Grey Lady

by Paul Kemprecos

  There were a couple of calls from the insurance adjustor saying things were in the works, and from people looking to charter my boat. There was a message from my neighbor saying Kojak was fine, but running low on food. And lastly, there was a message from my mother, who wanted me to call her on a family matter. That message filled me with dread. With all the craziness on Nantucket, I had forgotten, maybe on purpose, to tell my family that their investment in the Thalassa had burned to the waterline. I called my neighbor, told here where I kept an extra food stash in the boathouse and gave her my Nantucket number.

  During the commute back to the island, I pondered how to tell Lisa the bad news about her grandfather’s impending court date. As I entered her office, I still hadn’t figured out how to break it to her. She looked up from her desk, which was cluttered with land plans, and gave me a smile, which faded when she took in my somber expression.

  I flopped into a chair and told her about my conversation with Martin.

  “There’s no way to postpone it?”

  “The D.A. wants to fast-track this case to re-election.”

  “Have you gotten anywhere in your investigation?”

  “Bits and pieces. I’m still trying to put the puzzle together. Do you know where Sutcliffe, the writer lives?”

  I hadn’t anticipated the depth of her anger, so I was surprised when she pushed the maps aside and said, “Why waste time talking with him when we’ve got to do something to exonerate my grandfather?”

  I blinked, then said, “Your grandfather is living in the past, so maybe that’s not a bad place to start.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Sorry, Soc. I know you’ll do your best. It’s not that you don’t have other things to think about, like getting shot at. I just—” Her eyes brimmed with tears. She rose from her chair, came around and gave me a shoulder hug. “Sorry for the waterworks,” she said. “I’ve got a conservation trust meeting tonight. Will I see you at the house?”

  I nodded. “Maybe Dr. Rosen and I can continue our discussion.”

  She frowned in disapproval at the mention of Rosen and gave me directions to Sutcliffe’s place.

  I had tried to mollify her by suggesting that I might find the solution to her grandfather’s problem in the historical record, but I wasn’t entirely honest. I was going to see Sutcliffe mainly because I didn’t have a clue where to go next on Daggett’s case.

  CHAPTER 15

  Petticoat Row is a narrow, tree-lined street a short walk from the center of town. The front lawn of Sutcliffe’s two-story shingled house looked as if it had been cut with manicure scissors. Neat ranks of flowers had been planted around the lawn. The gleaming paint on the white picket fence could have been applied the day before.

  Sutcliffe opened the door on my first knock. The annoyed expression on his face melted when he saw me standing on the steps. “Oh, hi,” he said. “I thought you were the police again.”

  “Why would you be expecting the police?”

  “C’mon in and I’ll show you.”

  He ushered me into the house. We passed through a hallway into the living room. In contrast to the well-tended exterior of the house and lawn, the room was a shambles. Chairs and tables had been upended, and the braided rug was covered with broken ceramics and smashed picture frames.

  I looked around at the destruction. “I wasn’t aware Nantucket had cyclones.”

  “Hell, this isn’t the worst of it,” Sutcliffe said. “Take a look.”

  He led the way through the living room into his small office at the back of the house. The floor was littered with paper, books and newspaper clippings. File cabinet drawers had been emptied onto the pile. The screen of the computer monitor on a desk was smashed.

  “You’re right. That wasn’t the worst of it. What happened?”

  “Some bastard broke in and trashed the house while I was in town this morning. That vase in the other room was a favorite of my wife’s.” He pointed to the scattered papers. “It’s going to take days to sort this research material.”

  “Any idea who did this?”

  “The police think it was vandals. Kids maybe.”

  “Did anyone else get hit in the neighborhood?”

  “Nope.” He screwed up his mouth. “Maybe all this extra damage was done to make it look like vandals did it. I think they were looking for something.”

  I flashed back on the story Lisa had told me about the vandalism at her grandfather’s beach shack. “That’s not a bad guess. Anything special come to mind?”

  “I don’t have any money or valuables. All I have is stuff to do with my writing.” He went over to a wall painting of Nantucket Harbor and slid it aside to reveal a wall safe. He twiddled the dial and opened the door. Reaching inside, he pulled out a flat aluminum box. “I’m an old-fashioned hard copy guy. I back up everything I write on paper and keep it in the fireproof vault. These are articles I’ve been working on and notes for the book I was going to write with Coffin.”

  “I can come by another time, after you’ve straightened things out.”

  “Naw. I need a drink to set my mind straight. Thank God they didn’t steal the beer.”

  With the Serengeti shooter on the loose, dulling my senses with alcohol could prove fatal. I refused the offer of a drink and settled for coffee. We went out onto a deck that overlooked a backyard tended with the same loving care as the front lawn and settled into a couple of wicker chairs. Sutcliffe explained that the plantings had all been put in by his late wife. She’d come back to haunt him if he ever let the landscaping get out of hand.

  “I wouldn’t blame her for that.”

  He laughed and asked me how I happened to be in the neighborhood.

  “You told me at Ramsey’s soiree that to understand what happened between Coffin and Daggett, I’d have to know more about the Moshup incident. So here I am.”

  A thoughtful expression came to his face. “I’ll take it another step. To understand the Moshup, you should examine the Essex tragedy.”

  “Examine away,” I said.

  “First of all, a sperm whale attacked and sank both ships. It could have been the same whale in both cases. It was white around the head, which is common with mature bulls. Both ships were in the same area of the Pacific, just north of the equator near Fanning Island, and the attacks happened a few years apart. In each case, the whale smashed the whaleboats that were giving chase, and then rammed the ship’s bow section with its head. It’s almost as if he picked out the ship’s weak spot.”

  “Smart whale.”

  “Stubborn, too. It hit the ship repeatedly, hammering away until the Essex went down. The crew retrieved navigational instruments, food and water. They were two thousand miles from land. They decided out of fear of cannibals to steer clear of Tahiti and head for South America. The boat with the navigational gear got separated from the others. Two boats managed to stick together. A crewman died just before their food was about to run out. That’s when talk of cannibalism first surfaced.”

  “I’m sure I’m not the first to point out the irony of their Tahiti decision.”

  “No, you’re not. They cast lots and cannibalism won. They started by eating the man’s heart. More guys died and ended up as the dinner special. The two boats drifted apart. The real horror was about to begin with the three men on Pollard’s boat.”

  “Who was Pollard?”

  “He was the captain of the Essex. They’d been adrift for more than ninety days when a crewman named Ramsdell suggested that one of them would have to sacrifice himself so the others may live. Pollard says no. The third crewman, a guy named Coffin, who was Pollards’ nephew, supports Ramsdell.”

  “Any relation to our present day Coffin?”

  “Maybe. It was a common name on the island. So they draw lots, slips of paper in a hat
, and Coffin loses. Pollard wrote later that he was soon dispatched, but doesn’t say by whom. The executioner was never named. Some say it was Pollard, the other Ramsdell. Coffin’s body kept them alive until a ship found them, half-mad, trying to suck the marrow out of the young man’s bones.”

  “Coffin’s family couldn’t have been too happy with them.”

  “That’s an understatement. This is a small island. The Coffins crossed paths every day with the local cannibals. Coffin’s mother in particular couldn’t abide the sight of the guys who ate her son.”

  “What was the reaction of the rest of the community?”

  “The Nantucketers were horrified by the episode, but they knew of the dangers of whaling and were understanding. Sorta.”

  “Sorta?”

  “The early death of the black whalers was a scandal that wouldn’t go away. The idea that the Nantucket men might have survived by withholding food hit hard on an Abolitionist island. No one talked about the Essex except in whispers. There was the practical aspect, too. Cannibalism hurt business. Fast-forward three years. When the Moshup crew went through almost the identical experience, there was a massive cover-up. My book would have exposed that cover-up.”

  “The book you hoped to write with Coffin?”

  The sad nod of his head said it all. “I had planned to dedicate the book to my wife.”

  “You’ll get another chance. Tell me more about the cover-up.”

  “The locals tried to bury the whole Moshup thing, but there was an unintended consequence. By keeping it under wraps, they may unwittingly have hidden evidence of a crime.”

  “What kind of crime?”

  He dropped his voice to a growl. “Murder most foul.”

  “I was a homicide cop before I became a private investigator. Run the case history by me. I’ll treat it like a contemporary crime.”

  His face lit up. “Hey. That may be a great new book angle. A detective tries to solve homicide on the high seas after nearly two centuries.”

  “I like it. You can do that dedication to your wife.”

  He smiled and said, “Okay, here’s what is known. The Moshup spots a pod of sperm whales and launches the boats. They go after a big white-headed whale. Bad decision. The whale fights back, busts up some whaleboats and rams the ship, sinking it. The crew retrieves supplies from the ship before it goes under, then sets off in a flotilla of whaleboats. They become separated in bad weather. The crew on one boat is alone without navigational equipment. They drift for days, food runs out, and there is a vote to eat their dead comrades instead of tossing the bodies into the sea.”

  “Sounds like a replay to the Essex.”

  “So far. Eventually, three men are left in the boat. Swain is a harpooner whom contemporaries describe as aggressive and conniving, qualities that are only heightened by the dehumanizing effects of starvation. Swain’s quarters had been in the dirty and cramped forecastle. Daggett is the ship’s carpenter, a privileged position that allows for a more comfortable shipboard life. Same with Coffin. As the first mate, he should be in command, but Swain is definitely running things on the boat. He proposes that one of them die to feed the others. Coffin refuses, but Daggett supports Swain. They draw straws, Daggett loses, and is killed to feed the others.”

  “Who did the killing?”

  He raised a forefinger in the air. “That’s where you come in, Mr. Homicide Cop.”

  “It’s obviously either Swain or Coffin. Start feeding me some facts.”

  “Not long after Daggett dies, a passing ship picks up the two survivors, each guarding his stash of bones. The ship is on its way to the whaling grounds, so the two men are placed on another vessel headed for New Bedford. That ship runs into some bad weather and has to put into port for repairs. In the meantime, the cannibalism account starts making the rounds of the whaling fleet and becomes common knowledge. When the survivors return home to Nantucket, hundreds of people are waiting on the dock to hear the full story.”

  “The devil is in the details,” I said. “Swain and Coffin could shape the narrative any way they’d like to.”

  “Correct. There is no denying that they ate their crew mates, but they say Daggett died of natural causes.”

  “That was convenient.”

  “The survivors stick to their story when they testify before the ship’s owners. The owners have their suspicions, but they had seen the PR damage that the Essex incident caused, and they decide to accept the testimony at face value.”

  “The bad for business thing again.”

  “That’s right. It wouldn’t do for the sordid details of another cannibalism episode to come out. It would unsettle people, cast Nantucket in a bad light. Unfortunately, the cover story starts to unravel.”

  “It must have been hard to keep a secret on a small place like Nantucket.”

  “The story would have come out in time, but Swain broke it open. He wrote an account of the cannibalism incident. Said he wanted to clear the air. He said that Coffin had pushed the other men to cast lots to choose the executioner. That he was supposed to do the job and when he refused, Coffin grabbed the knife and killed Daggett.”

  “What did Coffin have to say about Swain’s account?”

  “Nothing. He had died the year before. Swain’s story was the only detailed account by a survivor so folks took it as the gospel truth. It offered closure as well. People just wanted to forget the whole thing.”

  “I’d like to read the Swain account.”

  He opened the aluminum box and pulled out a slim paperback book.

  “This is a reprint of Swain’s journal produced years later for the tourist trade. It’s got details of the hearing before the ship’s owners, contemporary news accounts and so on. Maybe it will be safer with you than with me. I’d better get to cleaning up the mess in my office.”

  As I walked back into town along the cobblestone streets, I thought about the desperation of starving men, the unimaginable horror that transpired on the whaleboat and how the present is intertwined with the past. A little voice was warning me that the drama hadn’t ended a hundred-fifty-years ago. The break-in at Daggett’s beach shack and Sutcliffe’s house were too close to be a coincidence. Somehow, in a way I had yet to fathom, the tragic story of cannibalism, murder, and cover-up was still unfolding, and like it or not, I had been drawn into the on-going saga of the good ship Moshup.

  Tanya had said that she was leaving the yacht around five, so I was surprised to see her sashay along the dock around a half hour earlier than expected. I had been finishing up a burger and fries at the restaurant patio where we sat the last time. Tanya was wearing a very short dress of jade green and was carrying an overnight bag in her hand. She saw my wave, walked over and flopped loosely into a chair.

  “Hello, feeshermenz. Don’t you ever leave this place?”

  “I haven’t moved from this spot. I was hoping that you would come by and we could have a drink. You’re early.”

  “Ivan kicked me off the boat. He says the woodzool man is coming again.”

  I’d been developing an ear for Tanya’s English locutions, but this had me stumped. “What’s a woodzool, Tanya?”

  She shrugged.

  “Could he have been talking about Woods Hole?”

  “Maybe.”

  “This Woods Hole man that Ivan mentioned. Does he have a name?”

  “Max, I think. Maybe.”

  “Max who?”

  She frowned, obviously annoyed at my questions and gave me a dismissive wave of her hand. “I hev to go spend Ivan’s money. Hair first. Then shopping. Come by hotel later and we’ll talk some more.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m busy tonight.”

  She smiled. “Another woman?”

  “I haven’t looked at another woman since I met you
, Tanya. I’m going fishing.”

  “Feeshing! Men are crazy,” Tanya said with a roll of her eyes.

  She stood up and continued on her way into town. I watched her swaying hips until they almost made me seasick and glanced at my watch. I had to get moving. I paid the bill and a few minutes later, I was driving the MG out of town. I stopped at the Serengeti and spent a few minutes looking for clues that might shed light on the night before, but the shooter left no sign of his passing. There were no cartridge shells, no cigarette butts, or footprints. I got back in the car and continued on to Siasconset.

  I traded my shorts for jeans and packed a sweatshirt and a windbreaker. It’s always cooler on the water, especially after the sun goes down. I borrowed one of the fishing rods from the rack over the fireplace and was on my way out the door when the phone rang. It was my mother. She had called my house again. My neighbor happened to be there to pick up more food for the feline eating machine known as Kojak. She answered the phone, chatted with my mother and gave her my Nantucket number.

  “Hi, Ma,” I said. “I got your message. I’ve been meaning to call. How are you?”

  “Fine, Aristotle. How is the Thalassa?”

  “I’ve taken out a few parties. They caught lots of fish.”

  At another time, my mother would not have been satisfied with such a brief answer. I would have been subjected to a withering third degree that would have pried the truth from me. Apparently, she had other things on her mind.

  “That’s good, Aristotle. You remember your cousin Alex?”