The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [650]
I happened to know that Jocasta Cameron—like her nephew—was left-handed, but it seemed more tactful not to mention that at the moment. I glanced at Jamie, who raised both brows at me.
Would she? I asked silently.
A MacKenzie of Leoch? his cynical look said back.
“Where is Ulysses?” I asked.
“In the stable, most like, if he hasna already headed west.” Knowing that if anyone learned the truth of the Lieutenant’s death, Ulysses would be condemned at once, Jocasta had sent her butler to saddle a horse, with instructions to flee into the mountains, should anyone come.
Jamie drew a deep breath and rubbed a hand over his head, thinking.
“Well, then. I should say the best thing, perhaps, is for the Lieutenant to disappear. Where have ye put him for the moment, Duncan?”
A muscle near Duncan’s mouth twitched, in an uneasy attempt at a smile.
“I believe he’s in the barbecue pit, Mac Dubh. Covered over wi’ burlap, and piled with hickory wood, disguised as a pork carcass.”
Jamie’s brows went up again, but he merely nodded.
“Aye, then. Leave it to me, Duncan.”
I left instructions for Duncan to be given honeyed water and tea brewed with boneset and cherry bark, and went outside with Jamie to contemplate methods of disappearance.
“The simplest thing would be just to bury him somewhere, I suppose,” I said.
“Mmphm,” Jamie said. He lifted the pine torch he was carrying, frowning thoughtfully at the humped mound of burlap in the pit. I hadn’t liked the Lieutenant in the least, but it looked rather pitiful.
“Maybe. I’m thinkin’, though—the slaves all ken what’s happened. If we bury him on the place, they’ll ken that, too. They wouldna tell anyone, of course—but he’ll haunt the place, aye?”
A shiver ran up my spine, engendered as much by the matter-of-factness of his tone as by his words, and I pulled my shawl closer round me.
“Haunt the place?”
“Aye, of course. A murder victim, done to death here, and hidden, unavenged?”
“You mean . . . really haunt the place?” I asked, carefully, “or do you only mean the slaves would think so?”
He shrugged, twitching his shoulders uneasily.
“I dinna think it matters so much, does it? They’ll avoid the spot where he’s buried, one of the women will see the ghost at night, rumors will get round, as they do—and next thing, a slave at Greenoaks will say something, someone in Farquard’s family will hear of it, and before ye know it, someone will be over here, asking questions. Given that the Navy is like to be looking for the Lieutenant before too long anyway . . . what d’ye say to weighting the body and putting it in the river? That’s what he had in mind for Duncan, after all.”
“Not a bad notion,” I said, considering it. “But he meant Duncan to be found. There’s a lot of boat traffic on the river, and it isn’t very deep up this far. Even if we weighted the body well, it’s possible it would rise, or someone snag it with a pole. Would it matter if someone found it, though, do you think? The body wouldn’t be connected with River Run.”
He nodded slowly, moving the torch aside to keep the sparks from showering over his sleeve. There was a light wind, and the elms near the barbecue pit whispered restlessly overhead.
“Aye, that’s so. Only, if someone does find him, there’ll be an inquiry. The Navy will send someone to try to find out the truth of the matter—and they’ll come here, asking questions. What d’ye think will happen, if they were to badger the slaves, askin’ had they seen the Lieutenant, and so on?”
“Mm, yes.” Given the slaves’ present acute state of nerves, I imagined that any inquiry would send one or more of them into a state of panic, in which anything might be blurted out.
Jamie was standing quite still, staring at the burlap-draped shape with an expression of deep abstraction. I drew a deep breath, caught a faint scent of decaying blood, and let it out again, quick.
“I suppose . . . we could burn him,” I said, and