There was nothing to see but the dead man, lying on his face motionless, blood still oozing from an ugly knife wound in his back.

We needed to ask no questions, imagine nothing--the overturned chair, the stricken sailor told the whole story.

He had been treacherously stuck from behind, the blade driven home by a strong hand, and was dead before he fell to the deck.

It had been silent, vengeful murder, and the assassin had left no trace.

Who could it have been?
Not Gunsaules surely--the steward lacked both nerve and strength for such a deed.