The Devil's Own Luck (40 page)

“No, Ludlow.” This was said quietly. “I will deal with this. It is my responsibility, my shame.” He looked back to his nephew, and held out his hand. “The sword?”

“I’ll not hang, Uncle,” sobbed Turnbull.

“You knew,” said Harry. “All along you knew.”

“No, Ludlow. I did not know.” The emphasis was heavy on the last word. “The sword?” he said, his hand still out.

Turnbull swung round and went for Harry.

“I can do you one good turn before I go!” he shouted. Harry ducked aside, raising the pistol again. He heard the scrape of metal as another sword was pulled from the rack.

“Hold!” shouted Carter, rushing forward, sword in his hand. Turnbull spun round and almost as a reflex, he struck out at Carter. The thrust was parried.

“Oliver!” It was half a shout, half a plea.

Turnbull pulled the sword down and tried to stab at his uncle’s groin. The boy’s face was a mask of terror. Swiftly Carter cut to the side and the thrust was deflected. Carter swung his arm and the sword came swinging round, aimed at his nephew’s head. This time it was the youngster’s turn to quickly parry the cut.

“Carter!” shouted Harry, but the man was listening to no one. His entire concentration was taken up on fighting his nephew. Turnbull backed on to the gangway, cutting right and left to keep the older man’s thrusts at bay.

“Damn you,” said Carter. “Damn you!” Did the boy realize how deadly serious his uncle had become?

The quarterdeck was full of officers now, watching the fight. Turnbull had the fury of a desperate man to aid him, but Carter had experience. He drove his nephew back. A quick cut, a feint to the left, and he was inside the boy’s guard. Almost with ease he put one foot behind his nephew’s leg and tripped him up. Turnbull fell backwards. Carter stepped in and put his sword on the boy’s throat.

“Damn you, Oliver,” he said. He could have been talking to himself. Carter stood there as if trying to decide whether to finish his nephew off. He shook his head, and pulled his sword away. As he did so, Turnbull thrust upwards and ran his uncle through. Carter stood for a moment, no expression, no cry, then he fell backwards, the sword coming out as he did so. Turnbull, a wild took in his eye, jumped up and made to stab his uncle again. Harry’s bullet, from less than six feet away, took him between the eyes, and he dropped like a stone.

Carter fell back on the deck as everyone rushed to his side.

“Get back, damn you!” shouted Outhwaite, pushing his way through the crowd. He knelt beside Carter and lifted him up, cradling his head on his knee. Carter’s wig had fallen off. Blood stained the front of his white waistcoat. He grimaced in pain, as Outhwaite started to undo the buttons to examine the wound. A trickle of blood oozed out of his mouth. In the background Crevitt was praying, his arms limp, and his head bowed.

“Port Admiral signalling, sir,” came a voice from the masthead.

Faintly they heard the sound of the signal gun. The midshipman on watch tore his eyes away from the scene, and leafed through the signal book till he came to the right flags.

“Captain report to Flag, sir.”

“Acknowledge, Mr Craddock,” said Carter. A great gush of blood came out of his mouth, and covered the deck as he died.

Harry and James were sitting opposite Craddock in the great cabin. Carter’s body was in the coach, and his nephew’s in his sleeping cabin. Crevitt, his arm in a sling, was poring over two chests, one Bentley’s, and the other Carter’s, going through various papers.

“You provided the final piece of evidence,” Harry told Craddock.

“Then I did so unknowingly.”

“I asked you which officer you had reprimanded for being late when you came down to the hold. He had been clearing out the evidence in that room. That is why he was not in his cabin, and you had to rouse out the marines yourself.”

“But you suspected him before that,” said Craddock. He fiddled with the papers on the table. He was ill at ease in Carter’s chair.

“Yes. But I had been wrong once.”

“Really, it was my drawing that pointed to Turnbull,” said James. “Also quite unknowingly.”

“I found wig powder near the scene of the murder. All my subsequent thoughts were coloured by that, and when I saw the great white mark on Bentley’s coat, which was damp, I assumed that to be wig powder as well. The late captain being the only one who habitually wore a wig, that led me to suspect him.”

Crevitt raised his head and looked at the bulkhead through which lay Carter’s body, as if by doing so he would include personal spite in Harry’s motives.

“So now you’re saying that it wasn’t wig powder?” asked Craddock.

“On the floor, yes. On the jacket, no.”

“You’ve lost me.” Craddock scratched his grey whiskers.

“When I looked at my brother’s drawing, the answer just seemed to leap out. In that dim light, two white objects were very starkly portrayed. One was indeed the captain’s wig.”

“And the other?”

“Pipeclay. White pipeclay on Turnbull’s shoulder strap. And then I remembered, in the pump shaft, a flash of red, which I mistook for blood, as the last man left that room. It wasn’t blood, it was him trailing his coat. I had maintained all along that the culprit was an officer. No common sailor would go to so much trouble, yet everyone else in that room was just that, a member of the barge crew. So if there was an officer, did he wear a red coat, not a blue one? Then I asked you my question.”

“Hardly proof, Mr Ludlow.”

“No proof at all. And none attainable. Hence the charade.”

“But this drawing.” Craddock picked up the picture of Bentley, Turnbull and the bloody sack.

“Motive. Don’t you see, Mr Craddock, that is where it all started? Young Turnbull was included in Bentley’s games. No doubt that poor boy Larkin craved excitement too. But Bentley went too far. Perhaps a surfeit of drink, or merely an excess of his natural cruelty. Whatever, it cost Larkin his life, and ensnared Turnbull in a conspiracy from which he could not escape. Bentley probably assured him that it would never be discovered anyway. But he had miscalculated.

“The hands were upset. Why? Because they knew, or suspected, that Larkin had not just fallen overboard. Those who thought they knew, tried to gather a collective protest. That looked suspiciously like mutiny, at least in the way Bentley portrayed it. Carter resorted to the cat to maintain discipline. But once the hands were cowed, Bentley, with his love of blood, did not wish to desist. Everyone knows that the relationship between Carter and Bentley started to go wrong at that time. But it moved from the odd insolent remark to outright insubordination as Carter tried to stop him. We will never know the words Bentley used, but he must have alluded to the missing boy, and at least have hinted at Turnbull’s involvement. Carter couldn’t arrest Bentley without implicating his nephew.”

“I cannot believe that the captain would have knowingly condoned a murder,” said Craddock.

“Perhaps he hoped that time itself would provide a solution,” said James, diplomatically.

“No, Mr Ludlow,” said Craddock, looking at the desk and shaking his head. “Not even for his nephew. I might not have seen eye to eye with him, but the captain was as upright a man as you’ll ever meet.”

The old lieutenant did not catch the look of disagreement on Harry’s face.

“Mr Craddock. We know Bentley and the captain had an almighty row, yet the premier continued in his duties. Everything following that argument was an attempt by Captain Carter to protect his family.”

“His sister,” said Crevitt. He was sitting over one of the chests, reading a letter, his arm in a sling. They all turned to look at him. His eyes were damp as he looked up. “That was his family. Not him.” He gestured with his head to indicate the body in the sleeping cabin.

Harry followed the parson’s gaze. “Imagine the fear, Mr Crevitt. Do you think that Bentley would have denied himself the pleasure of turning the screw on young Turnbull, telling him how he could break his Uncle Oliver any time he chose, with a hanging in the family if Carter dared to lay charges against him? And what about the increase in his drinking?”

Harry turned back to Craddock.

“It was plain that he was becoming more unstable through excessive consumption. What with that, his relationship with Carter, and the way he baited Turnbull, it could only have seemed a matter of time before Bentley, in a drunken apoplexy, blurted out the truth on the quarterdeck. Turnbull couldn’t wait for his uncle to provide a solution. He must have been racking his brain already to think of a way of saving himself. Then I arrived on board, his uncle’s sworn enemy. The opportunity to rid himself of Bentley and point the blame in another direction was too good to miss.”

“He could never have hoped to get away with it,” said Craddock with genuine sincerity.

“Damn me, Mr Craddock,” snapped Harry, “he very nearly did. And if you can explain how my brother could have cleared me, the intended victim of this plot, I’d be obliged for it is only by the devil’s own luck that I have managed to clear him.”

Craddock held up his hands to calm Harry. “Mr Ludlow, I . . .”

“And furthermore, as to your upright captain, he seemed mighty keen to go along with what he must have known was a conspiracy.”

“I cannot think that he knew for certain,” said Crevitt gravely. “Although he must have suspected. I have found something that might interest you, Mr Ludlow, or rather both of you.”

He reached inside the chest and his hand came out bearing two packages, both opened letters.

“I wonder if you would care to read these?” he asked.

“Why not,” said Harry reaching out.

“This one first,” said Crevitt. “You will observe that it is undated.” Harry opened the letter and read it. His face registered no emotion as he did so. He passed it to James.

“From Carter,” said James, to the curious Craddock. “To the Port Admiral.” James turned to Crevitt. “Do I have your permission to read this out loud?” Crevitt nodded.

“His Britannic Majesty’s Ship
Magnanime,
at sea. There’s a gap for the date.

“Sir, Abiding by my instructions I am required to proceed with all dispatch to join Rear-Admiral Gell off Toulon. This is my primary duty, and I can in no way delay my voyage, as I would answer at my peril. You have in custody, with certain information laid against him by me, Mr James Lud-low. He stands accused of the murder of Lieutenant Bentley, late of this ship. Information has come to light, which not only throws serious doubt upon Mr Ludlow’s guilt, but may entirely exonerate him of all complicity in the murder. Time and tide do not permit of me to turn my ship back to Gibraltar, but I feel the matter important enough to dispatch the bearer of this letter, in my pinnace, to deliver it into your own hand. A more detailed dispatch will follow upon this, once I have reached Admiral Gell’s squadron. Until that time, I would most humbly suggest that Mr Ludlow be released from custody, and allowed all the freedom vouchsafed to an innocent man. I have taken this action to prevent a possible miscarriage of justice. I am yours, etc., Oliver Carter. Captain, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship
Magnanime.”

“The other one,” said Harry stiffly.

“The other one is his last will and testament. He added a codicil two days ago, just before we engaged the Frenchmen,” said Crevitt.

Harry took the will. He leafed through the pages, until he came to the last one. This time he read it aloud.

“I wish to state that being of sound mind and health, I have no desire to meet my maker with another death on my hands. We are about to go into action against a superior force. I shall not decline battle, and I entrust the outcome of what follows to God. Should anything happen to me, I wish to lay before the authorities my dying statement, which has the force of law. I, Oliver Carter, Post Captain, and commander of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship the
Magnanime,
am wholly and individually guilty of the murder of Lieutenant Bentley of this ship.”

“Signed?” asked James. Harry nodded.

The voice from the deck came clearly through the skylight. “All hands on deck to anchor.”

They came ashore just as they started to tow the
Magnanime
into the dockyard. Soon the sheer hulk would be alongside her, laying in a new foremast, and she’d once again be the elegant flier they had first spotted five days before.

As the boat ground against the quay, Pender jumped out first, released by Craddock into Harry’s charge as a small recompense for the hands he had lost. He helped James out, and smiled as he swayed slightly on the unfamiliar land, so unmoving after weeks at sea. Harry leapt up on to the quay without assistance.

“Pender,” he said. “Our dunnage to the Royal George, if you please, and bespeak us a couple of rooms. Come, James. After weeks at sea, you need to walk to get your balance back. I shall show you the Rock, and then we can have a ‘wet.’” He turned back to Pender. “See yonder tavern, Pender, half-way up the Gut. That is where we’ll be in an hour. Be so good as to join us there.”

It was a dusty pair who sat there an hour later, slaking their thirst with a mixture of ale and lemonade. They had talked very little as they walked, each harbouring his own thoughts.

“Where do we go now, Harry?” asked James, waving down the road as he spotted Pender.

“We could go home. Or we could go on. Perhaps to Leghorn.” He looked keenly at his brother. “In some ways it depends on you.”

“Ah yes,” replied James, not seeking to avoid his brother’s drift.

“I have to say,” continued Harry, “that you are in better shape than when we set out from the Downs.”

“Did you ever read Boswell’s
Life of Johnson?
I remember writing to you, and recommending that you do, when it came out in ‘91.”

Harry shook his head. He motioned to the serving girl to fetch more drinks, pointing to Pender as well. His servant sat on a low wall a few feet away, gazing around him at the unfamiliar surroundings.

“The old man was a great wit. You said that I seem in better spirits, and it is true I am. I think Johnson hit it on the head, when he said that ‘the prospect of hanging concentrates the mind wonderfully.’ So, Harry, you decide.”