Dead water - Barbara Hambly [115]
“Or Gleet would produce a bill of sale and a story about how Hannibal signed you over to him to pay a gambling debt.” Rose's voice had an edge like chipped flint.
January raised his eyebrows in agreement, but said nothing for a time. For a long while the only sounds in the room were the droning of the flies—which infested this side of the boat—and the dull throb of the engine and the splashing of the paddle as the Silver Moon picked up speed, and the slow, sobbing whisper of Hannibal's breath.
“Yet it was Molloy they killed.” Rose picked up the rifle-bullet January had laid on the dresser and turned it over in her fingers. “They could have shot Hannibal at the same time. It is ‘they,' isn't it? Not ‘he or she'?”
“I think so. And the more I look at it, the less I'm inclined to believe that Molloy's death has anything to do with Weems's theft of money from the Bank of Louisiana.”
“You mean if Weems was blackmailing Cain—and had a letter or whatever it was in his stateroom that Molloy later took—he could have had something that implicated someone else on board? Mr. Lundy, for instance? Except we know where Lundy was when Molloy was shot as well.” Rose edged around January and began to pull off Hannibal's boots.
“I'll get that,” January offered, making to put down the medicine, but Rose shook her head,
“I'm no good with nursing, and I've had plenty of practice at yanking off Hannibal's boots.”
January grimaced agreement and ran an affectionate hand along his unconscious friend's arm. “I'm afraid most of his friends have,” he said. Rose looked exhausted, and no wonder, thought January. The night of stress and fear for her friend had been followed by the terrible shock of finding him still in peril . . . and there was still the decision looming of what they'd do when they reached Mayersville and the sheriff took January and Hannibal into custody.
A decision, thought January, glancing at the brightening daylight through the louver-slits of the door, that he—and she—would have to make probably within the hour.
“You don't think it was Queen Régine who poisoned him, do you?” she asked. “You said there were poisons in the bundle we found. If he'd seen her accidentally, for instance . . .”
“If Queen Régine wanted to poison anyone,” said January, “it would be me. . . . And I've been very careful not to eat or drink anything that's stood unwatched in this stateroom. And Queen Régine knows perfectly well that I know—and therefore, that you and Hannibal know—that she's on this boat, and nobody's been able to see her yet, except one glimpse of a skirt. If that was her. If she'd wanted to poison Hannibal, for whatever reason, he'd be dead now.”
“I suppose so.” Rose sank down onto the bed, rubbing her forehead. “But even if someone got off the boat under cover of darkness, to hide in the trees—which could have been done fairly easily—I still don't see how they could have gotten back on after the duel, when it was daylight. We watched everyone go over and come back: Gleet came back, Cain and his slaves went over, and Cain was with the slaves the whole time. They came back with Molloy's body, then later a deck-hand rowed over and got you.”
“Yes.” January came around behind her and laid his big hands on her shoulders—the muscles of her neck felt like wood under his fingers. “Cain and his slaves. There are unanswered questions concerning Cain and his slaves on the night of Weems's death, too, aren't there?”
Rose opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Then she said, “Cain . . . is using his slaves as agents? That's terribly risky, isn't it? He's a slave-dealer. . . .”
“He says he's a slave-dealer,” said January softly. “But we've been on this boat for over a week and I have yet to see him even try to sell a single slave.”
Outside, the pilot-house bell clanged as the Silver Moon approached the landing of Brock's Wood-Yard. Souter's voice trumpeted orders to