I looked at the body, at the posture of the hands, and answered emphatically, “No.”
I found terror rather than grief in Mrs. Savage’s manner; whenever she directed her eyes at the corpse I noticed the straining of panic fear in them. The captain opened the cabin door, and called for the stewardess. She was in waiting outside, as you may believe. The cuddy, indeed, was full of people, and whilst the door was open I heard the grumbling hum of the voices of ’tween-deck passengers and seamen crowding at the cuddy front. The news had spread that one of the first-class passengers had been murdered, and every tongue was asking who had done it.
The stewardess took Mrs. Savage to a spare cabin. When the women were gone and the door again shut, Captain Smallport still remaining with me, I drew the dagger out of the breast of the body and took it to the light. It was more properly a dagger-shaped knife than a dagger, the point sharp as a needle, the edge razor-like. The handle was of fretted ivory; to it was affixed a thin slip of silver plate, on which was engraved “Charles Winthrop Sheringham to Leonora Dunbar.”
“Is it the wife’s doing, do you think?” said the captain, looking at the dagger.
“I would not say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to that question yet,” said I.
“She might have done it in her sleep.”
“Look at his hands,” said I. “He did not stab himself. Will you take charge of this dagger, captain?”
“All bloody like that!” cried he, recoiling.
I cleansed it, and then he took it.
We stood conversing awhile. I examined the body again; which done, the pair of us went out, first extinguishing the lamp, and then locking the door.