A Watery Grave (7 page)

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said, having got over his merriment. “You weren't available.”

“And neither was Powell,” Rochester pointed out.

“That's right.” Wiki paused, but there was no time for thought because the boat had been secured, and Stanton and the sheriff were clambering onto the deck. As quick as a cat, Wiki made himself scarce by heading forward.

The sheriff looked exceedingly disgruntled. He turned his head to squint at Wiki, who was keeping a low profile on the foredeck, turned again to glower at Rochester, and said, “I want to speak to that young man.”

“To Mr. Coffin?”

Rochester's reticent tone earned him a grunt of sardonic laughter. “Yup, that's the man I mean. He's quite somethin', that kernacker friend of yours,” the sheriff went on in candid style. “Looks like jest another black-haired Indian to me, but I had no less than three women come along and knock at my door with an offer to pay bail to get him out of jail—that is, before word got around town that I had let him go. And one of 'em was married!”

“Their motives were merely philanthropic, I am sure,” said Rochester loftily.

“You reckon?” queried the sheriff, and snorted.

Wiki came reluctantly when summoned back to the quarterdeck, wondering if the law had changed its mind about taking him off the list of suspects. As he arrived, Rochester was escorting Tristram Stanton below, and the sheriff was glaring after them with the expression of a hound being cheated of a rabbit. It was not until they had disappeared that he turned the frown on Wiki.

Then he said, sounding surprisingly awkward, “You did some pretty smart sleuthing the day you found that corpse. Some Indians have an uncommon knack of working out what goes on in men's heads, I'm told, and mebbe some kernackers have the same talent. So … Well, I'd 'preciate your thoughts on this Stanton murder, son.”

Wiki hesitated, first getting over his surprise, and then wondering if he should divulge the crazy idea that had occurred to him after he had studied the top hat that had been left on Tristram Stanton's desk. However, he decided against it. They were standing by the skylight that was let into the deck to illuminate the saloon below, and he was uneasily aware that anyone in the after quarters would be able to hear every word.

Instead, he cleared his throat and said tentatively, “I imagine you have a list of all those who benefit from Mrs. Stanton's death.”

“Tristram Stanton's the only one, goddammit!” And the sheriff slapped his fist against his leg in frustration. “As her husband, he inherits all her money. Believe me, son, her death was extremely well timed. If she'd gone ahead with a divorce, the plantation would've gone under the hammer. It was her dowry what saved the plantation from the creditors back when she married Stanton, and it was her money that kept it going after that.”

“Divorce? I thought it was suicide she threatened?”

“That was the common talk—the story the Stantons liked to put around because it didn't reflect on them as badly as gossip about a divorce.”

“I didn't know it was possible for a woman to get a divorce in Virginia.”

“Son,” the sheriff heavily pronounced, “anything under the sun is possible in Virginia. If she sued for divorce on the grounds of desertion—which she could and would have done once he'd sailed off—she would be declared
feme sole
and regain full control of her own property. The Stantons would have been ruined. Tristram Stanton is the obvious killer—but unless a score of guests and a whole passel of Pierce servants are lying in their teeth, there is no way he could have done it. I went around the confounded fleet, tracking down the men who were at that goddamned banquet, and one and all confirmed that he was there.”

Wiki remembered the hatred on the old man's face and said, “Is it at all possible the father did it?”

“It just don't seem logical that the servants would testify that they saw Tristram Stanton—not once, but twice, and the second time packing a gun—just to protect the old man. There's no love for either master in that household. And while he had the power of an ox in his youth, I don't see the old man breaking a struggling woman's neck—he's too lame. And something else that's damn weird—the surgeon says she'd eaten opium.”

“Opium?” exclaimed Wiki, startled.

“Yup. The old medic started talking opium poisoning the moment he pulled back her eyelids—and we agreed with him when we found the empty vial tucked away in her bosom. He's positive she would've died jest from that—and yet her neck was busted, too.” The sheriff's tone became plaintive. “Why kill her twice, when once was enough?”

“And why break her neck,” Wiki said slowly, “when there was a good chance otherwise that people would assume she'd poisoned herself?”

“Son, you've hit the nail on the head,” said the sheriff, and sighed gustily. Then his gaze slid sideways to study Wiki's face, while his lips pursed in and out as he deliberated. After a long moment he said, “I'd consider it a favor if you'd keep on thinking about this murder, son—and about Tristram Stanton in particular. If somethin' should come up—”

The southern drawl trailed off. Wiki paused to make sure that the sheriff was not going to finish the sentence; then he said tentatively, “When we went into Tristram Stanton's study, did you notice the top hat that had been left on the desk?”

The sheriff squinted one eye in thought and then nodded.

“When he came in, I thought Stanton looked different from the way he had looked on the riverbank, and then realized he had some kind of pomade on his hair. He had changed into the kind of clothes that are correct for a newly bereaved husband, so the obvious conclusion was that he'd dressed his hair like that for formal occasions—which meant that the top hat should have been greasy inside the brim. But when I looked closer, I found no trace of wax at all, even though the hat was well worn.”

“So?”

“Once it seemed evident that the top hat did not belong to Tristram Stanton, I began to speculate about the man who had left it there—which led me to wonder if the murder could have been carried out by an imposter. So long as he was about the right height and build and was wearing the right clothes, he could have gotten away with it. It was dark, remember, and though the manservant was positive he recognized Tristram Stanton, it was probably only a glimpse. And if he had been wearing a hat as he came up the stairs—”

“I see what you mean.” The sheriff shifted his boots, making the deck boards creak, while he thought about it. Then he objected, “But an imposter had to know the old servant well enough to call him by name.”

“And know his way around the house,” Wiki agreed. “There's also the problem of the distinctive Stanton voice, because the servant was insistent that he recognized it. So I wondered about relatives. Is there anyone related to Tristram Stanton who could have posed as him?”

“Wa-al, that's a thought.” The sheriff relapsed into a deep silence, frowning down at the warm deck boards between his straddled boots. “There's only one that comes to mind—a cousin, John Burroughs,” he said finally. “But I don't see how he could be the murderer, there being no motive whatsoever. He's a scientific like young Stanton, but rich like Croesus—rich the way the Stantons ain't but would like to be. Years ago, the way I heard it, he turned 'em away from the door when they came begging for help to save the plantation, and they've had nothing to do with each other since. Common talk has it that a feud brewed, and now they're deadly enemies.”

“Nevertheless, he might be worth looking up.”

“Mebbe—but probably not.” The sheriff straightened, losing patience with the farfetched and complicated notion, and said, “I'm goin' to look for that missing rifle. In my opinion, if we find the gun, we have the murderer.”

“But surely he got rid of it?”

“It's likely he couldn't bear to throw it away. No man who appreciates a fine weapon is going to destroy a rifle like that. He might've stowed it someplace in a hurry after finding there was a witness on the riverbank, but my guess is he'll retrieve it.”

“H'm,” Wiki said thoughtfully, but before he could ask more, there was a rattle of footsteps on the companionway. He looked around and saw George Rochester rubbing his hands together and looking highly animated. “Sir,” he cried over his shoulder to Erskine, who was coming up close behind him, “there's nothing to retard us now—the tide's on the ebb and the wind's in our favor. We'll trip anchor, if you please, and stand down the bay.”

“Aye, sir!”

The orders were coming fast, the drawn-out words, “A-l-l visitors ashore!” almost lost in the rattle of, “All hands!” and, “Man the windlass!” Wiki spun on his heel and scooted up the rigging, intent on the big mainsail that was waiting to be loosed. Below him as he sidled out along the yard the gang was working at the windlass to heave the anchor short.

Down went the sheriff's boat, and down the side went the sheriff. The sky and the sea were brilliant, the water dancing and sparkling, tossed up by a brisk, fair breeze. The canvas dropped, snapped, and rippled taut. “Set jibs!” cried Captain Rochester, and with a snatch and a dainty lift of her bow the
Swallow
plucked her anchor.

Wiki's last glimpse of the sheriff was as his boat drew away. The sunlight glittered on the five-pointed badge on his chest. He was not looking at Wiki but at Tristram T. Stanton, who was leaning on the rail directly below Wiki's perch, and his expression was a study in frustration.

Five

Within days George Rochester was deeply regretting having banished Wiki from the after cabins—not that there had been much choice, he supposed. His stateroom had been the only berth in the after quarters suitable for Astronomer Stanton; and if Wiki had not offered to move forward, George would have been forced to ask him to move into the forecastle—not that he had more than the vaguest idea of what life in the forecastle of a small brig was like. His previous seafaring experience had not included anything that resembled it in the slightest.

After George's grandparents had grudgingly consented to allow him to go to sea, he had approached a sailor he'd spied perched at ease on a New London wharf for advice about joining the navy. George could remember the fellow exactly—an extremely weathered and cynical old salt who had risen as high as captain's coxswain and was now whittling a stick as he sat on a bollard waiting for the captain to return to his boat. Still, a whole five years later, George could bring to mind the way the sailor had spat a great tobacco gob into the sea that rippled about the piles of the pier before calling him a bloody young idiot.

“Dod dog it, don't do it,” he'd barked. “Get that crazy notion out of your head! It would be better to hang than turn into a sailor. Study your books, learn a trade, and grow up to be a useful man!” Then, when George had insisted, the coxswain had advised him to go in for the merchant trade and steer clear of the navy. “Look at me,” he'd declared, prodding a gnarled, tarstained finger at his shirtfront. “I've been in the navy all me life, and what good has it done me? They don't teach you nothing better than how to haul ropes, holystone decks, and pull an oar in a boat—they turn you into a confounded dog, to run to a whistle and cringe at a blow. Join the crew of a merchant ship, young man, and learn to be a
proper
seaman!”

Which was exactly what Wiki had done, George mused now. At the time he would have been perfectly happy to take the old coxswain's advice and go along on the whaler with his comrade, but his interfering grandfather had yet again taken a hand. Though finally convinced that George was quite determined to go to sea come hell or high water, he utterly refused to contemplate his grandson going in anything less than a navy ship. He'd made sure that George was set on the right path to becoming an officer by organizing his commission as a midshipman. Both power and wealth were necessary—only the sons of lofty individuals like great navy captains, important merchants, and U.S. senators being eligible—but George's grandfather was both rich and influential.

George, himself, had not been at all grateful, since he'd swiftly found that a junior midshipman's existence was a dog's life indeed. His job was to keep an eye on the men, report on their behavior, and make sure they obeyed orders, so that in effect he was nothing better than a kind of constable's informer, regarded with utter contempt by the men. Still worse were the officers who handed down those orders, most being tyrants who considered their midshipmen nothing better than menials, completely at their bidding no matter how capricious the whim. However, with grit, determination, and unflagging enthusiasm, he had somehow survived his seagoing apprenticeship—all three years, ten months, fourteen days, and sixteen hours of it.

Then he had reported to the Gosport Navy Yard for eight months of instruction in the technical and theoretical aspects of seafaring. George had lived in a boardinghouse in Norfolk and had relished every moment—though, as he remembered it, the dread prospect of the grueling examination to come had cast a bit of a blight on his enjoyment. This had been held in Baltimore before an examining board of senior officers, and he had come through it with flying colors. Not only was he rated as a passed midshipman, but he topped his class—and, because of that, he had been given the command of the dear
Swallow.
He owed that to Captain Wilkes—not that it made him like the fellow any better—because the commander of the expedition had determined that the smaller ships should be given to recent graduates, reckoning that they, unlike the older officers, had not had the time to forget what they had learned.

It was ironic, however, that he should command a small brig when all his experience had been on great men-of-war and particularly so that it should be a brig with a forecastle—or so he freely confessed to himself. On the big fighting ships the seamen slung their hammocks between the great cannon, either on the main deck or the gun deck, which was one tier below, while the junior midshipmen slept on the orlop deck, even farther down in the bowels of the ship. Accordingly, George found it quite a novelty that the
Swallow
seamen should not have just a dormitory of their own but be supplied with permanent berths as well. He wondered if they appreciated the luxury. And having never served on a ship as small as the
Swallow,
he had blithely assumed that the social situation on board this little brig—just ninety-two-feet long and with a complement of just seventeen (including Wiki and Astronomer Stanton)—would be a lot more democratic than on a frigate.