Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery

by P. J. Alderman

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “And Remy—remain at Willoughby’s and accompany him back to the hotel. I don’t trust the man to respond to my summons without the threat of persuasion. Take care, however, not to injure him—we will need his skills intact this evening.”

  His bodyguard nodded, then withdrew silently.

  Opening the sitting room door, Michael stopped at the sight that greeted him. Jesse Canby knelt by Michael’s maroon velvet settee, stroking the bruised forehead of Charlotte Walker, who lay unmoving, eyes closed. Her complexion was pale, her gown ripped. Michael thought he could see evidence of some blood spatter on her sleeve.

  He closed his eyes briefly. Dear God! As he’d feared, he’d gravely miscalculated.

  “Seavey!” Jesse stood to execute an unsteady bow. “I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “This is the work of Sam Garrett?” Michael asked grimly.

  “Yes.” Jesse wrung his hands. “I was in the next room when I heard Charlotte’s screams. S’truth, I tried to stop him!”

  “Where was Mona’s bodyguard?” Michael asked.

  “As soon as Charlotte began screaming, one of the girls ran to fetch him. It took three of us to pull Garrett into the hall. He was in an uncontrollable rage—we were hardly a match for him.”

  “Few would be,” Michael said, trying to sooth the agitated young man.

  He knelt beside the girl, studying her injuries. His gut tightened. Even with the bruises, her resemblance to Hattie was strong enough to bring forth a familiar rush of grief. He took a moment to steel himself, then continued his perusal.

  Charlotte’s breathing appeared to be even, though shallow, as if she was in pain. Broken ribs, perhaps? No oubt at least badly bruised. Garrett had managed to land several blows about her face, even blackening one eye. Even more troubling, Michael suspected the worst of the damage had been inflicted where no one would see the bruises unless they removed her clothing.

  He stood and lifted a soft wool throw from the back of the settee, gently covering her with it.

  “I’ve sent for Willoughby,” he told Jesse quietly. “If you don’t want your current state of debilitation reported back to your mother, I suggest you vacate the premises immediately.”

  “I’m not leaving Charlotte,” Jesse said stoutly. “I’m responsible for her.”

  “Your loyalty is admirable but misguided. This attack was directed at me, and rest assured, I will handle it. You may return in the morning to visit Charlotte.”

  Jesse swayed on his feet but remained where he was, a stubborn look on his face. “I will have your word that you won’t allow her to leave this suite,” he demanded. “If she returns to the Green Light, I fear she won’t survive another night.”

  Michael nodded. “I’m in agreement. She will be safe here. I will post my bodyguards outside her room.”

  After several more minutes of reassurances, Michael was able to convince Canby to leave by the back stairs. He returned to pace the suite while he awaited the physician’s arrival.

  Garrett had crossed the line when he recklessly committed murder, but this attack was far more reprehensible. Harming a defenseless young woman … Michael simply couldn’t stomach it.

  He’d given little thought to the possibility that Garrett might use Charlotte to exact retribution. In truth, he hadn’t believed Garrett possessed the finesse required to come up with such a strategy. And it would have been far more effective to attack Michael directly, or to inflict some form of damage on the Henrietta Dale.

  Clearly, Michael had underestimated Garrett’s propensity to commit evil acts.

  He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Chapter 16

  So Garrett attacked Charlotte because you cut him out of your smuggling business?” Jordan asked.

  “Yes,” Seavey answered. He glanced at Hattie, as if to gauge her reaction, then continued. “Garrett had become far too great a liability to remain in my organization. In an earlier meeting, he’d alluded to the fact that he knew Charlotte was Hattie’s sister. I admit that I dismissed his comment, paying no further heed to it.” He sent an apologetic glance to Charlotte. “I will always regret that I caused you pain.”

  “I never blamed you, Michael,” Charlotte said. “Indeed, you paid for my physician and kept me safe for as long as you were able.” She turned to Hattie and Jordan. “My injuries, though painful, turned out to be not as severe as Michael had assumed.” She closed her eyes, trembling for a moment before continuing. “Although if Jesse hadn’t summoned Mona’s bodyguards, I quite believe Garrett would have killed me.”

  “Possibly,” Jordan agreed. “I’ve talked to the man, and he clearly enjoys violence in all its forms.” She looked at Seavey. “So you kept Charlotte at the hotel while she recovered?”

  “Yes, for the next forty-eight hours. Then I felt it wise, since I was leaving town for a full day, that she travel with me.” He paused, then shook his head. “It was the best I could do, and I see now that it wasn’t enough.”

  “You can’t be blamed, Michael, for what happened after you died,” Hattie said softly.

  From behind them, Frank made a disgusted sound. “On the contrary. His actions directly caused Charlotte’s injuries. Clearly, Garrett planned to use Charlotte as leverage. When one engages in a lifetime of risky and illegal business activities, these types of violent acts are far too commonly the by-product.”

  Seavey flinched.

  “Garrett was the one to beat me, so he is to blame,” Charlotte stated with vehemence. “Michael was the one who tried to save me!”

  Jordan held up her hand. “Can we move on?” Though the events Seavey had related were revealing in terms of Garrett’s character, she still wasn’t any closer to discovering a connection between Garrett and Holt’s killer. “What happened after Jesse brought Charlotte to you?” she asked Seavey.

  He shrugged. “I fear I don’t have much more to tell you. I did, of course, make certain that Garrett received a ‘message’ designed to impress upon him that he should refrain from such reprehensible actions in the future.”

  “You avenged my attack?” Charlotte smiled tremulously at him, placing a hand on his sleeve. “You are such an honorable man.”

  Jordan thought Seavey might have looked slightly abashed at her reaction.

  He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Jesse delivered Charlotte to my hotel suite two days before the maiden voyage of the Henrietta Dale. While I continued to oversee last-minute details regarding the seaworthiness of the ship and the accommodations for my passengers, I paid Willoughby handsomely to see to the treatment of her injuries. Accordingly, we set sail early on the morning of August 5 for Victoria, with a return trip planned for that evening.”

  “Whoa, wait,” Jordan said, startled. “You said a minute ago that you kept Charlotte in the hotel until you left on a trip, at which time you took her with you. Are you telling me that Charlotte was aboard the Henrietta Dale when she ran aground?”

  “That’s precisely what I am telling you,” Seavey said. “Charlotte served as chef for the opium smokers in my great cabin. It worked out well for all concerned, in my opinion. I needed a beautiful and charming chef to help my passengers enjoy their experiences with my pipes, and Charlotte needed a place away from the waterfront to heal.”

  Hattie gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth, her expression stricken. “What?”

  “Oh, dear,” Charlotte murmured, looking apprehensive.

  Seavey frowned. “You needn’t be worried, my dear, that Charlotte was in any way treated poorly. Indeed, she was working in luxurious surroundings, handling beautifully designed cloisonné enamel boxes, intricately carved jade pipes … and, of course, serving a number of Port Chatham’s societal elite.”

  “But to expose her to such wanton activities …” Hattie’s voice trailed away.

  “Truly, I thought you knew, my dear. Charlotte came under my protection from the time she was beaten until the shipwre
ck. I had no expectation that Garrett would heed my threats to leave her alone; therefore, the only logical method of concealing her and keeping her away from him was to bring her on board.”

  “You thought the further ruination of an innocent such as Charlotte by introducing her to an opium den was preferable to leaving her under guard in your hotel?” Frank asked, his expression incredulous.

  “My bodyguards accompany me at all times,” Michael snapped, losing patience. “Forgive me, but I didn’t trust any of my other men to keep her safe. Would you have had me put her at further risk? All because of the possibility that she would be exposed to a few upper-crust guests who smoked a drug that was, may I remind you, legal at that time? In luxurious surroundings, rather than in the squalor of a common opium den? Good God, man! It’s not as if I forced her to smoke the stuff!”

  “Frank, please,” Charlotte chided softly. She fidgeted in her chair. “The decision was not Michael’s alone—I asked to come along. I knew Jesse would be on board, and I … well, I felt comforted by that knowledge. Jesse had become a dear friend, and I was petrified that Garrett would make another attempt on me the minute Jesse and Michael left town.”

  “Well, I’m confused,” Jordan said. “I have a list of the survivors of the shipwreck, and, Charlotte, your name wasn’t on it. I thought you didn’t die until a year or two after the shipwreck.”

  “That’s correct,” Charlotte replied. “I was murdered on the waterfront approximately a year later, in an unrelated incident.” She shook her head, folding her hands in her lap and refusing to meet Hattie’s eyes. “You must understand. By the time I was rescued, I knew that Jesse was dead, and I had no idea what had happened to Michael or his bodyguards. I had to protect myself from Garrett, and the only way I knew how was to make him think I had gone down with the ship as well. When I saw Eleanor’s reporters lurking about …” She looked at Jordan. “The reason you didn’t see my name among the survivors is that I gave the authorities a false name.”

  “Dear God, Charlotte.” Hattie wrung her hands, her expression distraught. “Why haven’t you told us about this before now?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to think any less of me than you already do,” her sister admitted softly. “I knew you disapproved of smoking opium, and that you didn’t want to hear that I might have been pulled into that culture by Jesse. And to have been a chef for Michael … Well, I thought you’d blame him even more than you already did.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Jordan interposed, before the conversation devolved any further. “Charlotte, you’re telling me that you were on board the night the Henrietta Dale ran aground, and that you witnessed the entire incident, including the attempted rescue and the sinking of the ship?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte was silent, her gaze turning inward as she appeared to remember that night. “I was scraping out one of the pipes—the one carved from redwood, do you remember, Michael? It was so beautiful …”

  “Yes, I recall it quite clearly,” he replied gently.

  “Michael spared no expense, you know, to provide his customers with an experience worthy of royalty. I was quite honored to be asked to serve as his chef,” she assured Hattie.

  Hattie frowned, saying nothing.

  “Go on,” Jordan urged.

  Charlotte was trembling. “I was in the process of slicing a small wedge from a cake of chandu, to place in the pipe for Jesse, when we felt the most terrible jolt …”

  The Rescue

  Dungeness Spit

  August 5, 1893, 11 P.M.

  FLUNG against the wall, Charlotte dropped the silver scraper and the pipe. Her cabin mates, reclined on velvet settees, were thrown to the floor.

  She heard a sharp crack from overhead. A huge wooden mast plunged through the skylight, shattering it. Shards of glass rained down on her. The floor dropped from under her. Water rushed into the great cabin, soaking her satin slippers and the hem of her gown.

  Someone scrambled past her, yelling, running for the door. Jesse was no longer beside her. Dropping to her knees, she attempted to shove debris aside. She strained to see through the gloom and layers of opium smoke. Where was Jesse? Where were the others?

  “Someone, please help!” she cried, her voice a high, thin wail, but no one answered.

  The floor shifted again beneath her, water sloshing against the velvet settee. At the other end of the room, she glimpsed a body floating in the debris-filled seawater. She struggled to her feet and waded toward it.

  The floor canted sharply, throwing her against the mirrored wall. She heard terrified shouts from above as something crashed onto the deck. Her knees suddenly felt cold, and looking down, she realized the chilly water had risen to her thighs.

  “Ahoy, down there!” a voice shouted.

  “Help!” she screamed.

  A head poked through the skylight, barely discernible. “Miss? Are you hurt?”

  “No, but I fear the others are. There’s someone just over there …” She tried to wade through the water, to no avail. “You must help us!”

  He angled his head, staring silently for a brief moment in the direction she pointed. “Come, miss,” he finally said, his tone quieter. “There’s nothing we can do to help him.”

  “No! He’s just unconscious. He’ll be fine once we get him out from under the mast—”

  “We don’t have much time, and you must save yourself.”

  “No!” she sobbed. “It might be my friend! I won’t leave him.”

  “Miss.” The voice held patience as well as understanding. “This ship is precariously balanced in the surf—it could break further apart any second now. The waves are gaining height, and they will soon suck the ship deep into the sands. You must come with me now, or I’ll be forced to leave you behind.”

  “Oh God, please! Can’t you do something?”

  “I’m afraid he’s already gone.” The man reached down to her. “Give me your hand, and I’ll lift you out.”

  She stared over at the body, uncomprehending.

  The floor shifted once again beneath her, throwing her off balance, and she screamed.

  “Make haste, miss. I beg of you!”

  Pushing away from the wall, she reluctantly reached up to grasp his hand. The man pulled her off her feet and out of the water, urging her to give him her other hand. In moments, she stood on a badly listing deck.

  Destruction surrounded her. What had once been a ship possessing immense beauty and grace now seemed to be no more than piles of rubble. Canvas and rigging lay as it had fallen. Stacked taller than the height of a large man, it jumbled together with splintered pieces of wood that had once been yardarms.

  In front of her, the bow of the ship had been forced up and onto the sand and driftwood. Behind her, the stern still lay in the water. Waves crashed against the hull.

  Her rescuer kept a tight grasp on her elbow, holding her steady whenever she felt her balance give way. They picked their way around bodies and over snarls of rope and sails, their progress greatly hampered by the weight of Charlotte’s drenched gown.

  As they reached the ship’s bow, she could hear faint shouts from the mist below. Her rescuer sliced quickly through a section of rope and used it to tie around her waist.

  “I’m going to lower you down, miss,” he explained as he secured the rope to the railing. “Someone below will guide you onto the beach.”

  “But what about the others?” she asked.

  “They’re gone,” he replied in a gentle tone.

  Dear God. Jesse. “No! I’m certain that if you just search the lower cabins …” Her voice trailed off on a hiccupping sob.

  “Go on now, miss—I’ll be right behind you.”

  Clinging to the rope, her heart pounding in her chest, she was lowered past bodies hanging in midair, tangled in the rigging. Mist swirled around her, adding to the chill of her soaked clothing and making it hard for her to see what lay below. Gradually, the faint light of a lantern beckoned through the da
rkness. Hands grasped her ankles, then her legs. She dropped onto the sand.

  A woman worked briskly to untie the rope about her waist, then gave it a sharp yank as a signal to pull it up. She handed Charlotte a coarse wool blanket. “Sit, miss, and try to keep yourself warm. It will be some time before boats arrive to take you back to town.”

  Shivering, Charlotte glanced overhead. The hull of the Henrietta Dale towered over them. Just aft of the bow, she could see a massive log sticking out of the hull where the ship had rammed onto the sand. The stern sat lower in the water than usual, and the entire ship was canted at an angle so acute as to appear as if it would fall any moment, crushing them. The woman stood by Charlotte, her head angled so that she could watch overhead, her expression tense. Two other men sprawled on the beach only a few yards away, unconscious and injured. One, the town councilman she recognized from the great cabin, had blood darkening the side of his face.

  “Are we the only survivors?” she asked the woman in a hushed voice.

  “No,” the woman replied, not pulling her gaze away. “By the time my husband and I arrived, a few of the crew had already managed to climb down with one injured man. They left to hike back along the spit to the headland and summon more help from nearby farms. Until we can get a message back to Port Chatham, no one will know to bring their boats out here to help with the rescue.”

  “What about Michael Seavey?” Charlotte asked. “Have you seen him? And what of Jesse Canby?” she added, her voice breaking.

  “Unless one of them is the man who was carried ashore a bit ago, or one of those two lying just over there, I’m afraid they didn’t make it.”

  Chapter 17

  I continued to ask throughout the night, but there was no indication that Jesse had survived,” Charlotte told them, swiping at tears. “The first mate and another member of his crew walked the five miles back to a farm on the headlands, to notify the authorities of the shipwreck. It took until almost dawn, but more help did eventually arrive.” Her expression reflected the rigors of that long, freezing night spent on the beach. “And along with help, of course, came the press.”