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problem of the distinctive Stanton voice, because the servant was insistent that he recognized it. So I wondered about relatives. Is there anyone related to Tristram Stanton who could have posed as him?”
    â€œWa-al, that’s a thought.” The sheriff relapsed into a deep silence, frowning down at the warm deck boards between his straddled boots. “There’s only one that comes to mind—a cousin, John Burroughs,” he said finally. “But I don’t see how he could be the murderer, there being no motive whatsoever. He’s a scientific like young Stanton, but rich like Croesus—rich the way the Stantons ain’t but would like to be. Years ago, the way I heard it, he turned ’em away from the door when they came begging for help to save the plantation, and they’ve had nothing to do with each other since. Common talk has it that a feud brewed, and now they’re deadly enemies.”
    â€œNevertheless, he might be worth looking up.”
    â€œMebbe—but probably not.” The sheriff straightened, losing patience with the farfetched and complicated notion, and said, “I’m goin’ to look for that missing rifle. In my opinion, if we find the gun, we have the murderer.”
    â€œBut surely he got rid of it?”
    â€œIt’s likely he couldn’t bear to throw it away. No man who appreciates a fine weapon is going to destroy a rifle like that. He might’ve stowed it someplace in a hurry after finding there was a witness on the riverbank, but my guess is he’ll retrieve it.”
    â€œH’m,” Wiki said thoughtfully, but before he could ask more, there was a rattle of footsteps on the companionway. He looked around and saw George Rochester rubbing his hands together and looking highly animated. “Sir,” he cried over his shoulder to Erskine, who was coming up close behind him, “there’s nothing to retard us now—the tide’s on the ebb and the wind’s in our favor. We’ll trip anchor, if you please, and stand down the bay.”
    â€œAye, sir!”
    The orders were coming fast, the drawn-out words, “A-l-l visitors ashore!” almost lost in the rattle of, “All hands!” and, “Man the windlass!” Wiki spun on his heel and scooted up the rigging, intent on the big mainsail that was waiting to be loosed. Below him as he sidled out along the yard the gang was working at the windlass to heave the anchor short.
    Down went the sheriff’s boat, and down the side went the sheriff. The sky and the sea were brilliant, the water dancing and sparkling, tossed up by a brisk, fair breeze. The canvas dropped, snapped, and rippled taut. “Set jibs!” cried Captain Rochester, and with a snatch and a dainty lift of her bow the Swallow plucked her anchor.
    Wiki’s last glimpse of the sheriff was as his boat drew away. The sunlight glittered on the five-pointed badge on his chest. He was not looking at Wiki but at Tristram T. Stanton, who was leaning on the rail directly below Wiki’s perch, and his expression was a study in frustration.

Five
    Within days George Rochester was deeply regretting having banished Wiki from the after cabins—not that there had been much choice, he supposed. His stateroom had been the only berth in the after quarters suitable for Astronomer Stanton; and if Wiki had not offered to move forward, George would have been forced to ask him to move into the forecastle—not that he had more than the vaguest idea of what life in the forecastle of a small brig was like. His previous seafaring experience had not included anything that resembled it in the slightest.
    After George’s grandparents had grudgingly consented to allow him to go to sea, he had approached a sailor he’d spied perched at ease on a New London wharf for advice about joining the navy. George could remember the fellow exactly—an extremely weathered and cynical old salt