Babel : Or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution (9780063021440)

‘I – well, I suppose that works, I just . . .’ He shook his head. There was a very loud ringing in his ears, and it made it hard for him to collect his thoughts. ‘Sorry, I just . . . aren’t any of you going to ask me why?’

Blank stares all around.

‘It’s just – you’re all signed up to help me conceal a murder?’ Robin couldn’t help all his statements becoming questions. The whole world right then seemed like one great, unanswerable question. ‘And you’re not even going to ask how, or why?’

Ramy and Victoire exchanged a look. But it was Letty who answered first. ‘I think we all understand why.’ Her throat pulsed. He could not decipher the expression on her face – it was something he’d never seen on her before, some strange mixture of pity and resolve. ‘And to be honest, Robin, I think the less we say about it the better.’

Cleaning up the cabin went faster than Robin had feared. Letty secured a mop and bucket from the crew by claiming she’d vomited from seasickness, and the rest of them contributed several articles of clothing to soak up the bloody water.

Then there was the matter of disposal. They decided that shoving Professor Lovell in a trunk was their best chance at getting his body to the upper deck unquestioned. The migration upstairs was a game of bated breaths and progress in inches. Victoire would dart forward every few seconds, check to make sure there was no one in sight, and then motion frantically for Robin and Ramy to drag the trunk up another few steps. Letty kept guard on the top deck, feigning a nighttime stroll for some fresh air.

Somehow they got the trunk to the edge of the railing without attracting suspicion.

‘All right.’ Robin slid the lid off the trunk. Originally they’d considered throwing the whole trunk away, but Victoire had astutely pointed out that wood would float. He was afraid to look down; he wanted, if possible, to do this without looking at his father’s face. ‘Quickly, before anyone sees—’

‘Hold on,’ said Ramy. ‘We have to weight it down, otherwise it’ll bob around.’

Robin had a sudden vision of Professor Lovell’s body floating in the wake of the ship, attracting a crowd of sailors and seagulls. He fought a wave of nausea. ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

‘I was a bit panicked, all right?’

‘But you seemed so calm—’

‘I’m good in emergencies, Birdie, but I’m not God.’

Robin’s eyes darted around the deck, searching for anything that might serve as an anchor – oars, wooden buckets, spare planks – damn it, why was everything on a ship designed to float?

At last he found a pile of rope knotted through with what looked like weights. He prayed it wasn’t needed for anything important and dragged it over to the trunk. Securing the rope around Professor Lovell was a nightmare. His heavy, stiffening limbs did not move easily; the corpse seemed in fact to be actively resisting them. The rope, horrifically, snagged on exposed and jagged ribs. Robin’s hands, sweaty with fear, kept slipping; several agonizing minutes passed before they got the rope snugly around the professor’s arms and legs. Robin wanted to tie a quick knot and be done with it, but Ramy was adamant they take their time; he didn’t want the ropes to disentangle as soon as the body hit the water.

‘All right,’ Ramy whispered at last, yanking at the rope. ‘That should do it.’

They each took an end of the corpse – Robin the shoulders, and Ramy the feet – and hoisted it out of the trunk.

‘One,’ Ramy whispered. ‘Two . . .’

On the third swing, they lifted Professor Lovell’s body over the railing and let go. It seemed an eternity before they heard the splash.

Ramy bent over the railing, scrutinizing the dark waves.

‘It’s gone,’ he said at last. ‘He’s not coming up.’

Robin couldn’t speak. He staggered several steps back and vomited onto the deck.

Now, Ramy instructed, they simply went back to their bunks and acted normal for the rest of the voyage. Simple, in theory. But of all the places to commit a murder, a ship midvoyage had to be one of the worst. A killer on the street could at least drop his weapon and flee the city. But they were stuck for two more months at the scene of the crime, two months during which they had to maintain the fiction that they had not blown a man’s chest apart and dumped his body into the ocean.

They tried to keep up appearances. They took their daily strolls around the deck, they entertained Miss Smythe and her tiresome inquiries, and they appeared for meals in the mess, thrice a day on the clock, trying their best to work up an appetite.

‘He’s just feeling under the weather,’ Ramy answered when the cook asked why he hadn’t seen Professor Lovell for several days. ‘He says he’s not very hungry – some kind of stomach affliction – but we’ll bring him something to eat later.’

‘Did he say what’s precisely the matter?’ The cook was a smiling and gregarious man; Robin couldn’t tell if he was prying or just being friendly.