The Devil's Own Luck (13 page)

Along the upper deck, they entered the silent wardroom. This room was the same size as Carter’s quarters directly above. Paper and some sheet music were strewn across the large table which ran up the centre of the room. It seemed a much smaller space than the room above. The doors to the cabins which lined both sides were shut. A coffee pot steamed on the stove in the pantry, and the aroma of its contents filled the air. The steward should have been about, but he was probably taking a nap.

Harry made his way through the wardroom to Bentley’s cabin without hesitation. It was a room he had seen before, though occupied by a different premier. It was at the very rear of the wardroom on the starboard side, and the most spacious, as befitted the occupant’s rank. And it would have those most precious things in a ship at sea, privacy and daylight. He stood back to let Outhwaite pass him. The surgeon turned the handle and walked in. Harry followed him. No light came through the glass of the stern-light casements. Their two lanterns illuminated the room and the white sheet that covered the body in the cot.

“This ain’t right, sir. We should have Mr Craddock’s permission for this.” Craddock was now the acting premier.

“I think Mr Craddock will be grateful for his slumbers.”

Harry pulled back the sheet. Bentley lay, his hands folded across his chest, the angry purple face now white and at peace.

“We shall have to put him in spirits in the morning,” said Outh-waite. “Though I doubt he truly needs it.”

Outhwaite would quite easily acknowledge that Bentley was a drunkard, just as he would vehemently deny that he suffered from the same affliction.

Harry pulled the arms off the chest. Then he pulled the coat open. It was damp, which struck him as odd. Pulling it closed again he examined it thoroughly with his lantern raised. It wasn’t blood that had made it damp, for down Bentley’s right side was a streak of white. Dust? It had mixed with the damp on his coat to make a chalk-like mark. He opened the coat again. The man’s waistcoat was covered in his blood, making observation difficult.

“The wound, Outhwaite. How do I find the wound?”

“By touch, sir. Unless you mean to undress him.”

Harry was not squeamish, but the thought of running his fingers through a long knife cut was more than he could stomach. He started to unbutton the waistcoat.

“Mr Ludlow. I can be no party to this without permission.”

“What can possibly be wrong with a surgeon examining a body?” The waistcoat fell open, and Harry started on the shirt underneath. Once it had been white, but now it was wholly black and sticky. He pulled the shirt open to reveal the white flesh with the angry black gash where Bentley had been skewered. Outhwaite moved his lantern closer.

“Not a stab wound, Outhwaite.”

“No, sir. He has been gutted like a fish.”

“Could you say which way the knife went in?”

“I think so. It seems quite clean down here at the base of the stomach. I would say that the knife went in there.” Outhwaite produced a knife of his own, and gently inserted it in the wound. He eased it out again.

“Seems to have been stabbed this way,” he said, indicating a right-handed thrust. “It’s a very deep cut.”

“And was then pulled upwards and sideways?”

“It must have sliced into the aorta. No wonder there was so much blood.”

“Did you examine him before?”

“Didn’t seem no point, Mr Ludlow, seeing as how he was plainly dead.”

“How long would you say that wound was?”

“More than twelve inches, I’d say.”

Neither of them had heard the door open. The voice made them both jump.

“I would be obliged if you could explain what you are about?” They spun round to see Craddock filling the doorway. His grey hair was sticking out sideways from a nightcap and he was wearing nightclothes. He was also aiming a pistol at Harry’s chest.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HARRY,
standing between the two marine sentries, recalled the events of the previous night and could not suppress a smile. Hardly surprising, given the element of farce in what had occurred.

He and Outhwaite must have looked like a pair of body-snatchers as they leant over Bentley’s corpse. Craddock, in nightshirt and cap, with the pistol in his hand, his grey whiskers sticking out sideways, looked absolutely ridiculous. It had been entirely in keeping when Harry had calmly replied to his question.

“We are examining the body.”

“At this hour. And you, Mr Outhwaite. What pray are you about?”

In the confused hierarchy of the Navy, a ship’s surgeon had a dual loyalty. Outhwaite, no doubt operating on the principle that the best means of defence is attack, replied sharply.

“I am responsible to the Sick and Hurt Board in matters medical, Mr Craddock. I do not have any requirement to explain myself to you.”

Craddock, taken aback, could not quite respond. His mouth moved but no sound emerged. Outhwaite decided to press home his advantage.

“I would be obliged if you’ll leave me alone to finish my examination.”

“At this hour?” said Craddock, recovering his composure. “I will not have you skulking around the wardroom at this hour.”

“Mr Craddock. If I had asked you for permission to examine the body, what would you have done?” asked Harry.

“I would have referred the matter to the captain.”

“Then I, for one, make no apology for ‘skulking around’ as you call it. I have good grounds to believe that the captain would have refused me permission.”

“That’s as maybe, Mr Ludlow. I cannot see what you hope to gain.”

“My brother stands accused of murder, Mr Craddock. While it may be in order for everyone else aboard ship to presume his guilt, I must presume his innocence. I must therefore gather what information I can to assist his defence.”

“And I am here to ensure that such an examination is carried out on a proper scientific basis,” said Outhwaite in a magisterial tone. It would have been better for him to say nothing, for Craddock had understood what Harry was saying. But such a remark from a man like Outhwaite entirely destroyed the tone.

“This is outrageous,” snapped Craddock. “Sick and Hurt Board be damned, Mr Outhwaite. Return to your quarters. As for you, Mr Ludlow, I will require you to do the same, but under the escort of a marine guard.”

Outhwaite picked up his bag and walked past the bristling Craddock.

“I would happily return to my quarters, Mr Craddock, unescorted. But our late friend here did not bother to assign me any, and neither, sir, have you.”

Craddock’s face fell. This was a shocking breach of good manners, a thing he was very fussy about. It did not seem to occur to him that until two hours ago it had been Bentley’s responsibility, not his.

“I beg . . .” he started to say.

“However, I am happy to bed down in the surgeon’s quarters for now. You may send a marine to stand watch if you wish.”

With that Harry walked past the crestfallen Craddock and went on his way.

His escort came to attention, and for all the world like a defaulter marched him into the captain’s cabin. Craddock stood there, looking very grave.

“Well, Ludlow. Explain yourself,” said Carter.

“I dare say Mr Craddock has given you any explanation you require.”

“I require an explanation from you.” Brisk and humourless as usual.

“I wish to gather evidence for my brother’s defence.”

“A noble aim, if not a waste of time. You do not feel it would have been prudent to ask first?”

“Time is pressing.” Harry looked at Carter, as if to say: “What would be the point of asking?”

“I am curious to know on what grounds you feel your brother could be innocent?” Brisk he might be, but Carter was nevertheless relaxed, enjoying himself. “He has a public quarrel with Bentley, is found a few hours later standing over the body with the knife that killed the man in his hand. And then he refuses to say anything. Your brother has not protested his innocence at all. Yet you choose to presume it?”

“I cannot conceive that James would do such a thing. And I have reason to suppose that he was merely the first to discover the body.”

“What is this?” Carter’s eyebrows arched dramatically. “The first to discover the body? You are saying that when he found the body, Bentley was already dead?” He turned to include Craddock in the conversation. “I have often read of such a defence being put forward, in fact, I imagine it to be quite a common one in such a circumstance, and usually, as I recall, pure invention. However, let us assume that you are correct. Your brother discovers Bentley. What does he do then? Seek to aid the dying man? Raise the alarm? Perhaps call for the surgeon? No! Your brother does none of these things. Instead, he picks up the knife. And there at his feet a stricken man goes begging for assistance.” Carter almost snarled. “What noble behaviour!”

“We all do things on the spur of the moment that we wonder at afterwards. What I need to know is, can I count on your good offices to gather any information that may materially affect his defence?”

“Such as?” The captain sat back in his chair, his hands making a spire in front of his mouth.

“Firstly, I would like to see my brother.”

“And?”

“I would like certain things I have already observed, recorded and witnessed. I would also like to examine the knife that my brother held in his hand.”

Carter stood up, and walking round his desk began to pace up and down in front of it. He did not look at Harry as he spoke.

“What I found strange, Ludlow, is that your brother killed Bentley.”

Harry, surprised at this turn in the conversation, watched to see if Craddock felt the same. The older man looked as bemused as he felt.

“It did not seem right, albeit that they had a quarrel.” Carter had his head bowed as he waited, hands behind his back, a picture of deep thinking. “I set myself to finding the truth of the matter. You know that it is difficult on a ship to gain privacy. Can two men really have a fight on an open gangway without being observed? You see, Ludlow, your brother threatened to put a bullet in me. In fact to kill me. Knife or bullet, what’s the difference? Can you imagine him, seething in his quarters over the loss of your ship? We all observed how uncontrollable his passions are. He sees me as the author of all your woes. Can he really be content to wait for the chance to put a bullet in me?”

Carter stopped pacing and looked directly at Harry. His voice, hitherto level, had taken on a theatrical quality.

“He comes out of his cabin, knife in hand, intent on murder. Who should he chance upon but Mr Bentley, going about his duties. They may well have had high words, but surely that is now forgotten.”

Harry could hardly interject to point out Carter was mistaken. That would not serve his cause at all. But could Carter really be so self-obsessed as to believe this rubbish?

“‘Hold,’ says Bentley. ‘What are you about?’” Just like in a melodrama, Carter held up his hands.

“‘Out of my way,’ says your brother. ‘It is Captain Carter that I want to see.’”

He turned to Craddock. “A scrub, he called me. Scum of the earth was also mentioned. Did he not threaten me, Mr Craddock?”

“To a duel,” snapped Harry. Craddock said nothing, but he did have the good grace to blush. Carter held up an accusing finger.

“But reflect upon this, Ludlow. I was acting within my duty. Your brother, realizing this, also concludes that he will receive no redress in a court of law. No court can condemn an innocent man. Bentley, seeing the knife, guesses what your brother is about.” That theatrical tone again!

“‘Return to your quarters, Mr Ludlow,’ he says, placing his hand on your brother’s chest. ‘Stand aside,’ cries Ludlow. Bentley refuses and tries to take the knife off him. They struggle, and in his passion your brother strikes the mortal wound!” Carter, his eyes distant, jerked his arm forward. Craddock was giving him the strangest look, his thick grey eyebrows knitted in concentration, unable to comprehend this man whose moods he found difficult to fathom even under normal circumstances.

“Has my brother told you this?” Harry’s face showed the confusion of his thoughts.

“No,” said Carter, his eyes clearing. “As far as I am aware, your brother still refuses to speak.”

“Then this is pure speculation.”

“I don’t think that my witnesses would take kindly to that, Lud-low,” he said with a trace of a smile on his face.

“Witnesses?” The sudden lift of the acting premier’s eyebrows matched Harry’s disbelief. Craddock’s bright blue eyes were wide open. It was the first he had heard of it too.

Carter went behind his desk and sat down again.

“Yes, Ludlow. Witnesses.”

“Who are these witnesses? When can I see them?” Harry’s urgency was not matched by Carter, who took a long time to reply.

“It is perfectly in order for you to have an attorney examine them in court. Until then, it is safer for them to remain anonymous.” Carter was looking at the papers on his desk, but he was also smiling.

Harry was fighting to control himself, and the effort showed in his face. Craddock had moved forward a step thinking he was about to attack Carter.

“I demand to see these men.”

“Demand, Ludlow?” Carter looked up. “Yesterday you required this, that and the other. Today you demand. I must remind you that I command this ship, and no one has the right to demand anything of me.”

“All right. I beg you.” Harry was looking over Carter’s head. He did not see the grin of satisfaction on the man’s face.

“Begging is better than demanding, I must say. Much more pleasin’ to the ear. So let us list the things you are beggin’ for. To talk to your brother was one. To have recorded certain facts for his trial. And you want to interview the witnesses.”

Carter rubbed his chin, as if contemplating the requests.

“I think not, Ludlow. I really cannot see that the routine of the ship can be upset just to oblige you. You know how jittery the hands can get.”

“You cannot deny me the right to see my brother.” Harry was almost pleading.

“There was one other thing you asked. You asked to examine the knife that killed Bentley. Just to prove that I am not uncooperative, I think that would be in order.”