The Devil's Own Luck (39 page)

“The uses that you allege, Ludlow.”

“A moment, Oliver,” said Crevitt. “Think about what Mr Lud-low is saying.” Crevitt was quicker than Carter. Without that allegation, the importance of the tin-lined room was quite diminished. Once made, even if they were refuted, those allegations would never go away. It said a great deal about Carter’s state that Crevitt was speaking. The parson would never have dared to interrupt him before.

“And I will not seek to persuade them to tell me their whereabouts on that night. I only want them to withdraw their testimony against James.”

“I could be present,” said Crevitt.

“No,” snapped Harry too quickly. Carter looked suspicious. Harry added quickly, “But Mr Craddock can be.”

Crevitt leaned over his friend. “He is an honest fellow, Oliver. I say it can do no harm.”

Carter said nothing. Crevitt took his silence for acquiescence. He straightened up and walked over to Harry.

“I cannot be sure that you are a Christian, Mr Ludlow, but I shall ask you to swear on this anyway.” He held out his Bible.

“Willingly,” said Harry, putting his hand on the book. “I will ask only questions that pertain to the murder of Mr Bentley.”

“Do you wish the use of this cabin?” asked Crevitt. Carter stiffened. The parson was taking liberties. But Crevitt ignored him. Harry reflected that if Carter lost his post, Crevitt too would become unemployed.

“No. I will use mine. All I ask is that you do not forewarn them. Tell no one else what I am about. I would want them brought to me without knowing their destination. If you will be so good to allow me Mr Prentice to assist.”

Silence. Carter thinking, and Crevitt willing him to concede the point. After all, it was the parson’s future as well.

“Carry on, Ludlow,” said Carter, by way of dismissal. But there was an air of resignation in his voice, as though he was giving up something quite important.

“Come in.” The little cabin was crowded. Harry, James, Pender, and Craddock, and now these two, small men with trim bodies, not the sort normally picked for a barge crew. Men who would be a liability in a press gang. They hesitated, but Prentice gently pushed them into the cabin. Behind them Harry could see the wardroom was crowded. Everyone who had a right to be there, was in attendance. Crevitt gave him a curious glance. Harry smiled at him, displaying a confidence that he did not entirely feel.

“Thank you, Mr Prentice.” The two sailors looked round at the closing door with alarm.

“Sit down,” said Harry, indicating his sea-chest. “You are here because the captain has given me permission to question you. We have met before, but we will avoid that subject, and concentrate on the murder of Mr Bentley. You claim to have witnessed that murder.”

“That’s right,” said Meehan without a pause.

“Where were you standing?”

There was silence for a moment. They looked at each other, uncertain what to say. “Can’t rightly say. We was sort of passin’ through,” said the other one, Porter. The man had a strange nasal twang, making what he said hard to comprehend. He grinned at Meehan, to indicate the cleverness of his answer.

“And you saw what?”

“We saw your brother,” Meehan pointed at James dramatically, “knife the premier.”

“Horrible it was.” Porter rolled his eyes. He had not only relaxed, but he seemed in a fair way to enjoying himself.

“And what did you do then?”

“Then?”

“After you saw what happened. What did you do?”

They were both silent.

“Did you raise the alarm, call for help? What did you do?”

“Scarpered,” said Porter quickly.

“Back to your berths?”

They both nodded. Harry sat on his cot. Everyone just stared at the two of them. They began to fidget.

“James,” said Harry, standing up. The two men looking up at him seemed to shrink visibly. James edged past and opened the door to the wardroom. He walked across to the large central table where he had left his drawing materials, the large folder and pens. The room was still full, all the officers there, excepting those on watch, all apparently engaged in some important task, all eager to see or hear what they could. Only Crevitt did not disguise his interest. Meehan and Porter were in plain view, with Harry leaning forward questioningly. James picked up his folder, and started back towards the cabin. He nodded to Harry.

“Now you are sure that’s the truth,” said Harry plainly, so that everyone could hear. James came in, and just as he shut the door, Harry said loudly. “Good. We want no more lies.” The listeners were then excluded as the door shut.

“Right,” said Harry. “I want you to describe what you saw to my brother. He is an artist, and he will draw what you tell him to.”

Meehan looked at Porter with a worried expression. They had given their statements. No one had yet mentioned that they might have to elaborate them. This was unrehearsed. Nor did it seem to occur to them that if their story was true, the last person who needed a description was James.

“Come along, men,” said Craddock. “Speak plain. You have nothing to fear, if you are telling the truth.”

They mumbled out their story, less confident under Craddock’s disbelieving stare, picking up from each other, cutting out each other’s words, sometimes flatly contradicting what they should be saying. And it was impossible to say where they had stood, without saying how they got there. This led to even more confusion. James sketched away as they spoke. Harry kept asking them questions, making them go back over parts of their tale, telling them to take their time. He did not want them to go too fast. They looked relieved at this, but the effect was soon spoiled, when Harry asked them to go over their story again.

Craddock was looking deeply dissatisfied. But if he knew that these men were unconvincing, he did not say so, contenting himself with the kind of facial expressions which speak volumes.

“A third time, gentlemen, please?” said Harry.

“Leave off, your honour,” squealed Meehan.

“Do as you’re told,” said Craddock coldly.

They started again. Repetition was not making things easier. Events were becoming increasingly confused. In trying to embellish their tale, to maintain interest, they spoiled it further. James drew quietly. Craddock tried to crane his neck to see, but a sharp glance from the artist made him step back. At one point Pender laughed, the tale was becoming so outrageous. He got a similar look from Harry.

“Fine,” said Harry, when they stumbled to the end of their third try. He knew that called upon to repeat what they had said in a court, they would rehearse their story, and it would sound much better than this. But Craddock would be called, and he would tell the court of the pathetic performance these two liars had managed originally.

“Finished, James?”

“Oh, yes. Quite finished.” James folded the drawing into his case and pulled out the one he had done before. It was the same in every detail except that the figure stabbing Bentley was wearing a buff coat. James had drawn his own features in.

“Then let me see it,” said Harry. James walked forward with the drawing. Harry opened the door, walked out, and called to young Prentice, leaving it open behind him.

“Mr Prentice, please be so kind as to ask the captain to spare us a moment. If he says that he is busy, tell him it’s a matter that will concern him greatly. We must see him before we dock.”

“Aye, aye, Mr Ludlow.”

Harry looked around the wardroom. Everyone again avoided his eye, except Crevitt. He walked back into his cabin leaving the door ajar. Meehan and Porter were leaning over the picture that James had given them.

“You are quite sure about this, both of you,” said Harry. Mee-han and Porter nodded vehemently.

“These are serious allegations. You do understand that?”

“Aye,” they said in unison. If Harry had ordered it, they could not have performed better. They both turned to the open door and smiled. If it was meant to reassure anyone, it had the opposite effect. Almost all the officers recoiled.

“Now take a look at this and tell me what you think.” Harry showed them the drawing of themselves that James had done while they had been speaking. Their faces lit up in amazement.

“A good likeness, wouldn’t you say.”

“Amazing,” said Porter. “Don’t you think, Ben?”

Harry, pretending to realize that the door was open, shut it quickly. He saw all the wardroom occupants, who had been intent on the exchange, snap their heads away. He breathed a deep sigh. So far so good. They stood around in silence, waiting. A loud knock at the door.

“Mr Ludlow, sir,” said Prentice as Harry opened it a fraction. “The captain says he is very busy.”

“Tell him he must examine these men himself about Mr Bentley’s murder, Prentice. And say that we have uncovered another crime as well.” This was whispered, but loud enough for anyone really listening to hear. He shut the door on a whole host of straining ears.

“Well, Mr Craddock. What do you think of this pair?”

“They are as much use at telling lies as they are rowing a boat, and that’s no good at all.” Meehan and Porter flinched, as Craddock moved forward and looked down on them.

“Could I ask you to keep them here, while my brother and I go and see the captain. I did say that I would inform him of the results of my interrogation.”

“Why, yes,” said Craddock, surprised by the request. Meehan and Porter brightened considerably, sensing their ordeal was over. Craddock stood back. “But surely a couple of marines . . .” He stopped when he saw the look in Harry’s eye. “As you wish, Mr Ludlow.”

“All set, Pender?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Come on, Prentice, said Harry to himself. He was keyed up like a watch-spring. A full minute passed. Too much time, and the tension he had so carefully built up would begin to slip. A knock at the door. Prentice. He spoke loudly through the wood.

“Captain Carter will see you right away, sir. This very minute.”

That boy has talent, thought Harry. The last sentence wasn’t in the script, but it sounded just like Carter.

Harry opened the door. James picked up his folder. Craddock looked questioningly at him, noticing that James had left the drawings he had shown the two seamen. James smiled, and Craddock shrugged. Harry walked out into the wardroom, followed by his brother. They made their way down the room. The mass of the occupants edged forward, Crevitt in the forefront. As they came to the end of the table, by the door, James dropped his folder. Two drawings spilled out on to the floor. In a rush, everyone craned forward to look at them.

The figures of Bentley and his murderer were plain. Bentley hadn’t changed from the drawing that James had done before. But the other figure had. He was young, and bareheaded. Bentley was spewing blood from his chest, but the bright red of the blood was made plain by the even brighter red coat of the murderer.

The people looking at the picture gasped. Turnbull, the Marine lieutenant, was frozen to his chair. James bent down, and lifted the picture, revealing to them all, the one underneath. Turnbull tried to follow the first picture, but with a horrified look on his face, he was drawn to the second. The same two people in the drawing, Bentley and Turnbull, and between them a small bloodstained sack. It obviously contained a body, the body of a ship’s boy, which they were heaving over the side.

Pender slipped up beside Harry, and passed a pistol into his open hand.

“You of all people should never have underestimated the power of fear, Mr Turnbull,” he said quietly. “A man of Bentley’s persuasion, quite prepared to challenge the captain, would not have forgone the pleasure of baiting you. How many times did he threaten to expose you? A drunk, becoming more and more unstable. How convenient my presence must have seemed. A chance to evade the gallows, and lay to rest a family quarrel. You could count on your uncle to look no further than me. Do you really think it would have all ended with Bentley’s death? No. There are too many people involved. And by their silence they became as guilty as you. There are some games Meehan and Porter were happy to engage in, but hanging isn’t one of them.”

Everyone was looking at Turnbull. He looked past Harry at Meehan and Porter. Harry turned as well. Again they smiled, to reassure Turnbull. But it read like smug betrayal.

“Rats,” screamed Turnbull, trying to get past Harry. “I told you to keep your mouths shut!”

“Oliver!” said a shocked Crevitt, putting his hand out.

Harry raised the pistol that Pender had given him. Was it just the speed at which the man moved, or was Harry relaxing because his bluff, a very long shot indeed, had worked? Whatever, Turnbull knocked the pistol out of his hand. James made a grab, trying to restrain him, but with the strength of fear, the marine pushed him aside. He was out of the door before anyone could stop him, grabbing the musket out of the sentry’s hand. The man was too shocked to stop him. Harry followed him out of the wardroom at a rush, the rest tumbling along behind.

Turnbull was running for the companionway that led to the quarterdeck. He turned and taking a swift aim, fired the musket. The ball caught Crevitt, who was following behind Harry, in the shoulder, and spun him round. Turnbull dropped the musket and set off up the stairs. Outside his uncle’s cabin, another sentry, another musket. Harry felt his pistol pressed into his hand again. Pender was being more level-headed than anyone.

“Keep back,” said Harry, as Craddock joined the throng on the upper deck. “He’s got nowhere to run. No point in getting killed.”

Harry walked to the companionway, and got up on to the quarterdeck. Turnbull stood facing his uncle. Neither of them spoke, but the pain was obvious on Carter’s face. Turnbull looked around for some means of escape. Finally his uncle spoke.

“I tried, God knows I tried, Oliver.”

Turnbull pulled a sword out of the rack by the cabin door. The sentry raised his gun, then dropped it again, not sure what to do.

“It’s no use, boy. You should have left Bentley to me. I would have dealt with him in time.”

“You!” spat Turnbull. “I’d have waited till eternity for you.”

Carter looked over his nephew’s shoulder to where Harry stood, pistol in hand. Harry raised the gun.