A Burial at Sea

by Charles Finch

  Tonight, probably; and yet his fatigue was so great that when he went into his room and McEwan appeared, he did not ask the steward even to pack.

  “Wake me early,” was all he said. “It will be a busy day.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like a glass of wine, or perhaps something to eat, before you retire?”

  “Perhaps I would like a glass of that red—but no, no, I think not. You filled my water pitcher? Good, then I shall have that. Better for a clear head. Oh, and while I have you—you posted that letter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, McEwan.”

  He sat at his desk for fifteen minutes or so, drinking a glass of water and thinking over the events of the evening. The next morning he would ask Chowdery about any French delegation in Port Said, and perhaps he might hear word of Sournois’s official duties in that fashion. Beyond that he saw little that he could do.

  He changed into his nightshirt and went to bed then, restless in his mind but also tired, or somewhere beyond tired. Soon he was asleep.

  He woke because he felt something sharp at his neck.

  He tried to jerk away but a strong hand had him by the shirt.

  “Who is that?” he said.

  “I knew I’d get my penknife in you,” a voice close to his ear said.

  A chill coursed through his body. “No,” he said. “It cannot be. Billings.”

  A match struck against the wood along the side of the bed, and the candle on Lenox’s nightstand flared up into light. The knife still to his throat, Lenox saw, in the flickering light, the face of the former first lieutenant of the Lucy.

  He was dark from the sun now, rather like Lenox. His expression was neutral. There was nothing in it of the fiendish madness the detective had seen on that lifeboat. But this calmness was in itself a fearsome thing.

  “How did you get here?”

  “We were prepared,” said Billings. “Coin, water, food. What sort of fool do you take me for?”

  “Where is Butterworth?”

  “I left him.”

  “You killed him.”

  “If you prefer. He didn’t want me to come here.”

  “He was wise.”

  The knife pressed into Lenox’s throat. It must have been drawing blood, by now. His horror of knives had awakened. “Was he wise? I suppose he may have been. Just like Halifax. Just like Martin. Just like … you.”

  “Me.”

  “I told you I’d put my penknife in you, didn’t I, Lenox?”

  “We were friends aboard the Lucy, Billings.”

  A look of bitterness snarled the younger man’s lip. “Friends,” he said with heavy scorn.

  Lenox considered shouting, but knew it would mean his instant death. “You have gone mad. Come back to sanity, I beg of you. Give yourself up.”

  But Billings was too far gone. His eyes were wild and angry; the sane part of himself, the one that had allowed him to act as a competent naval officer these many years, seemed to have receded once the secret of his other side was out. It was often the way, Lenox knew. When the veneer had fallen away, it was hard to put it back up, for men like Billings.

  “I’ll give you up,” said Billings.

  “Did you even mean to carve up Halifax?”

  “What?”

  “You meant to kill him—but your gruesome little surgery. You couldn’t help that, I suppose, but it wasn’t part of the plan, was it?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Take your knife from my throat and I’ll let you leave.”

  “Ha.”

  “Billings, I warn you—”

  “You warn me! I ought to—”

  And then, to Lenox’s very great shock, he discovered that his own warnings were more potent than either he or Billings had imagined. There was an extremely soft footfall, and an instant later something heavy and black swung through the air and knocked Billings in the back of the head.

  The murderer stared at Lenox open-eyed for a moment, and then fell, his knife tumbling harmlessly from his hand.

  “Who is that?” said Lenox.

  “It is I, McEwan, sir.” The steward was breathing heavily. “I came because you have a guest.”

  “At two in the morning?”

  “Yes, sir. And if I say so, it couldn’t have happened at a better time.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  A man came in through the door.

  “Mr. Lenox?” he said in a French accent.

  Lenox blinked twice and pondered the scene in his room, which now bore a more than passing resemblance to King’s Cross Station at the rush hour.

  “Who are you?”

  But he scarcely needed to ask. “I am Sournois,” the man said. “What has happened here? Is this related to … to our business?”

  “No. It’s an old business—an ugly one, I’m sorry to say. McEwan, do you know this man?”

  “No, sir. He woke the butler and the butler woke me.”

  Lenox, still in bed, though now up on his arms, looked at the Frenchman. “How do I know you’re … Sournois?”

  “In front of him?” the Frenchman said, gesturing to McEwan.

  “He just saved my life. It’s fair to say that he has earned my trust.”

  “Thankee, sir.”

  “The kitchen is always closed when one is hungriest,” said Sournois.

  “There’s never a meal to be had in Port Said after ten,” Lenox replied. “Show me your hands?”

  “Eh?”

  “Your finger.”

  “Ah, of course.” Sournois held up his left hand, and it was, as expected, missing a single digit. “That is settled, then.”

  McEwan, baffled, looked at both of them. “What is it, sir?” he said.

  “This man is helping our government, McEwan. He’s French.”

  A pained look flashed across Sournois’s face, but he nodded. “It is true. Mr. Lenox, we cannot stay here. I took a great risk in coming, but—”

  “Mainton betrayed us.”

  “Pierre Mainton? No, no, not that amiable buffoon. I am with the French delegation here. It was one of your men who betrayed your plans. He still has connections in the highest parts of your government, apparently. Lord—”

  And here Sournois said the name of the earl’s son, the one who had fled England after a duel. Cosmo Ashenden. The one Lenox had dined with the night before.

  “I never took him for a traitor,” said Lenox.

  “Use that word more gingerly, please,” said Sournois.

  “Are you discovered?”

  “No. There are presently three hundred and forty Frenchmen in Port Said, and I have a better reason for being here than any of them. As it happens I also am in control of them, at least those who work in government, while I remain here.”

  “I see. And am I betrayed?”

  “Perhaps. We only received information that an Englishman was meeting with a Frenchman in the kitchen below the gentleman’s club, but of course it is known that you are freshly arrived in Port Said. Still, two hundred people came with you on the Lucy, and the French government would never take action against a member of Parliament. It was their own traitor they wanted.”

  Just as Edmund had predicted. “I was chased.”

  “Perhaps incorrectly. We must go, at any rate—every minute I linger here endangers both of our lives. I took a risk in coming.”

  “Thank God you did.” Lenox stood up. “Where would you have us go?”

  “Neutral territory.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have an idea—my carriage is outside.”

  “Should I trust you?” said Lenox.

  Sournois glanced around the room, and saw, lying on Lenox’s desk, the ornamental dagger that the wali’s nephew had gifted to the prime minister. “Please, bring this. You may check my driver and me for weapons.”

  “Very well.”

  “But, sir!” said McEwan. “Ther
e’s Mr. Billings!”

  Lenox, dressing now, looked down at Billings’s still body. “What do you think we should we do, McEwan?”

  “He must be arrested—handed over to Mr. Carrow!”

  “I quite agree. Bind his hands and legs and sit over him until I return, please. I’ll send word to the Lucy tonight.”

  McEwan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And have at those ginger biscuits while I’m gone, the ones Jane sent along with me. You’ve earned them.”

  McEwan smiled. “Just as you say.”

  Lenox went to him and looked him in the eyes. “Really, Mr. McEwan; shake my hand. I thank you, as does my family. When we return to England I will think of some way I can properly express my gratitude.”

  “Thank—”

  “But now I have to go.” Lenox took the dagger and nodded to Sournois.

  A carriage was waiting in the shadows near the consulate, not far from the road. Feeling rather ridiculous, Lenox patted down its driver and then Sournois, and had them turn their pockets inside out.

  “Are you satisfied?” said Sournois.

  “Yes. Where are we going?”

  “The water.”

  “Can we not speak in the carriage, as we drive?”

  “It will take several hours, I expect, our conversation. A carriage at this time of the evening is conspicuous, unless…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, unless it carries a European gentleman bound for the pleasure boats. The floating brothels.”

  “And that is where you mean to take us?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lenox.”

  “Very well.”

  As they drove Lenox kept a hand on the dagger, but his thoughts kept wandering to Billings, to Billings’s manic face looming over his own in the half darkness. How close death had come again! If not for Sournois, for McEwan, for Butterworth—his mind was anxious and racing, still convinced of some imminent danger. He felt himself still trembling, every so often.

  They came to the water soon, and found it busy and bright, a thousand lanterns from a hundred ships casting a flickering yellow warmth over the water.

  There were small messenger boats, and for a few coppers Lenox asked one to take a note to the Lucy, which he scrawled out in great haste with pencil and paper bought from the boatman. In fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty, Carrow would receive the message that Billings was alive and in Port Said.

  When this business was done Sournois hailed a pleasure bark floating nearby.

  “No,” murmured Lenox. “Not this one.”

  “You fear a trap?” asked the Frenchman in an urgent whisper. “Very well. We shall wait for the next one, then. But we wait separately.” He walked fifteen paces away from Lenox and lit a small cigar, his hat low and his cloak gathered up around his neck. It was chill out near the water.

  The next pleasure bark passed by ten minutes later, and Sournois hailed this one with a flick of his hand in the air.

  It pulled up alongside the dock and a gangway was flung out to meet them. A silent Egyptian waited on the deck.

  First Sournois and then Lenox crossed onto the ship. Was he being foolish, he wondered? Or daring? He hoped it was daring.

  The Egyptian held up a hand to halt them, then held up four fingers and pantomimed payment.

  “I am surprised he does not speak English or French,” said Lenox, handing over the coin.

  “The more expensive boats all call at this dock,” said Sournois, “and are all run by illiterate mutes. They cannot ask or answer questions. Many of the wali’s family come here, though it is forbidden them.”

  The Egyptian led them into a small cabin, hung with lanterns and draped with red tapestries that cast a hedonistic crimson glow over the plain chairs and tables. Lenox, distinctly uneasy, took a seat.

  After the Egyptian had gone for a few moments, he returned and beckoned them onward, through a small corridor; the ship was rocking unpleasantly, but they followed him. At the end of the hallway he pointed to two doors, then flashed ten fingers three times.

  “Half an hour,” said Lenox.

  Sournois removed a purse and counted out several pieces of silver. Then he pointed out to the sea, and flashed ten fingers ten times. Finally he pointed at the room they had come from, and beyond it the dock, and shook his head firmly.

  The Egyptian grinned and nodded, and then left them, apparently, to their own devices.

  “The women will be in that room, waiting for us to choose among them,” said Sournois. “I will speak to them. Wait in the smoking room, just there. Then we may converse.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  When Sournois came back into the room, Lenox asked him a question before he had even closed the door, hoping to catch the Frenchman off guard. “The British spies who died on French soil—does your government have more than a list of eight names?”

  Sournois smiled and came to the small table, where he sat down. From an inner pocket of his jacket he produced a gold flask inlaid with three rubies. “My father was a modest man—a petit fonctionnaire, yes?—but when I received my offer to join the government, a very prestigious office, you understand, he took several months’ salary and commissioned this flask for me, as a present. Before I betray his pride I must have a drink, must I not?”

  The dagger was in Lenox’s pocket, and he kept a hand around the hilt. He nodded. “Very well.”

  There were glasses on a stand near the bed, and Sournois poured two glasses of dark liquid. Lenox hesitated until the other man drank his off, and then followed suit. It was a liqueur that tasted of apples, very strong.

  “Thank you for drinking with me,” said Sournois. “Now, your question.”

  “The eight names.”

  Again Sournois reached into his pocket. “Here is the letter I received on the subject. Your officials may inspect the stamps and signatures for authenticity. You see, of course, that I have removed my name and offices from the document.”

  Lenox took the pages and put them in his own breast pocket. “And?”

  “My government killed your men, yes. What’s more, we have a list of sixty-five other gentlemen we know to be in the secret employ of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. Should any of them set foot in France, their lives would be forfeit.”

  Lenox’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Sixty-five,” he repeated. Remarkable news that: It meant that if this trip achieved nothing else, it had protected these men.

  “The money you have paid me, perhaps it will buy their safety back. That is some comfort—to spare unnecessary suffering, all the pink-cheeked English girls who would have lost their fathers.” Sournois laughed, and took a sip straight from his flask.

  “Does this mean war?”

  “At the moment my government is fiercely protective of its rights. You fear war, I know, but so do we. What would you do if you discovered French spies in London and Manchester?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “You would not hear, whether or not you are in Parliament, I venture to say.”

  “Perhaps not. But are your fleets readying themselves? Your armies?”

  “Of course. They can scarcely do otherwise, can they? And yet, we may buy peace yet, you and I.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sournois drank again. “Are you curious about my finger?”

  “No.”

  “Most men are. This same father, who gave me the flask, took my finger away.”

  “How?”

  “When I was nineteen I was a handsome boy, and the daughter of a great merchant in my hometown, Lille, wanted to marry me. But I had a different idea. She was plump and had … like this, you see,” he said, pulling his mustache. “Hair. So I ran off with my true love, a postman’s daughter. Penniless.”

  “Your father took your finger for it?”

  “When we returned to Lille he took me out for a glass of wine. He was already drunk, you understand. Our conversation began amiably enough, but when we began to discuss my marriage he grew angry, ve
ry angry. Violent. I stood, and he pushed me back into a bookshelf. There was a sword on the shelf, his father’s sword, a man who fought with Napoleon, and the sword took my finger off—fftt—just below the knuckle. Cleanly. Do you know why I tell you this story?”

  The ship bobbed in the water gently, and from the next room there was a burst of women’s laughter. Lenox’s grip on the hilt of the dagger tightened again, his unease back. “Why?”

  “It is more intelligent to marry for money than love, Mr. Lenox. Our countries must share a financial interest.”

  Lenox understood. “You mean Egypt. The Suez.”

  Sournois nodded. “Precisely. Egypt. The Suez.”

  Neither man spoke for a moment, and then Lenox said. “Very well. There are more questions.”

  “Of course.”

  For the next two hours Lenox asked all the questions that his brother had told him to, mixing in some of his own, and Sournois dutifully answered, once even producing another piece of documentary evidence. Troop numbers, strength, movement. France’s own spies within England. Information about the men who formed the French government, their martial or pacific inclinations, and private inclinations too, that might be used against them. Sournois told Lenox all of it, in between sips from his gold flask. The price paid to him must have been very steep indeed.

  Again and again, however, he stressed that France did not desire war—that he did not desire war. Lenox remained impassive in the face of these declarations, though inwardly he agreed.

  All of this information Lenox wrote in a shorthand he had used since school, and which he and his brother had both agreed would be relatively difficult to decipher should it be seen by the wrong pair of eyes.

  When he had gone through all of Edmund’s questions and taken a sheaf of notes for himself, Lenox checked his watch. It was past four in the morning. His attention had been focused so firmly on this task—and on its uncertain execution—that he had pushed Billings almost entirely out of his mind. Yet he could still, if he stopped thinking for a moment, feel the knife at his throat. He took a deep breath.

  “All is well?” said Sournois, looking genuinely concerned.