“No, Mr. Carrington,” Joseph said.

“Still all correct?” asked the consul, turning again to Nathaniel.

“Yes, sir. But …” Nathaniel hesitated.

“But what, young man?”

“Well, it doesn’t sound so good, the way you put it. I mean, that we didn’t see him stab our shipmate.”

“I am not an attorney,” said Carrington, “but I would say that as evidence for a homicide case, it sounds absolutely terrible. However, you’ve come with this information, and I am required to report it. With your permission, I shall continue.”

When he finished, some twenty minutes later, Joseph closed his notebook and asked if that would be all.

“Not yet.” The consul leaned back in his swivel chair and ruminated for a few moments, brown mustache twitching, hands folded over his substantial waist—the waistline of a plutocrat rather than a diplomat, Eliot thought. “Would any of you boys care to speculate on what this Francisco’s motives were?” he asked. “Andrew, you were the one who saw them talking, but you said they weren’t arguing.”

“I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but it didn’t sound like an argument, no, sir,” Drew replied. He did not like the look of chilly skepticism on Carrington’s face.

“Nathaniel? Eliot? Can you think of any reason why this boy, in the course of what to all appearances was a friendly conversation, or at least not a hostile one, should suddenly stab your friend?”

They shook their heads.

“And then we have your fellow passenger, Francisco’s older sister. Perhaps she could shed some light, but you say that she disembarked as soon as La Esperanza docked and that was the last you saw of her?”

Nathaniel, recalling Elvira’s departure—she had vanished into the crowds around Havana’s inner harbor—confirmed that that had been the case.

“So that leaves us with the master of La Esperanza, but you say he sailed back to Cárdenas today. Thus, we have no one to corroborate your story. Nor do we have a body. Jurisprudence here may not have the fine points of our Anglo-Saxon variety, but it does have writ of habeas corpus.”

“What’s that, sir?” asked Eliot, thinking, He doesn’t believe a word we’ve said.

“It means that if you’re going to allege a murder, you had better have a body to prove that a murder was committed. But you say Mr. Terhune was buried at sea.” Pausing, Carrington daubed his forehead once again with his handkerchief. “On that topic, perhaps you could go over the details of the burial again. Mr. Terhune’s family will doubtless have questions, and it is best that we have as much information as possible. Joseph, be sure you get this down.”