Barbara Hambly - Dead water

“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?”