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The Colonel said slowly, “Well, I admit that there is something very strange going on aboard the Silver Moon—something that has so far cost two men their lives. I believe that a great number of people are lying about what happened the night before last, and about why you and your master came aboard the vessel in the first place. But as for delaying the entire boat so that it can be taken apart piece by piece . . .”
“I suspect there's something in Mr. Molloy's stateroom that may help us,” said January desperately. “When we get back to the boat, with your permission, and in your presence, I'd like to have a look through the room. . . .”
“I think that's a good idea. I am most curious myself as to what we might find there.”
“And if I might be so bold as to make the suggestion, it might be a good idea to lock and seal the door until the room can be examined.”
Davis looked a little surprised. “Aren't you coming back to the boat with us now?”
“I'll return in a few minutes. Half an hour at the latest. There's something I want to look at here on shore—or look for. Could you speak to Mr. Tredgold about holding the boat until I come back, sir?”
The Colonel nodded, evidently perfectly comfortable with the thought of a trusted slave being permitted to poke about on shore unsupervised. With Hannibal huddled in the bow, and Quince clinging queasily to the stern gunwale and trying not to touch the corpse, the skiff set out over the water, leaving January alone on the bank under the watchful rifles of two deck-hands and Mr. Lockhart on the hurricane deck.
Even with such guardians, January had qualms about remaining on shore alone, though on balance he judged that Davis's authority—self-assumed though it might be—would be better used in making sure Mrs. Fischer didn't ransack Molloy's stateroom, than in witnessing whatever he himself might find here. He first paced off the dueling-ground, finding in the damp mud of the bank the marks of Hannibal's battered old boots, and, twenty paces away, the rucked-up, bloodied earth where Molloy had stood.
Putting his feet in the heel-gouges left by the pilot's first rocked-back shock, he sighted along his own outstretched arm to where Hannibal had stood . . . then turned his head just slightly to the left.
He was looking straight at the little rise of ground covered with oak trees, from which the raven had flown, shrieking, a moment before Davis had given the signal to fire.
But when he reached the grove itself, January gave a groan of frustration, for it was here that Cain's slaves had cut the saplings for Molloy's litter. Bare feet, ragged knees, had left their marks everywhere. Saplings had been pulled up, branches broken . . . any of those forked sticks lying snapped on the ground could have been used to rest the barrel of a rifle on. If the still, damp air here had ever held the smell of powder smoke, it was gone now, shaken away by the stir of activity.
January could only kneel in the soft earth behind a bank of hackberry brambles, where a break in the foliage gave a clear view of the dueling-ground, and of the place where a few minutes before he—and earlier Molloy—had stood. But whatever tracks might have been left there, by whoever it was who frightened the raven from its perch, had been obliterated.
He returned to the upstream edge of the dueling-ground, and for nearly half an hour searched the straggling willows and cottonwoods without finding a lodged pistol-ball that would have borne out his theory of what had actually taken place on the shore. By the time Thu called out to him that Mr. Souter wanted to get under way—that Simon in the engine-room had threatened to cut his own throat before he drew out the fires one more time—January had still found nothing.
One of the deck-hands rowed across in the skiff, and brought him back.
“What were you looking for?” asked Rose, waiting for him on the promenade.
“Hannibal's pistol-ball,” said January. “Did you see Molloy when they brought him aboard?”
She shook her head.
“He was shot through the left temple, just in back of the zygomatic bone—the outer rim of the eye socket.”
“How could Hannibal have shot him there?” asked Rose immediately. “If he was looking straight at Hannibal to fire . . .”
“Exactly. The hole is huge, and the path of the bullet—as far as I could see, and I'll probe it when I see the body again to make sure—seems to go diagonally through the head, cracking the right occipital bone in the back. When Davis dropped the handkerchief as a signal to fire, did you see anything strange? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Other than two grown men shooting at one another because one of them didn't like the fact that the other had spoken to a woman he claimed was ‘his own'? I was watching Hannibal,” she added in a gentler voice. “Hoping against hope he'd be all right.”
“Is he all right?”
Rose sighed. “He's probably unconscious with laudanum by this time, and who can blame him? He looked deathly sick when he came aboard, and went straight to his stateroom. That Skippen hussy came tearing down the stair and tried to throw herself into his arms and he thrust her aside, but he couldn't speak. She's knocked at the door of his stateroom three times since, and tried to open it—I was keeping watch at the end of the promenade—but it's locked from the inside. What did you see?”
“Two grown men shooting at one another,” replied January with a wry grin. Then he sobered. “I was watching Hannibal, too. But when I saw the wound in Molloy's head I remembered how that raven flew up, just before the signal to fire, and it came to me that the whole thing might have been set up. That the intended victim wasn't Hannibal and myself, but Molloy. I think Molloy was shot with a rifle from that little oak grove at the head of the chute.”
“By whom?” asked Rose, startled. “Mrs. Fischer was on the promenade with Mrs. Tredgold and Mrs. Roberson—I saw her. And Mr. Cain was on the deck below.”
“Levi Christmas, maybe? Or one of his men?”
“But that would imply communication between him and someone on board—either Theodora or one of those awful deck-passengers. Since we've been stopped, there hasn't been a moment when there wasn't a guard of some kind on the hurricane deck. I don't think they could even have signaled without being seen.”
“I know,” said January. “I didn't say this was something I could prove, or even explain. But one thing I can and will do is have a look at the bullet lodged in Molloy's skull. And if it's a ball from a Manton dueling pistol, I'll eat it.”
While they'd been speaking, the great stern paddle had begun to turn, slowly driving the Silver Moon out into the channel of the river from the dead water behind the point. The river had fallen to its former low level, and the boat was surrounded by a veritable forest of snags that scraped at the hull and caught in the paddle, forcing the vessel to stop repeatedly while the deck-hands clambered here and there with poles to thrust off. January could hear Mr. Souter's voice yelling down from the hurricane deck, and unbidden to his mind rose the thought of what it must be like to be hidden in the damp, smelly darkness of the hold, listening to the grate of dead wood on the thin walls and knowing how much water lay immediately outside.
The thought made him shudder. He might fear Queen Régine, waiting like a spider down there in the darkness—holding whatever secret it was that she held about Weems's death—but he pitied her, too. She was a woman half-crazy and without fear, but there were limits even to craziness and courage.
January wasn't certain he could have stayed down there and listened to that horrible scraping sound.
When he and Rose reached the upper deck, almost the first thing they encountered was a knot of people grouped at the corner of the 'tween-decks near the door of Molloy's stateroom. Colonel Davis stood by the door, looking as if he wished he could simply call a sergeant and order everyone back to their quarters. Mrs. Fischer, her handsome face flushed behind the black veils she'd assumed, was shouting at him, “The man was a thief and a scoundrel, and I know that it was he who stole poor Mr. Weems's money! Mr. Weems told me himself, that on Saturday, when the boat ran aground on the bar above Vicksburg, and all the men were pressed into service in that disgraceful manner, he came back to find his stateroom door open and his money gone. . . .”
“And you just know it was poor Kevin, do you?” Miss Skippen lashed at her shrilly. “You just saw in his face that he was evil, because he didn't play up to you and tell you you were beautiful, is that it?” She turned to Davis, clutching at his sleeve. “Oh, what am I to do? Mr. Davis, I must get into that cabin! I left some things—my money—with Kevin—with Mr. Molloy—for safekeeping, and I must get them back! Oh, to be left this way without my fiancé's protection . . .”
“Fiancé?” Mrs. Tredgold sniffed. “A fine way to treat your fiancé, to make up to other men and send him to his grave, not that I believe for a moment that he offered to marry such a piece of work as yourself. . . .”
“Ladies,” pleaded Mr. Tredgold faintly.
“You see here.” Mrs. Tredgold stabbed a thick finger at Davis. “I've heard the rumor that you plan to tell the sheriff at Mayersville to hold the entire boat for investigation of these absurd stories about Weems having a fortune in stolen gold aboard. . . . What I have to say is, I'd like to see that fortune! You order us about, ransack every piece of luggage on board, delay us needlessly, run up a fortune in wood-charges that we'll have to pay and soon, if we're to make it to Mayersville at all. . . .”
“And where do you think you're going?” Mrs. Fischer rounded on January as he tried to speak quietly to Davis. Without waiting for a reply she went on. “You forbid me to enter the stateroom of a man who robbed my fiancé, yet you're going to let a thieving black Negro in—”
“As a surgeon, Madame,” interposed January, “I need to make an examination of the body—”
“For what purpose? We all know he's dead.”
Theodora cried, “Oh!” and sagged against the rail of the stair up to the hurricane deck. Nobody paid any attention.
“All you want to do is search the room for anything you can get that you think will help your master prove my poor Oliver was a thief! Well, if he can enter, then so can I!”
“Madame, you will do nothing of the sort,” retorted Davis, blotches of color staining his pale cheekbones. “I will accompany this boy and no one else—”
“Who are you to treat us like you were a policeman and we were all criminals?” interrupted Mrs. Fischer, shoving her face inches from the planter's. “You paid your passage on this boat like everyone else!”
“Tredgold,” said Mrs. Tredgold sharply, “it's for you to take charge here. Now, you go into that stateroom and look for Mr. Weems's money for poor Mrs. Fischer!”
Davis stared at her, speechless with indignation, and from above Souter shouted, “Mr. Lundy says, if you're all gonna argue, argue someplace else! He can't hear the leadsman and he can't hardly hear himself think, he says!”
“You be quiet!” yelled Mrs. Tredgold back. “This is my husband's boat and we'll say what we want, where we want to!”
“Dearest . . .”
Mr. Souter came hesitantly halfway down the steps from the deck above. The Silver Moon had begun to move, the breeze flowing down the river as they rounded Hitchins' Point riffling his thinning black hair. “Er—then Mr. Lundy says your husband can pilot the boat wherever he wants it to go.”
Geranium-red with fury, Mrs. Tredgold stormed up the steps, nearly shoving Mr. Souter over the rail. Davis and January darted at once to the stateroom door, to which Davis bent with a key, probably obtained from Thu. Mrs Fischer strode in their wake like a black-sailed ship fully rigged for a race and Theodora Skippen brought up the rear, not a tear on her face and the only redness visible being her rouge. From the hurricane deck voices drifted down, mostly Mrs. Tredgold's.
“That's just what we need,” muttered January as Davis unlocked Molloy's cabin door. “Lundy quitting on us . . . because there isn't a pilot under the sun who'll put up with being told what to do. . . . Ladies,” he added, turning in the doorway as the two bereaved caught up with them. “It is my intention simply to make a medical examination of Mr. Molloy's body—”
“And cut him up,” demanded Theodora shrilly, “as you did poor Mr. Weems? How dare you? How can you permit . . . ?”
To Mrs. Fischer—ignoring the younger woman's tirade—he continued. “Mr. Davis here will vouch for it that I do nothing else while in the room. Perhaps, Madame, if you could give Mr. Davis a description of what you are looking for, he could locate it without the unseemliness of ransacking the room, as Mr. Weems's was ransacked?”
The woman stood for a moment, staring up into January's face. Her dark eyes were like an animal's, that calculates its opponent's strength, a crimson flush of anger rising under the sallow skin of her cheeks. Though no black man was supposed to meet a white woman's eyes January did so, quietly challenging her, and he was interested to see that she didn't react like a woman born to command slaves. She met his eyes as an equal, an opponent.
Then she turned to Davis and snapped, “I never thought I would live to see the day when a Southern gentleman would stand by and let a lady be insulted by an impertinent Negro!”
And without waiting for Davis to reply, she turned, and strode toward her own stateroom. Miss Skippen wavered, clearly not up to challenging both January and Davis. January wondered whether she would faint. Instead she burst into somewhat artificial-sounding sobs, and hastened away in the same direction with her handkerchief pressed to her face.
“And I,” panted Davis as he locked the stateroom door despite the suffocating heat, “never thought I would live to see the day when a woman—not a Southerner, I perceive—would so unsex herself . . .”
“There's a great deal of money at stake, sir,” said January. “Men speak a great deal about women being worse than men, if they decide to take to crime, but I suspect that's because crime is one of the few ways a woman can get her own money, and need not rely on a man. But it's curious, isn't it, that both ladies are acting as if what they're looking for is small enough to be easily palmed, or concealed in a pocket—either mine or hers. So Miss Skippen doesn't seem to think there's six hundred pounds of gold, or several trunks full of securities, hidden in here.”
He knelt beside Molloy's body on the narrow bunk, turned the head gently, and withdrew a bullet-probe from his small medical kit. The pilot's closed eyes had begun to settle back into his head; blood and brain matter leaking from the wound had soaked the pillow, and in spite of the closed door the room was droning with flies. January inserted first the probe, then a pair of long-nosed bullet forceps into the channel cut by the bullet, which had cracked the skull on the other side.
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