Ghost Ship

by P. J. Alderman

  She was pleased to find that the overhead lights had been turned back on—an improvement since the last time she’d visited, huddling in the dark and using her penlight to read. From memory, Jordan quickly found the stacks that contained binders of newspapers from the 1890s. Before she’d left the house, she’d checked the date of the story about Seavey’s murder, which made it easy to narrow down which binder to pull from the shelves. Her best guess was that the shipwreck had to have occurred either immediately before that article was printed, or within a few days of it. And the shipwreck would have been big news—there should be several articles about it.

  Sitting down at a small desk on the back wall, she set Seavey’s papers, which she’d brought as another point of reference, aside for the moment. She opened the binder and started carefully lifting out stacks of brittle yellowed newsprint, scanning for dates and headlines. As luck would have it, she found what she was looking for in the first set of papers, spying the following banner headline, stretching across the front page:

  Tragedy Strikes in Local Waters: Scores Perish as Henrietta Dale Founders on Dungeness Spit

  August 5—Captain Nathaniel Williams, commander of the ill-fated clipper ship the Henrietta Dale, stood beside this reporter late last night on the west edge of Dungeness Spit, tears pouring down his ruddy cheeks as he watched the ship disintegrate, having fallen victim to powerful waves. “I’ve never skippered a finer ship,” he cried. “It breaks my heart to watch her die.”

  While en route from Victoria, British Columbia, the ship mysteriously ran aground south of the New Dungeness Lighthouse. As of this reporter’s deadline, many of the crew and passengers on board have perished, though the lightkeeper, with the help of his wife, has been able to pull a few blessed souls from the icy surf.

  Rescue personnel from neighboring towns—including our own Port Chatham—tried in vain to help those injured in the sudden grounding, but the precarious nature of the ship in shifting sands was a danger to all those who valiantly attempted to save lives.

  Captain Williams removed his wool cap in a gesture of respect as the beautiful ship met her final death throes, her masts crashing into the surf, her hull breaking into pieces. “She was the pinnacle of my life’s work,” he said, visibly distraught. “I’ll never skipper another like her.”

  Though few in number, the injured will be transported to Port Chatham to be treated at local infirmaries. Relatives of crew members and passengers can inquire as to the status of their loved ones at the Port Chatham Police Station.

  Jordan set the newspaper aside, leaning back in the wooden chair she’d pulled up to the small desk. So there had been survivors. That meant there must be a list of victims in a subsequent article, as well as stories from survivors that would give her an idea of how many survived and who they might have been. It was possible she’d even run across a mention of Michael Seavey, either listed among the dead or noted as transported to the local infirmary.

  She sorted through the rest of the stacks of newsprint, frustrated when she found nothing other than the article Hattie had shown her mentioning Seavey’s murder. As with many historical collections, not all issues of the old newspaper had been preserved—there were gaps in the coverage, big gaps. She had a few more issues at home, but the chances were slim she’d find what she needed there.

  Dammit! Scrubbing her hands over her face, she thought about what she knew so far, which was precious little: The ship had run aground, and it was possible that Michael Seavey had survived the wreck. She’d found no mention, though, of the ship being deliberately lured off course.

  If Seavey had survived, why didn’t he remember? And why weren’t there more articles about Seavey’s murder? Did the lack of stories about a formal murder investigation support his contention that Eleanor had planted the article for some reason? Surely even the murders of known criminals had been investigated in the nineteenth century. And such an investigation wouldn’t have been ignored by the newspaper, if only for the purpose of underlining Eleanor’s unyielding editorial stance regarding the evils of such activities.

  Then again, Jordan supposed it didn’t matter how Seavey had died, necessarily. Because if the ship had been lured onto the rocks, someone had most likely intended to murder him. In fact, whoever that person was may have realized Seavey had survived and come back to finish the job. If she could find evidence that someone had deliberately wrecked the ship, then either way, she had a murder to solve.

  She pulled herself up short. If she decided to solve it. As far as she was concerned, she’d found her answer, that she really was—alarmingly—seeing a ghost ship. The article was clear: The Henrietta Dale had broken up in the surf off Dungeness Spit that night over one hundred years ago. So Bob was correct; there was no way anyone could have refurbished the vessel.

  Jordan let her mind slide away from that scary little fact and focused on murder instead. Seavey didn’t seem to care how he had died. But Hattie did. And dammit, if she were in Hattie’s place, she would feel a similar level of guilt. Hadn’t she wanted to solve her own husband’s murder, even after he’d slept around on her, dragged her name through the papers, and battled her for more than his fair share of the assets in the divorce? Admittedly, Ryland had turned out to be a major jerk, but he hadn’t deserved to die. And although Jordan had been implicated, her main motivation had been to find out who killed the man she’d once loved.

  In Seavey’s case, there was no question that he had a violent past, but he’d cared enough for Hattie to avenge her murder, and he hadn’t deserved to be falsely accused. Even if Hattie eventually chose not to marry him, she would feel better if she at least helped find out what had happened to him. So Jordan had no problem empathizing with Hattie’s point of view. Unfortunately.

  She felt like banging her head against the nearest brick wall. Besides Seavey, who had been on board the Henrietta Dale that night? Obviously, the crew and its captain; Bob had said that Seavey had hired a captain known to be extremely competent. Had that captain been hired locally? If so, it was possible the captain had written a memoir. After all, he would want to defend his actions that night, in case anyone wondered about his culpability.

  She stood and walked over to the stacks, hunting for collections that were perhaps from famous Port Chatham maritime families. If she could piece together the details of the events surrounding the Henrietta Dale, then research the laws and cultural mores of the time regarding the importation and use of opium, perhaps she’d start to have a sense of Michael Seavey’s life in the weeks before his death.

  Hunting through folders and binders for more than a half hour, she was about to give up when she found a small packet of papers written by Captain Nathaniel Williams. Opening it, she discovered a sheaf of badly frayed, handwritten pages, presumably from a personal diary, carefully encased in plastic covers. She flipped through them, looking for dates, but most of the entries didn’t have any. There was no telling whether the pages documenting the shipwreck had survived—she’d have to go through what was there to determine if the collection contained any information of use.

  Tucking the folder under one arm, she headed back to the small reading table, stopping on her way to snag the binder of newspapers from the weeks before the shipwreck. According to Seavey’s personal papers, Eleanor’s editorial campaign began around then. If Jordan could find the editorial mentioned by Seavey, it might give some clues as to who had been smuggling opium into Port Chatham then, and who might have had a reason to want Seavey out of the way. Then, using Seavey’s and the captain’s papers, she might be able to put the rest of the picture together.

  Sitting down, she stacked her reading materials to one side and started sorting through newspaper issues. Minutes later, she had Eleanor’s editorial in hand.

  Guarded Secrets

  Union Wharf

  July 10, 1893

  Contraband Floods Our Shores, Ripping

  at the Very Fabric of Our Beloved

  Port Chatham S
ociety

  Opium is a drug many of us may have originally viewed as imbued with a mysterious and sinister beauty, capable of opening the doors to a never-before envisioned, dreamlike paradise. Now it threatens to destroy the very society we depend on as stalwart citizens. Not only does our community lose precious tax dollars from the frequently condoned practice of smuggling this contraband past revenue agents, but the drug itself, addictive in the most horrific sense, slowly and relentlessly destroys its users.

  Businessmen well known to all in our town think nothing of increasing their profits through their illicit dealings in this drug. And community leaders turn a blind eye, enamored themselves with the perilous effects of smoking the drug, shielded from view in their own parlors. But as a society, we must stand up to the evil purveyors of this diabolical substance, declaring its import and use outlawed. We must impose stiff fines and jail sentences on those who would flaunt their wares, luring our children into their malodorous smoking dens of iniquity, turning those we love into emaciated, melancholy ghosts who can no longer contribute meaningfully to our town’s prosperity.

  We must fight valiantly against the invasion of this devil drug, just as we fought against the invasion of those who introduced the drug to our shores. Let this letter be a warning that this newspaper—indeed, this voice of moral constancy for our community—will not stand mute while local businessmen continue to corrupt and ruin the lives of our citizens.

  Standing in the early-morning light on the waterfront docks, Michael Seavey tossed the paper back to Remy. “Dispose of it,” he snapped. “The woman is unhinged, clearly misguided in her beliefs.”

  “She grows more dangerous by the day,” the burly bodyguard cautioned.

  “To date, she has made no accusations against specific individuals.” Michael slapped his gloves against his pants leg. “Nevertheless, I want to know the minute you hear of any other planned actions on her part.”

  Remy’s expression turned sharklike. “You want me to send a message, Boss? I could pay a visit to one of her reporters—”

  “No.” Michael hesitated. “Not yet. I’ll let you know.”

  Dismissing his bodyguard, Michael stood for a moment, regaining his temper and gazing up at the clipper ship he’d recently purchased. After a lengthy stay at the docks in Port Blakely, during which portions of its deck and hold had been completely rebuilt, he’d had it moved to Union Wharf for the finishing touches to the passenger suites. He’d already spent more than he’d intended to refurbish the vessel, but he was pleased with the result. By the time he was finished, he’d own the fastest ship sailing the local waters.

  For his passengers, he’d provide the plushest accommodations, the finest opium, the most ornately designed smoking pipes. Just this week, he’d received a shipment of cloisonné enamel boxes and hand-carved jade smoking pipes from the Orient. Yes, overall, his plans had been executed quite smoothly.

  A problem remained, however, that he now needed to rectify: Garrett had somehow managed to discover what he was up to. In the event that his partner was foolish enough—or cunning enough—to expose Michael’s plans to the authorities, further precautions were required.

  From somewhere belowdecks, Michael could hear the sounds of someone wielding a hammer. “Ahoy! You there!” he shouted.

  After a moment, a grizzled head popped over the railing.

  “You’d be Grady MacDonough?”

  “Yessir. Master ship’s carpenter, sir!”

  “Come dockside, and bring the plans with you. We have much to discuss.”

  Michael lit a cigar while he waited. The wharf bustled with activity. Sailors emerged from boardinghouses and brothels, stretching and squinting into the sun, eyes unaccustomed to the bright light after a night of debauchery. Tradesmen, dressed in neatly pressed suits, opened shops for the day’s business. Dockworkers unloaded cargo from flatbed wagons drawn by draft horses that pawed the wooden boards underneath their hooves, impatient to move on.

  Gazing back toward his hotel, he caught sight of Jesse Canby, walking arm in arm along the boardwalk with a young woman who looked vaguely familiar. He frowned. Devil take it, he couldn’t place her … ah, that was it: Hattie Longren’s sister, the lovely young Charlotte.

  As always, with thoughts of Hattie came the familiar rush of grief, followed swiftly by a surge of rage. Avenging her murder had done nothing to ease his distress. He should have been able to cast her forever from his mind, but all attempts to do so had failed. Damn and blast! What ailed him?

  His gaze sharpened as Charlotte laughed gaily at something Jesse Canby had leaned down to murmur into her ear. It seemed the young Charlotte chose to spend her time with lost souls. In the case of Canby, she would be wise to remain more detached.

  Eleanor Canby suddenly emerged from the crowds on the boardwalk, taking hold of Jesse’s arm. Charlotte stepped away, her expression guarded. Though Michael couldn’t hear what Eleanor was saying, it was clear that the older woman spoke with some urgency to Jesse, who shook his head vehemently. He jerked his arm from Eleanor’s grasp, then turned his back on her, holding his hand out to Charlotte. After a wary glance at Eleanor, she took Jesse’s hand, and the pair walked away, leaving Eleanor standing on the boardwalk, shoulders rigid.

  MacDonough appeared from down below, bringing Michael’s attention back to the matter at hand. The carpenter scrambled down the rope ladder hung over the side of the ship, a thick roll of plans tucked under one arm.

  Michael took them and spread them out, studying them intently. MacDonough waited, shifting from one foot to the other, his expression anxious.

  “You’ve begun work on the great cabin, I see.”

  “Yessir. We’re ready to install the mirrors and trim.”

  “I will expect your very best work for this space. The wall panels should be rosewood, and here”—Michael pointed—“I want you to install a skylight to provide natural light for those who remain in the cabin during the voyage.” He glanced up. “Perhaps you can find an artisan who can provide a work of leaded glass to frame into the skylight? Nothing with color, mind you—I want clear glass to allow the maximum light to shine through.”

  The carpenter looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “I’ve a friend in the trade whom I think might be just right for the commission.”

  “I expect a fair return for my money, but buy me the best, do you understand?”

  “Understood.”

  “Good.” Michael used his index finger to indicate a particular section of the drawings. “I think it would be best to install a coach roof here over the poop deck, to protect passengers from the harsher weather elements. Something rather whimsical yet tasteful, perhaps with a carved fascia?” He flipped a page to review the details for the stateroom furnishings. “And the settees in all the cabins must be upholstered in the finest velvet. My guests will recline in splendor, not in squalor on filthy bunk beds, as they would in the local opium dens.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Michael turned his attention back to the great cabin, carefully keeping his tone casual. “I’d like secret compartments—double walls, if you will—built into the outside hull, accessible here and here.” Again, he pointed on the plans. “There must be no indication that the walls are hollow in these locations—perhaps you can hang decorative mirrors that conceal some kind of invisible doors?”

  MacDonough rubbed his chin with a hand sporting chipped and blackened fingernails. “I think it can be done, sir.”

  “Don’t think, man,” Michael snarled. “Just do it.”

  The carpenter flinched, then cleared his throat. “Double-wall construction will add weight, which will drag on the speed of the ship,” he warned.

  “Then find a way to compensate for that added weight elsewhere. I will not tolerate any sluggishness.” Michael pinned him with his coldest stare. “You alone will work on these compartments, do you understand? Not a word of this to anyone. If rumors of the existence of the secret compartments spread
, I will know exactly who was the source.”

  “No, sir.” MacDonough paled. “I mean, yes, sir.”

  Michael straightened and rolled up the plans. “You’ll be meeting the original deadline, I assume?”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Michael’s attention was drawn by the approach of footsteps on the dock.

  Mona Starr walked toward them, stopping a few feet away. An imposing woman of middle age, she dressed modestly yet expensively in forest green muslin, carrying a matching silk parasol. Her face was artfully made up, cleverly disguising the ravages of her profession. He inclined his head. “Miss Starr. You’ve picked a fine day to be out for a walk.”

  “Yes indeed, Mr. Seavey.”

  Though Mona Starr was the proprietor of Port Chatham’s most successful house of ill repute, Michael held only admiration for her. Her girls were treated fairly and given excellent medical care. In addition, Mona was a generous benefactor to the town, donating substantial funds to numerous community projects.

  Not, of course, he thought wryly, that Mona’s generosity didn’t pay her back tenfold. Local authorities rarely targeted the Green Light.

  She lifted her gaze to admire the ship that towered over them. “She’s beautiful. I trust you’re happy with your renovations?”

  “Yes, quite happy. I was just discussing the final appointments with the ship’s carpenter. She’ll be ready for her maiden voyage within weeks.”

  “Jesse Canby tells me you plan to offer accommodations for passengers of, shall we say, a particular persuasion.”

  “My accommodations will be elegant as well as discreet,” Michael allowed. “I saw Jesse just a bit ago, out walking with Charlotte Walker.”