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“It was after we carried Jake back to the mine that I discovered he’d been stabbed in the ear. I hid that from the men and wondered why someone woulda killed him. Made sense that old Jake saw something someone else didn’t want him to see. Something near the tailings, since no one but Charlie could have moved Jake’s body alone and even then it would have been a struggle. You see, Jake liked to—”
“Please stick to what’s relevant, Mr. Brewster.”
“What? Oh, sure. Sorry. I ramble sometimes. What was I talking about?”
“Charlie Widney discovering Jake Hobart’s body. You wondered why someone would have killed him and you surmised that Jake saw something the killer didn’t want him to see.”
“What was it?” Brewster asked, as if this was now Bell’s tale to tell and not his own.
For his part, Bell kept calm despite his raging sense of impatience. “You tell me. You mentioned a radio.”
The man’s face lit up in recognition. “Right. The radio. I wondered what got Jake killed, you see. So I went back after we brought in his body and looked around some. And hidden in the pile of waste rock and debris I found a metal box. I vaguely recalled it from when we off-loaded the equipment and animals from the French ship, the Lorient, but had no idea who brought it or what was inside. And inside was a radio set and a small hand-cranked generator to provide electricity.”
“You’re sure no one paid it special attention during your journey?”
“Yes, damnit!” Brewster snarled, obviously upset at being second-guessed. “One of my men was dead, Bell. Murdered. I’ve racked my brain over this every day since.”
“Sorry . . . What did you do?”
“I didn’t want whoever was behind the murder to know I was onto ’em so I pulled the magnet from the little generator, and when I went back in the mine, and no one was paying me any attention, I heated it in the forge we’d fashioned to repair our tools and such. The heat demagnetized the metal, and I put it back just like I found it.”
Bell was impressed. “He could turn the crank all day and not generate one volt of electricity.”
Brewster grinned at his own cleverness. “Yup. I watched that spot as best I could over the next weeks but never saw anyone nosing around. I think he’d been spooked by having to kill Jake Hobart and decided it best to not radio his French buddies.”
“Until tonight,” Bell said, for his benefit rather than Brewster’s. “If you think of anything else—and, I mean, anything no matter how trivial—you need to tell me straightaway. Okay?”
“I will. I promise.” Now the man looked to be on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you this earlier. My mind plays tricks on me.”
“With luck, it will turn out to be an omission without consequence.” Bell didn’t believe that even as he said it. He left Brewster to whatever thoughts rattled around in his increasingly distraught brain.
Three days passed. Three days of monotony tainted by a nervous anticipation that kept the crew on edge. The ship handled well, and the pack ice was left behind, but they were discovering a great many small and midsized icebergs that had calved from east Greenland ice sheets or migrated from the west coast around Greenland’s southern tip and now drifted in the straits between Norway and the Svalbard archipelago.
The miners spent most of their time in the mess or in the cabins. They weren’t allowed on the bridge, the captain citing safety concerns, although Bell was there as a regular fixture. No one seemed to care. Bell spent time with each of the men trying to learn what he could about them without seeming too nosy. If anyone did think his questions were becoming too personal, Bell would immediately back off, saying it was his nature and no offense was intended.
He made certain that all the Coloradans knew he was treating each of them more or less the same so as to not arouse suspicion. He operated on the hope that the traitor in their midst didn’t know Bell had been alerted to his presence, but at the same time accepted the possibility the man knew the Van Dorn detective was already suspicious. It was a fine line he trod
but one on which he’d walked a thousand miles.
The miners seemed to regain some vigor, if not their health. They all had various aches and pains and complaints, but none seemed to be getting worse, and those who could eat more solid food regained some strength.
25
It was just after dawn on the third day since someone had sent a radio call, and Bell was on the bridge about to go below to eat breakfast with the miners. He tried to dine with them as often as possible. If he wasn’t engaging with any of them, he was always watching, alert to any idiosyncrasies that might betray his quarry.
Ragnar Fyrie was in the captain’s chair, a pair of binoculars to his eyes, watching a berg shaped like a lesser noble’s castle slide by a mile off the starboard side. Magnus was at the con, his mop of blond hair contained under a tight woolen cap. His attention was on the coffee he’d just spilled down the front of his cable-knit sweater, so Bell was the first to see it. There was an odd, undulating movement, unrelated to the ship’s roll, near the prow. Bell watched for a moment, unsure what he was seeing. But as soon as Magnus noted it, he gave a panicked cry.
“Captain. Fire!”
And then Bell realized that what he was seeing was smoke, boiling up from under the wicked-looking harpoon cannon.
Fyrie dumped the binoculars into a canvas sling dangling from the wall and leapt for the stairs down to the main deck. He used his elbows to slide down the polished brass railings so that his feet never touched a tread. Bell followed as best he could, his feet slapping at the stairs in a vain attempt to keep up. He well knew that fire, more than any other danger, more than even sinking, is what a mariner feared most.
One of the two crewmen named Petr was just coming from the galley with thermoses of freshly brewed coffee, and Fyrie almost bowled him over. “Get up to the cannon. The cover for the harpoon fairlead came off. Watch yourself. There’s fire in the mechanical room below the firing platform.” The man’s eyes went wide at the word fire, but he wordlessly rushed off.
“Should have confined them,” Fyrie said tightly as he raced forward.
Bell knew he meant the miners and knew he suspected the fire was deliberately set, an arson attack to slow their escape to Scotland. He stayed on the captain’s heels, wholeheartedly agreeing.
