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“Yes, vile creatures, they find their way on board no matter what we do. Although no one has come forward, we believe a crewman caught one, killed it, and threw it overboard.”
Lady Bentwood is not convinced.
“There were two figures, tall as each other. Rats are not that large, nor do they sound like a man being tossed overboard.”
He laughs, then quickly squelches it.
“My apologies,” he repeats, “you are correct. Rats are not large as a man, but I cannot account for what you believe you saw.” He leans forward, as if to placate, but she backs away, and just as quickly, he straightens. “It was dark, Lady Bentwood. The rigging casts shadows, creaks, and moans much as a man would. You are not the first to fall prey to such eerie sounds.”
“My wife is an adept sailor.” Bentwood has been quietly watching this exchange. His wife’s reaction is immediate. Her fists, bunched and tight at her sides, ease. Her lips, pursed tight, soften as he continues, “She is familiar with the sounds at sea, as am I.”
Interesting that he merely implies but does not address the fact that he heard the scream as well.
“Then you understand.” Harris nods.
The men are not agreeing to the same thing, and they both know it. What am I missing here?
I am acquainted with Lady Bentwood’s father, whom Bentwood knows well. Captain Harris reminds me of the man. Watching the interaction, I picture Lady Bentwood as a child, stubbornly fighting for her version of truth despite an overbearing father insisting, with gracious reasonableness, that she is a fool. Bentwood sided with her, without siding with her. Has he been walking this fine line for years? Is he too cowardly to defend her outright?
No, he is not a cowardly man, so what is his goal?
“No offense meant, Lady Bentwood,” Harris tells her, “but facts don’t lie. There is no knife, and the roll call this morning proved everyone is accounted for. No one could have gone by the boards.”
“What about the passengers confined to their cabins?” I ask. “Surely my abigail is not the only one suffering from mal de mer.”
“All have been accounted for,” Harris confirms. “But you are correct, the seas are turning rough. You really must go belowdecks.”
“Someone went over the side.” Lady Bentwood stands firm, although her husband is trying to lead her away. “Whether you care to acknowledge it or not.”
“There is a…” Harris clears his throat. “An unlikely possibility, as it was not reported to me,” — his chin lifts at the affront — “but there is always a chance of stowaways. If that were the case, he would’ve been tossed by the boards. The man’s fate would have been sealed.”
“Barbaric,” Lady Bentwood condemns.
I rather think Captain Harris would have relished the find, and the conclusion. Which bears the question, if that were the case, why wasn’t he informed?
“Surely there was a witness other than Lady Bentwood.”
The captain shifts.
“Not that they will admit.”
“There was blood,” I remind him, “quite a lot of blood.”
“The purged rodent.” He bows. “Now please, I must see to my ship, and you must go below.”
My maid, Jenny, was sick with the calm sea. She will be worse now. I grab the bag I was holding steady with my foot and head towards the foredeck.
“Lady Bentwood.”
She stops, watching me warily.
“I believe you.”
Nothing more needs saying. I take my leave.
“Where are you off to?” Bentwood calls after me.
Waving as I walk, I explain, “To see to Jenny.” And stop midstride as I remember something. “If sailors are forbidden on the aft deck, who was that foreigner?”
