Monteith ducked beneath a deckhead beam and unfolded his papers. Napier had noticed on other occasions that he never removed his hat. Remember, it's their home. Show respect when you walk into it.
He had never forgotten that, and he had seen Falcon's expression. Like the seamen on deck, no words were necessary.
Monteith said, "Harris, the man who was killed. He was one of your crew?"
Falcon eyed him warily.
"Not directly. "E was a cooper, see?"
"No matter. He answered to you. "He waved the papers as if it were insignificant. "We anchor tomorrow and time will be limited. When a man dies aboard ship it is customary to auction his personal effects to his messmates. "He faltered, as if it were completely foreign to him. "I am informed that, in view of the circumstances, the wardroom and warrant ranks will make a contribution."
Falcon flicked some wood shavings from his sleeve.
"I scarce knew the man, sir. "E was aboard when the ship commissioned, and worked ashore in the yard when she was buildin'. "He rubbed his chin. "But if it's an order…"
Another voice. "Ned Harris was ashore most of the time, sir.
Only just got married. I reckon she can do with all the help she can get."
Napier could feel it. A man they had hardly known, but one of their own. Not killed by accident, or in action. Murdered.
Falcon called, "Ere, Lloyd! You worked with "im a few timesЦ what d "you think?"
Napier saw him look up from the deck where he was kneeling. The sailmaker who had been a tailor ashore, and a good one according to the captain's servant. He had turned his hand to making clothes for people in this ship, if they could afford him. He and Morgan got along well, they said. Fellow Welshman…
"Never had a lot to say, but he was always short of money, getting his wife settled before he was off to sea. "He seemed to notice Napier for the first time. "Anyway, if the officers are putting their hands into their pockets…" Laughter drowned the rest.
Falcon held up his fist. "Show a bit of respect, lads! "But he seemed relieved. "Leave it to me, sir."
Monteith rocked back on his heels. "The captain will arrange for the proceeds to be put aboard a courier. "He cleared his throat. "With a suitable message."
"I think you're wanted on deck, sir!"
Monteith turned and said over his shoulder, "Send word if you need advice."
A voice muttered, "Pity we ain't collectin "for "im!"
Falcon glared. "It's not stand-easy yet, lads, so back to work with you! "But he winked. Monteith was out of sight.
Jeff Lloyd sat on his haunches and waited for the midshipman to pass.
"Your new breeks'll be just about ready in a couple of days.
We can try them for fittingЦ you just say the word, eh?"
Napier smiled with pleasure. That was quick! Thank you for…"
Falcon bared his teeth. "You'd better jump about, Mr. Napier. I think "is lordship is callin "for you!"
Jeff Lloyd leaned forward and pressed the canvas very slowly into a tight fold, using all his strength, a simple enough task which he could do with one hand. The laughter and the comments that followed the lieutenant's departure meant nothing. Like getting over a nightmare, trapped and fighting in his hammock. Unable to escape.
The voices had returned to normal, Falcon making a suggestion to one of his crew. Somebody whistling softly as he used his chisel to put a finish on the new screen.
He thought of Napier, bending to thank him for finishing the breeches. A lie. He had scarcely chalked out the seams. But it had bought him time. Just long enough.
He felt his breathing steady again. Or was that all in his mind, too? He should have been ready, anticipated it. But he hadn't, and after all this time just the mention of that name had made him jump, as if it had been shouted into his face.
He found himself staring aft, past the empty tables and scrubbed benches. A solitary figure in one of the messes was writing very slowly on a piece of paper, tongue poking from one corner of his mouth. Dodging work to try and write a letter, so that it could be taken ashore at Gib. The lifeline.
Beyond the huge trunk of the mainmast, and down another hatchway. Narrow walkways and storerooms, like the one where they had found his corpse. The waiting had been the worst bit. He had thought they might never find him, maybe believe he was still ashore. Skipped his ship to stay with his new wife. Poor woman, she was better off without him. He had even thought Ned Harris might still prove him wrong; he might suddenly appear. LaughingLike that last time when he had turned his back, the final threat still on his lips.
Slowly, calmly, Jeff Lloyd reached out and gripped his long scissors.
Afterwards, he had heard that they were searching for a knife. Harris's own blade was still on his belt.
The worst was over. There might always be reminders. Like now, today. Harris's miserable belongings.
He felt his blood pounding again. He threatened me. Unless I paid him, he would swear himself in as a witness. To murder.
When he had laughed, for the last time.
Boots thudded past, some Royal Marines on their way to their own messdeck, their "barracks', carrying pieces of equipment, freshly pipe-clayed in readiness for some ceremonial drill at the Rock. A good enough crowd, but in their own special world. Apart. Two of them spoke his name. Glad to be down in the cool shadows.
"I've been thinkin', Jeff."
He looked up. It was Falcon, staring after the scarlet tunics.
Lloyd wanted to lick his lips. Bone dry. As if he already knew.
"Most of the lads seem to know you, by sight if nuthin "else.
Might seem more proper if you go round the messes? "He had his head on one side, unused to asking favours. "Tell ‘em about th "sale of "is gear. Sound better comin "from you."
Lloyd stood up slowly.
"Glad to, Mr. Falcon."
The carpenter touched his arm, smiling.
"Good lad. See me for a wet at stand-easy!"
Lloyd folded his tools with great care. Buying himself more time.
He had been wrong. Ned Harris was still laughing.
Lieutenant Mark Vincent tried to stifle a yawn, and signalled with his free hand to warn the cabin sentry of his arrival. But he was not quick enough.
"First lieutenant, sir!"
Vincent said, "There was no need, at this hour."
In the small, swinging circle of light from the lobby lantern, the Royal Marine might have grinned. Almost.
"Cap'n's still up an' about, sir."
How could that be? He had just taken over the morning watch when Bolitho had come on deck. That was yesterday.
Did he never sleep? The screen door opened slightly. It was Jago, Bolitho's coxswain.
"I came as soon as I could."
Jago's eyes shone only briefly in the same swinging light.
The unfastened coat and dishevelled turn-out would not pass unnoticed. It should not matter. But it did.
It was after midnight, and apart from the watchkeepers every sane man was tucked in his hammock and asleep. It had been a long day. And tomorrow… He tried to shut it out of his mind.
There was plenty of light in the great cabin, so that the stern windows looked like black mirrors, throwing back the captain's reflection sharply. He was standing by the table, his log book unopened, the pad which usually lay on the small desk beside it, marked at intervals with unused quills. Charts also, including the one they had used at the last conference before Aboubakr.
"All quiet on deck, Mark? "Almost in the same breath.
"Sorry to drag you down aft."
He moved toward the quarter and stared into the darkness.
"I've been thinking about our shadow. She was still holding station astern at nightfall. And she will be there at first light."
Vincent waited in silence, unsure where this was leading.
"Whoever planned to disable Nautilus must already have estimated her time of arrival. "He spread his hands. "And known that she was coming to Aboubakr. Such intelligence could only have originated in Gibraltar. But there was no time or opportunity to inform any one that we would be in company with her."