please.”

* * *

“I
'd say it were self murder,” the surgeon said coldly. “There is bruising about the second and third vertebrate, which would concur with being hanged from a rope, and you can see the signs of strangulation for yourself.”

Healey's corpse was lying between them on a mess table with the covering sheet turned back to reveal his head and upper torso. Manning indicated a bruised area about the neck.

The captain closed his eyes and nodded. He had always detested the sight of dead bodies, and all his years fighting a war at sea had not hardened him in any way. Normally such an interview would have been taking place in the great cabin, but Lady Hatcher was monopolising the space now, so to avoid distressing Sarah further he had agreed to meet with the surgeon in his sick bay. At the time he had forgotten the likelihood of Healey's corpse being present. “And he was about the only one who could indulge himself so,” Banks said, half to himself.

“By hanging? Yes, I expect that is so, sir.” Manning agreed. “Though there are many other ways a man may self harm aboard
Scylla
, should he so wish.”

The two men regarded each other for a moment. They had shipped together since Manning was a senior loblolly boy in the first frigate Banks commanded, but despite the period of time there was no love lost between them. At one point they had even competed for the same woman and, ironically, Banks thought he could hear Kate Manning now in the dispensary next door.

“You may be aware of the number of stories regarding his behaviour, sir,” Manning continued. “That might have been a contributing factor.”

“Yes, you are probably right.” The captain stood up suddenly; there were indeed some odd reports about Healey, but he had no wish to discuss the distasteful habits of dead men. Besides, Sarah had been unduly upset by the discovery and he should really be with her. “I suppose there will have to be some sort of investigation,” he said vaguely.

“Yes, sir.” Manning replied. “An enquiry is usual in cases where death is not the direct result of enemy action.”

“Well, we shall see to it on the morrow,” Banks almost snapped. “The sooner it is done, the sooner we can get the body overboard. You will have your evidence prepared by then?” At any moment Manning's wife may enter the sick bay and Banks was not particularly keen to see her; the day had already been tiring enough.

“Indeed, sir. But, if you will excuse me?”

Banks waited, none too patiently.

“It is customary in cases of this nature to record the verdict as lunacy. You will understand the reasons I am sure.”

“But he is to be buried at sea? There is no question of consecrated ground.”

“No, sir.” Manning agreed. “But the finding does have bearing on any beneficiaries. In cases of self murder the deceased's estate is appropriated by the crown.”

It was a quirk of law that Banks was unfamiliar with, and he wondered slightly at Manning's apparent knowledge. “I have no idea if the man had any relatives – you may ask Lady Hatcher if you feel so inclined, but yes, I shall bear what you say in mind.” He glanced at the body, which, like most, held a horrid fascination for him. Healey's face still bore the marks of rouge; the bright, bold colour contrasted dreadfully with his cold pallor. It was not a pretty sight; and if there was someone waiting for him, Banks supposed that a bending of the rules would not be so very terrible.

* * *

T
immons relaxed in the warm privacy of his hammock. It had been a good day; the molly had been dealt with and a score was settled, although even he was aware that there were other reasons for the total feeling of peace that now sated him. It had always been the same; since a lad, when his chief enjoyment had been practised on any small creature that came too close or was foolish enough to trust him. When he killed the first and experienced that oddly thrilling pain that had run through his entire body he had known it was only the start, and the passion would remain with him for as long as he was able to continue.

And he had done well, managed seven long years – it was at least that time since he had scragged his first, an elderly doxie in the upper room of a Torbay pot house. There had been no embellishments then of course, just the brief exhilaration followed by a swift and silent departure before enlistment in the first ship leaving. But the success had encouraged him, as well as emphasising how well the true focus of his life melded with his chosen profession.

For sailors are both anonymous and transitory; they dress in a homogeneous manner, stay for a while, and then depart, sometimes for long periods, frequently forever. And no one expects or requires more from them. All have like attributes: similar, weather beaten faces and, apart from the odd tattoo, are almost indistinguishable. Most drink, some chew or occasionally smoke tobacco, and apparently every single one enjoys both wenches and spending money – the two usually going hand in hand. In fact they all seem to share the same traits: apart, of course, from Timmons
.

But today's little excursion had been different – it was the first time he had taken his craft to sea, and that certainly made the outcome a lot more satisfying. The risk had been greater undoubtedly; from being one in several million he had cut the odds of detection down to less than three hundred, but Timmons was quietly confident that his final flourish with the noose would see him safe. A man had been despatched with his own hands and yet, as far as anyone was aware, an entirely different crime had been committed; really it was the work of a genius.

He lay in his hammock now. It was hours later but his heart still pumped wildly from the act of private passion while he considered the future. It was eight weeks since his last kill, the pauper who had been the last of five to leave their shared room in Pompey and had so been chosen. Usually that would have been enough to keep Timmons' urges at bay for six months or more, but he had done it again, and so soon, and so successfully. They would be in St Helena before long; he'd never visited the place, of course, but understood that being both remote and contained, shore leave was regularly granted. There may well be an opportunity: possibly more than one. And then they would have the return trip: should the island prove unfruitful it would be eight or more weeks before England came into sight again. Time enough for him to organise another escapade such as that day's. He had not forgotten Mitchell or Hind – both fellows who had slighted him, and certainly deserving of his personal attention. But then, as the great cabin had been such an ideal location, he wondered if that might not be used a second time. Maybe not, for a common seamen, but there were other likely candidates; the captain for one, and then he had the choice of at least three women who might prove unintentionally accommodating; really this cruise was turning out to be the best he had ever taken.

––––––––

T
hey sighted St Helena thirteen days later. A call from the lookout at first light brought most of the officers and nearly every passenger on deck to join Fraiser, who had been present since the start of the watch. As dawn rose swiftly the harsh lines of apparently separate islands became obvious against a clear horizon, and elicited whoops of delight and a high buzz of excited talk from the civilians.

“Starboard a point,” the sailing master said more soberly, and the ship's heel increased slightly as the south easterly wind was taken more on her beam. He had been fairly sure of the latitude, and just needed to make a small correction to bring them to what would otherwise have been a perfect landfall.

“Cutting it fine, weren't you, master?” King asked, as he approached. The ship had settled on her new course and was now heading for the distant land, even if she hardly made any appreciable progress. “A couple of degrees of longitude and with a slightly fairer wind, we might have run her down in the night.”

“There was never a fear of that, Mr King,” Fraiser replied solidly. “What you see there are only the tops of two large hills that span the island's main town. St Helena itself lies fifty mile or more beyond the horizon.”

“That far?” The young lieutenant liked and respected Fraiser greatly; in many ways the elderly Scot was the closest he had to a father although, as with a father, he could rarely resist the opportunity to tease him. “But they look so close.”

“They might seem that way, laddie,” the sailing master agreed. “But it is usually better not to judge by appearances. St Helena is full of surprises, and her topography is only one of them. The hills near the sea are more'n fourteen hundred feet high while the tallest, further inland, is nigh on three thousand. It will take us the best part of the day to reach her; something you might wish to tell those for'ard, else they grow weary with the waiting.

The two men looked to where the passengers had gravitated to the break of the quarterdeck and were still talking animatedly. Since Hatcher's death some might not be expecting to stay long on the island, but King supposed that any landfall after such length of time was worthy of comment, even if their voyage to date had hardly been lacking in excitement.

“Oh, I think we should leave them be,” he said evenly. “After all, it is the first solid ground we have sighted for some while.”

“And will be the last for a spell longer,” Fraiser agreed. “We are more than four hundred leagues from the nearest land – that would be Africa: the Americas are half as far again, and you may double that to reach Europe.”

King shook his head. “True isolation,” he said, half to himself. “How do they fare on such a place?”

“Well enough.” Fraiser made a brief note in his journal, then looked up and towards the island. “St Helena is firmly in the Torrid Zone – an area the ancients believed to be uninhabitable, but the prevailing south easterly actually makes for a very pleasant climate, despite being so close to the equator.”

“You spoke before of rain,” King prompted.

“Aye, I did, but was unlucky in my last visit. In truth heavy rain is relatively rare, though there is a good supply of fresh spring water, and I understand it can now be brought directly to the anchorage.”

“But St Helena has no harbour?”

“None. Those at anchor may ride safe enough, and the previous governor improved the wharf and constructed a landing place.”

“
Scylla
will need more than that,” King said gloomily. Despite repeated efforts from Evans and his team, the ship still leaked badly and was in desperate need of repair. “There are no dockyard facilities at all?”

“We shall have to see,” Fraiser temporised. “It is a few years since I was ashore, and Governor Brooke sounds to have been peculiarly active in his post.”

Mention of another governor set King's mind on a different track. The council on St Helena must be expecting their arrival.
Scylla
would probably have been sighted already, with preparations underway to receive both her, and the important passenger she supposedly carried. He wondered what their reaction might be when, rather than a new man to take responsibility, they could only produce a corpse and excuses. It would take months for the news to reach England, and probably a year or more before another replacement was found, primed, and eventually stood in the same position as they did now. Doubtless there were capable men already in place who could carry out a governor's duties, but Brooke had retired the previous March and it was already a long enough interregnum. Even ignoring any blame the captain might incur for the governor's death, to carry such news would hardly make him the most welcome of visitors.

“If we cannot repair at St Helena, there is always the Cape,” Fraiser continued, still thinking of the problems with the ship herself. “Though to my mind it would be better to return north as soon as we may, and set her to dock in England.” He glanced at the younger man, expecting a response, and was surprised when none was forthcoming. He supposed it possible that some of King's previous urgency for home had been lost; or perhaps he was just getting better at hiding it. In Fraiser's experience time cured much and that which it did not usually became less apparent. Long voyages with scant chance of reliable communication were part of the seaman's lot: either they became resigned to the fact, or went mad.