Murder in the Museum_Edmund DeCleryk Mysteries

by Karen Shughart

  “Do I know you, boy? Have we met?” he queried.

  “No, my lord, I don’t believe we have,” I responded, looking him straight in the eye and trying to remain calm. Inwardly I trembled, both with rage and fear.

  “You look somewhat familiar. From where do you hail?”

  “I hail from Wales, my lord, where I lived with my aunt and uncle, who is a blacksmith. I had no aptitude for it, though, and so through his contacts, my uncle found this position for me. My mother died giving birth to my sister, and my father died shortly before her in an accident.”

  “Hmm, well then, for a moment I thought I recognized you.”

  He passed on. I spent most of the voyage caring for the royals, meeting their incessant demands. They had entrusted me to guard the treasure, which was stored in a copper box in a waxed, waterproof rucksack made from hemp with wide straps to fit over the bearer’s arms. Since no one could get off or on the ship, it was safe under my keeping.

  I placed it in a corner under a sheep’s wool rug in the prince and princess’ quarters but checked every day to make sure it was still hidden. I didn’t trust the viscount who could easily have stolen the jewels and blamed me or other crew members for it, but he seemed to be perfectly content walking the decks, playing cards and indulging his quite voracious appetite for spirits and food. He was, to my amusement and satisfaction, becoming quite stout.

  The voyage passed without crisis. We finally, after many weeks, reached our destination. After anchoring in the vast New York harbor, our royal passengers were greeted by emissaries of Governor Clinton and escorted, with the locked copper box still inside the rucksack now borne by the Governor’s servants, to his mansion where they visited for several days.

  Pleased with my attention to them, the captain gave me some coins and a few days leave, and I passed my time exploring the city with sailors and cabin boys from ours and other ships who helped me gain an understanding of, among other worldly delights, the pleasures of womanly flesh, and thus I gained my manhood.

  Dismissed of my duties on the Queen Charlotte, which by now had begun its return journey back to England, I now signed on to the HMS Orion as the royals’ cabin boy, something heretofore agreed upon by all concerned. A few days later, the ship set sail for Canada with the prince, princess, viscount and copper box containing gifts for the Governor of York and his lady.

  *****

  Ed put the journal down, stood up, stretched, and walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. So far, the manuscript was an interesting read, but there were no clues about how it was related to the map or some of Charles Merrill’s comments. Annie walked into the kitchen and asked him if he wanted to watch TV with her. PBS was airing a live performance of the classic musical, Les Miserables, with some of the original cast, she told him.

  He shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m going to pass.” He held up the manuscript. “It’s been a pretty interesting story so far, and I’d like to finish it tonight if possible. If there are any clues in it that can help us get Charles out of jail, the sooner the better. Enjoy the performance.”

  Ed settled into the chair again and continued reading:

  “The trip to the North Atlantic and through the St. Lawrence River was pleasant. The wind held steady, we made good time, and the days were sunny and bright. But by the time we reached Lake Ontario, choppy and fickle and deep, the wind had picked up, creating high waves that rocked our ship like a babe’s cradle out of control.

  Most of the crew, and the royal passengers, fell ill. For some reason, my sea legs held steady, so along with emptying chamber pots, I now had the added responsibility of cleaning up after the sick. Grateful crew praised and thanked me but our royal passengers, ever entitled and with the assumption that I would look after them under any circumstances, paid me no notice. I could barely contain my ever-growing rage.

  During the trip from England I had found no opportunity for revenge, nor could I come up with a plan. But now, with the wind growing stronger, a sliver of an idea came into my head. I prayed for a storm and one evening was granted my wish.

  At just after dusk, the sky, already darkened, grew even darker, and a fierce storm, with howling winds, cannon-like thunder, sharp crackling bolts of lighting and waves so high that they crashed over the bow and stern of the ship, moved in, tossing the boat in the water as though it were a twig in a river with rapids.

  Alarmed for the safety of his passengers, the captain ushered the royals into his quarters, along with as many crew as could fit into the space. The prince instructed me to get the treasure and bring it to him. It was then that I knew that I would never return to England.

  Relations between the French and English had long been strained and when the French sympathized with and fought alongside the colonists during the American War of Revolution, they became increasingly more so. I believed the French might be willing to pay a very pretty penny for jewels belonging to King George, in part as reparations for the aid they had given the colonists during the war. I could live my life in a remote area of Canada, a free and wealthy man, never having to submit again to the whims of unscrupulous and evil royals.

  A lull in the storm brought stillness and quiet, but I knew it was the calm that precedes more turbulence. It was then that I made my decision. I crept into the royal couple’s chambers, placed the straps of the rucksack containing the box with the treasures through my arms, but instead of returning with it to the captain’s quarters, I took a rope and tied it around the sack and to my waist and quickly threw a life barge over the side of ship and into the churning water.

  I jumped into the barge and started paddling away, waves washing over me, almost drowning me in the process. Through God’s grace the barge held tight, but the storm had started again, with more fierce thunder and lighting, and as I looked back I saw a massive bolt hit the ship.

  Flames shot up towards the darkened sky, and I heard a creaking, cracking noise such as I had never heard before and watched as the ship began to burn and then dismantle and break apart, taking all the passengers with it into the graveyard of the sea. They would never know of my deception.

  Chapter 42

  Ed, by now thoroughly engrossed with the story, wanted to finish it; but he took a quick break to stretch, put his mug in the dishwasher and check on Annie, who was absorbed with the TV show and didn’t hear him walk into the family room. Not wanting to interrupt her, he went back into his study, picked up the manuscript and continued to read:

  “I awoke on a rocky beach, drenched, shivering but alive. Astoundingly, the rucksack was still secured against me. Dawn was beginning to break, and in the distance, I saw the stirring of morning activity, cabins with smoke curling into the sky from chimneys, cows grazing in fields. I had no idea where I was, and not trusting that the settlers would be friendly, I removed the copper box from the rucksack, dragged myself up the short bluff where at the top stood a wooden lighthouse, and using a flattened rock like a spade dug a deep hole in a bed of wildflowers that grew along one side of the edifice, buried the box, filled the hole with dirt, and covered it with stones and grass. Then I collapsed.

  Sometime later, I awoke on a narrow bed in a square, clean room with whitewashed walls and a window overlooking the bay, and was told by a small, round woman with kind eyes and a tall, slight man with a pleasant face that a group of villagers, fishing for their daily meal, had found me on the bluff five days before, my rucksack emptied of my possessions.

  Fever burning up my body and delirious, I had no memory that they had carried me into the small settlement and brought me to the home of my hosts, Levi DeCleryk, the village preacher, and his wife, Sara, who nursed me with poultices and sips of broth until the fever broke. They said in my ramblings I cried out the names Lydia and Peter and that I talked about living in Canada.

  I told them that Lydia and Peter were my parents; that they were English born but no longer lived there, and these kind people assumed they had immigrated to Canada. I didn’
t disabuse them of their assumption.

  The settlement, called Lighthouse Cove, was located on the southern shores of Lake Ontario in New York. The residents, all patriots during the Revolution, bore me no ill will, for although some Canadians fought against them in the war, they mainly blamed England and its rulers for resisting their demand for independence.

  Upon questioning I told them about the shipwreck but fabricated the story, saying that I had been a cabin boy on the ship that had left Canada en route to the St. Lawrence River to meet up with a schooner that would take the prince, princess and viscount back to England after a visit with the Governor of York. They had no cause to misbelieve me and besides, the HMS Orion as it turned out, had been a war ship that had fired upon these very people during the revolution. Few expressed sadness at its demise or that of its royal passengers, although they prayed for the innocent lives that had been lost with them, as I did for the ship’s kind and amiable captain.

  One week followed another. I grew stronger and began to help with family chores that included looking after the cattle and working in the fruit orchards and vineyards. I began to feel well and content again and started to think that perhaps I had erred in my plan to seek freedom in Canada and determined I would remain in this peaceful village with these kind and caring villagers. Once again, my life took a turn in a different direction.

  One day a ship sailed into the harbor, and while I watched it anchor, Sara, eyes bright with joy, told me that arrangements had been made for me to make passage on it. On the morrow, it would continue its journey to York, where, she told me, I could be reunited with my parents who must be brokenhearted thinking I had drowned when the ship went down in the storm. I had no alternative but to obey them unless they discover that my story had been a lie, and humbly thanking them for their hospitality, I set off for a new adventure.

  As part of the recovery from my illness, I had been encouraged to spend parts of my days out of doors, enjoying the fresh sea air. I always was accompanied by one villager or another who kept a close eye on me, expressing concern for my well-being and safety. Sometimes our walks took us past the spot where I had buried the treasure, but I never had the opportunity to return alone.

  I had observed the shoreline and the shape of the village, and once on board the ship, I asked for a quill, some ink and paper and began to draw a map of the area, marking the spot where the treasure was buried. My plan was to go back some day and find a way to dig it up, but that never was to be.

  The voyage to York was a pleasant one, and a cabin boy and I struck up a friendship. I told him about the shipwreck, and that I had been orphaned, and he told me he and his family had emigrated from England and lived in a remote settlement north of York, consisting mainly of traders and trappers. His name was Simon Merrill, and he offered that I dwell for a time with him, his parents and sister, Rebecca, until I was at last able to sustain myself.

  The small community welcomed me, and I quickly settled into life there, learning first the trade of a hostler. After many years, an epidemic of flux and pox and pestilence invaded this settlement like flies around a carcass, and I discovered an aptitude for healing.

  Our friends and neighbors, the Cayuga Indians, taught me to use all manner of things: herbs as draughts to cure fever and flux, the bark of the willow tree to ease pain, grains and mud as poultices, plant leaves as emetics. Soon I became a respected healer, earning my keep through the generosity of the settlers who kept me well fed, sheltered and prosperous. My life settled into a calm and happy routine.

  Rebecca, Simon’s lovely sister, with flaxen hair and hazel eyes that reminded me of my mother, learned that she, too, had the healing gifts and worked alongside me. Soon we realized that the bond between us was far greater than that of two healers. We wed and began our family––three sons and two daughters––who unlike many of the children in the settlement, grew to their maturity. Before I knew it, the years passed and all the thoughts of revenge and the stolen treasure with them. My life was finally happy.

  Now, in my 75th year, I have told this story. I’m an old man and have no thoughts of when our Lord will take me, but I live each day in contentment, my beloved wife at my side, our many children and grandchildren nearby. None of them knows about the map, which I have hidden securely in a metal box beneath our stone hearth, but every so often with no others at hand, I pull it out and gaze at it, not sorry I never had a chance to go back for the treasure but with guilt and regret that I had stolen it. I hope, should it ever be found, that it will be returned to its rightful owner, the monarchy of England, for whom I no longer bear ill will.

  Thomas Battleforth.

  Toronto, Canada 1847

  *****

  Ed, incredulous, closed the book and put it on a bookshelf in his study. Sniffling and wiping her teary eyes as her TV program ended, Annie turned to him as he walked into the family room. “Well?” she asked.

  “This is unbelievable. I understand why Charles wanted so desperately to find the treasure and why it would have been difficult for him to concede that it might not be buried in Lighthouse Cove. I also learned that my ancestors were responsible for getting Thomas Battleforth, the author of this manuscript who became Charles’ relative by marriage, to Canada. Sadly, learning what happened doesn’t get me any closer to finding clues to prove he’s innocent. Despite the gaps in his story, his confession may hold up.”

  He gave Annie a synopsis but said to her, “You’ll really want to read this.”

  Shortly after, they went to bed.

  Chapter 43

  The next morning, Ed called Angelica Hawthorn. “Gee, thanks for holding out on me,” he said wryly, after identifying himself.

  She laughed. “I didn’t want to spoil the fun of your reading the manuscript by giving you all the details, especially after I realized that Levi and Sara DeCleryk were most likely your ancestors.”

  “That was certainly a surprise.” He paused. “I need to tell you something. Charles confessed yesterday to killing Emily Bradford and has been charged with second-degree murder.”

  Angelica gasped. “I can’t believe it. Charles is not a murderer.”

  “Well, despite all-around skepticism from virtually everyone who knows him, the details he gave of how she was killed seem credible.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. What could possibly have been his motive?”

  “It apparently wasn’t premeditated. It seems like he reconsidered and determined that the treasure might, in fact, be in the museum. He was there early one morning to do some exploratory digging when our victim surprised him, and then the whole situation went haywire and resulted in an accident that ultimately resulted in her death.

  “Unfortunately for some very misguided reasons, he decided to not report it and then disposed of the body to cover up what happened. His confession does have some gaps in it, so we’re also wondering if he’s covering for someone.”

  “As terrible as that would be, I hope it’s true. If you could find out who it is, Charles might not have to serve any major time in prison. If no one else surfaces, is there any possibility that the defense attorney could claim the medication he’s on for the Parkinson’s disease might have caused some sort of psychotic break? I simply won’t believe that Charles, if in his right mind, would intentionally cause someone’s death.”

  “I expect his defense attorney will explore that option and others, but in the meantime, unless someone else comes forth to confess, the charge will stand.”

  Ed heard Angelica sigh deeply. She asked, “Can you please keep me posted about the legal proceedings? I’ll want to get in touch with Charles to offer some support.”

  “Of course. Quick question, just out of curiosity. I can understand how Charles might have surmised that he was related to Rebecca and Simon Merrill, but why would he have been so invested in trying to find the stolen goods when Battleforth wasn’t his blood relative? His theft wouldn’t have reflected badly on the Merrill family. Battleforth’s wif
e, Rebecca, had no idea what he had done.”

  “Well, that’s where this gets interesting, Ed. After Charles read the manuscript, he was curious about whether he might be related to Rebecca and Simon, so he took a subscription to Ancestry.com. He traced his Merrill roots back to England and then in the 1700s to York, now Toronto, and determined that he was in fact related to that branch of the Merrill clan. What he didn’t expect, but discovered at the same time, was that he was also related to the Battleforths.

  “If you remember, he was willing to abide by the decision of the other experts when they initially determined that the treasure couldn’t be buried underneath the museum. He may have changed his mind after he learned about his familial connection to Rebecca’s husband.”

  “So, regardless of whether Charles killed Emily or is covering for someone who did, this whole chain of events began because he was determined to try and right a wrong done by his ancestor before he died.”

  “I expect that’s correct,” Angelica responded. “How tragic. Charles has always been an enigma, and unless someone else surfaces as the killer, you may never know the real story about what happened that morning.”

  Chapter 44

  After Ed and Angelica completed their call, Ed called Carrie and asked her to meet him at the Bistro for coffee. It was a gray day with thick clouds that obscured the sun and dulled the white snow covering the ground. They arrived simultaneously and picked a small table against a window overlooking the lake. After ordering coffee and some pastries, Ed described the contents of the manuscript, related how his ancestors had helped Battleforth get from Lighthouse Cove to Canada, and indicated that Charles was a descendant of both the Merrills and the Battleforths.