Barbara Hambly - Dead water

At the same moment January saw behind her that what he'd originally thought was a scrap of moss snagged in the paddle was in fact a piece of green and yellow cloth, soaked with water and river mud.

A man's cravat.

“What is it?”

“Weems.”

“What's he done?” So much for Hannibal's theory about what the pair of thieves were likely to do.

“He hasn't done anything,” said Rose. “His body was found this morning, snagged up in the paddle.”

TWELVE

“Murderer!” Diana Fischer swung around from the stern rail where she stood and stabbed a finger at January. Her rich contralto voice cut through the eager chatter of the deck-hands, deck-passengers, and servants all crowded around.

“Ask him where he was last night, and what orders his master gave him! Ask him why he followed this boat with such determination! Why he returned to re-board it, if not to accomplish his master's fell design!”

I followed this boat with such determination because I didn't want to be sold by slave-stealers in Texas, thought January, but he had better sense than to say so. He could see by the faces of the male passengers surrounding Mrs. Fischer that his sassing a white lady would not help the situation.

Instead, he assumed the most shocked and innocent expression of which he was capable, fell back a pace, and looked to Mr. Tredgold as if Mrs. Fischer did not exist. “Sir, where is my master?”

“Your master is locked up!” Mrs. Fischer stepped in front of Tredgold while the harried little man was still drawing breath to reply. “Where he belongs, and you with him, you Othello! You bloody-handed villain, with a heart as black as your hide! Oh!” She clapped her hand to her forehead and staggered back into Mr. Tredgold's arms. “Oh, that my hope of salvation should be rent from me by such monsters as these!”

Mrs. Tredgold rushed to Mrs. Fischer's side, elbowed her husband out of the way, and put her arms around the afflicted lady, who had, January noticed, had time to get her corsets and dress on—a somber confection of blue and white—but whose thick waves of raven hair still lay tumbled over her shoulders like an opera heroine's in a mad-scene. Mrs. Tredgold snapped at her husband, “Have this man locked up!”

“Now, dearest, nothing's been—”

“Thu!” bellowed Mrs. Tredgold. “Eli! Take this man and—”

“Why don't you come on up to the Saloon, where your master is?” said Mr. Lundy's buzzing monotone, and a shaky hand was laid on January's arm. “There's nothing more to see down here.”

January glanced at Rose, who nodded slightly, with an expression of calm—she had been on the deck longer than he, and perceived herself in no danger. As he followed the former pilot up the steps, January glanced back at the paddle again. It was undamaged, human bone and flesh being less fibrous and tough than waterlogged tree-stumps. Beyond that it was impossible to see anything, if there was anything to see—only what was immediately obvious. That nobody could have fallen accidentally over the elbow-high railings that surrounded the entire deck.

Ned Gleet thrust past January and Lundy on the stairway to the boiler-deck, almost knocking the fragile former pilot over the rail. At the bow end of the promenade, Molloy held Theodora Skippen pressed to the wall beside the door of the Ladies' Parlor: “Sold her?” he was saying, his voice hoarse with fury. “God damn it, girl, is that all you can do with the things a man buys you? What else that I paid for have you turned into cash?”

“Darling,” Miss Skippen whispered, raising her hands supplicatingly against his broad blue-clad chest, “darling, let me explain!” She gazed up into his blotchy face, her soft blond curls cascading over her shoulders—like Mrs. Fischer, she appeared to have gotten herself mostly dressed when the alarm went up at the finding of the body. “Oh, my beloved, it was a matter of most tragic urgency. . . .”

January would have been deeply interested to hear Miss Skippen's explanation for selling Julie—which Molloy appeared to have just heard of. He would have bet any amount of money that the tale of tragic urgency she was about to relate had nothing to do with large sums owed to Levi Christmas.

Hannibal sat at one of the card-tables in the saloon, drinking opium-laced sherry out of a wineglass. Without the warm glow of the oil-lamps the Saloon had the shadowy atmosphere of a cave. Nick and Thu were laying out plates and silverware on the buffet, and the scent of coffee filled the air. Colonel Davis was just dropping sugar into a cup—he glanced up as January's huge form blotted the light from the short hallway to the outside, and nodded as Lundy escorted him in.

Tredgold and Mr. Souter followed, with a red-faced and seething Molloy bringing up the rear moments later.

“Have I the court's permission to point out how ridiculous that woman's accusation is?” inquired Hannibal quietly.

“This isn't a court, Mr. Sefton.” Colonel Davis returned to the card-table and sat down next to Hannibal. “You aren't being accused of anything.”

“My error. I was deceived by the outstretched finger and the shrieked words There stands the murderer. ”

“Surely you must make allowances for the poor woman's shattered state of mind,” replied Souter, shocked. “I understand that she and Mr. Weems were affianced.”

“She has a point, though.” Molloy walked over to the bar and fished behind it for a whiskey-glass and bottle. His blue eyes sparkled still with malice and anger, but he kept his voice judicious and calm. “Your boy wouldn't have run over hill and dale to catch us up without a damn good reason to do so. Why not just turn himself over to the sheriff at Vicksburg and wait for you to come back and pick him up?”

“According to Mrs. Fischer,” said Tredgold, propping his spectacles with a nervous finger, “you, Mr. Sefton, are in the employ of business enemies of her—er—intended. She says you were sent to prevent him from reaching St. Louis and consummating the purchase of ten thousand acres of Indian lands which your employers—the Bank of Louisiana—also wish to own.”

“What?” Hannibal set his wineglass down with a clack. “Who in their right mind would hire me to murder anyone?” He glanced across at January, asking for instructions, though they both knew that revealing the facts of the bank theft at this point would simply spread the information up and down the river like the plague.

“Mrs. Fischer says,” went on Tredgold with a hesitant cough, “that you have previously made the accusation—to the sheriff at Natchez—that her intended had stolen money from the Bank of Louisiana, and that you even had documents from one of the bank officials to back up this story.”

“You keep your money in the Bank of Louisiana, don't you, Kev?” put in Souter. “Any of this make sense to you?”

Molloy's brow creased in thought, and he sipped his whiskey with the air of a man piecing together what he knows. “Well, I know the bank directors have been trying for months to close some kind of Indian land deal, but it's none of my business.” He regarded the speechless Hannibal with half-shut eyes, a malicious smile curving one corner of his mouth beneath the red mustache. “I thought I recognized Mr. Sefton when he first came on board, and it might well be from the bank, now that I think of it. I seem to recall the Director has a secretary named Sefton, anyway.”

Through his own shock January had to admire the cleverness of the story. We might as well tear up Granville's letters now, he reflected. It would take a week or more for letters to reach New Orleans, in confirmation or denial, another week for them to return. . . .

If the story of the theft hadn't broken in the meantime and collapsed the bank anyway.

If Granville hadn't fled.

“It is nevertheless a precept of American law that a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty.” Colonel Davis's clear, sharp voice cut into the silence. “And I see no proof on one side or the other. Certainly there are no grounds to deprive anyone of their liberty, especially if the vessel makes no stops between here and Mayersville. I think it equally likely that the murder could have been done by that girl who disappeared. Our best course would be to proceed to Mayersville and turn this entire affair over to the Issaquena County sheriff.”

“But without the fares from the plantations between here and Mayersville . . .” began Tredgold, who was completely ignored.

Molloy shrugged, and tossed down the rest of his whiskey. “If you want to trust an Orangeman, it's no skin off my behind. Now, with your permission, Captain . . .” He bowed ironically to Tredgold. “Colonel, I'll be after gettin' this vessel under way.”

Tredgold and Davis followed Molloy to the door, where low-voiced conversation ensued. January fetched Hannibal a cup of coffee from the big porcelain urns, and a biscuit, at which the fiddler shook his head. Men were coming quietly into the Saloon, edging past the muttered convocation in the doorway and being careful not to look at Hannibal.

“What girl was he talking about?” asked January, standing at Hannibal's side as a good servant should. “What went on last night?”

“What didn't?” The fiddler glanced up at him from dark-circled eyes. “It appears Julie escaped last night. Her shoes were found on the starboard promenade deck just before you came down. Gleet went storming up to Miss Skippen's stateroom to ascertain that, no, she wasn't there . . . Miss Skippen was sound asleep still and Gleet was damn lucky not to run into Molloy in her stateroom. Molloy had come down to get breakfast before going on watch at six, and was—according to Rose, anyway—on the stairs from the boiler-deck down to the kitchen when Jim started shouting.”

“Jim was the first one to see the body, then?”

Hannibal nodded. “He sleeps closest to the paddle, and got up before rosy-fingered Aurora even started thinking about spreading the light of dawn o'er meadow and lea. I suppose goddesses have to get their beauty-sleep sometime. It was still foggy then, and Jim thought the body might have been a clump of branches or debris; then he realized what it was and gave the alarm.”

“And when did you get down there?”

“Almost at once. Following the usual after-supper card game I wasn't sleepy, but didn't want to wake you by lighting a candle and reading—an unnecessary precaution, as it turned out, since you never stirred when Jim raised the alarm. I don't think you moved all night.”

“I did,” said January. “Or at least I think I did. . . .” It flashed across his mind that his nocturnal visitor might have been a dream, but he shook the thought away immediately. Rose might dream about waking up in the same room she'd gone to sleep in, but January knew himself better than that. “I'll tell you later.”

“ Nisi Dominus custodierit civitatem, as the Psalmist says, frustra vigilat qui custodit eam. In any case I settled myself on a quiet corner of the bow-deck and played—in spite of the fog it was a relatively warm night. Later I came to bed, but I don't think I slept more than an hour or so before the alarm was raised. Do you think Weems might have encountered Julie as she was going overside, and Julie struck him to prevent him from giving the alarm?”

“She certainly could have,” said January thoughtfully. “She's a big girl—taller than Weems, and heavier. If she shoved or thrust him, he might have struck his head on a stanchion. Did the boat go over a bar at some time during the night?”