Ghosts of Culloden Moor 18 - Watson

by L. L. Muir

  “I’ll not let ye out of this room, Tremayne, unless ye promise ye’ll keep my secret.”

  He shook his head, picked her up under the arms, and set her aside. Then he held her there. “Nay. I wasn’t delivered to this ship in order to keep yer secrets. I was sent to save yer life, and I’ll do so in whatever way I can.”

  “What do ye mean, delivered here?”

  “Yesterday. Just before ye screamed for help.”

  “Yesterday? Now ye’re saying the very mist delivered ye on board?”

  He grinned. “Appropriate for a ghost, aye?”

  “But Tremayne, I can feel ye. Ye’re no ghost.” She wrapped her hands in his shirt, pressed on his chest, showing just how tangible he was. “And the battle of Culloden was but forty-five years ago. Not two hundred seventy.” She laughed lightly, hoping he would laugh along. But he didn’t.

  “Lass, lass. It will make no sense to ye, but I did die on the field at Culloden. And I’ve lingered there ever since. But now, I’ve been given two days of life in order to save ye. And I mean to do it.”

  He tried to push her away from him again, but she held tight.

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait! Ye said ye have two days?”

  “Had two days. I reckon I have another twelve hours or more left to me.”

  “Then ye need not expose me. Not yet! Ye said ye would find my attacker, so find him. And if ye fail, when yer time is nearly through, ye can tell them all I’m a pretender. But if ye find the man, and stop him, there will be no need to change my course, aye?”

  He considered for a moment, searching her eyes, her face. She knew not what he saw there, but eventually, he nodded. And instead of pushing her from him, he pulled her close, wrapped his finger in her hair, and kissed her. His lips were hard, then gentle, then hard again. Trying to keep up was exhilarating, heartbreaking. For one day soon, she’d be kissing someone else—if all went…well.

  “My bonnie pretender,” he whispered, and kissed the tip of her nose. She laughed at the endearment, but inwardly, she winced at the reminder of Charles Stuart, whose father had been called the Pretender by their enemies, and the prince, the Young Pretender.

  She was grateful for the truce, though they had yet to settle the matter of his wild tale. She only wished they could remain in that embrace until the world sorted it all out for them.

  A drum rolled on deck, then tapped, then rolled again.

  She pretended not to hear, hoping her bonnie Scotsman would ignore it as well. But the footfalls that followed warned of something ominous outside their door.

  “Beating to quarters,” Tremayne murmured. “Something’s happening. I’ve got to find out—”

  “I’m coming along.”

  He laughed. “Ye don’t have shoes—”

  “Ye said ye wouldn’t leave me, aye?”

  He sobered. “All right, then. Stay close. Dinna leave me for any reason.”

  They stepped out into the hallway and the fresh air swirled around her ankles and made the cabin air seem closed and stifling in comparison, in spite of an open window. But at least she was outside now, and she was determined to enjoy every breath.

  They emerged at the base of the stairs that led up to the quarter deck, but that was as far as Tremayne would go. There, they watched and waited while the crew hurried in different directions and the rest of the passengers mulled around and tried to stay out of their way.

  Trem looked up, behind the helmsman, to find the captain patiently watching the same chaos. Titus noticed them then, looked a bit surprised to see them out. He waved a hand at the scrambling. “General Quarters,” he explained. “We have reason to believe someone is missing. So we’re counting heads.”

  The confusion continued for a while still. At a signal from the captain, the drummer stilled his sticks with a final thump.

  “Master Trudeau!”

  “Aye, Captain!” A man, surrounded by half a dozen other men, made some marks on a board, then started toward the helm, then up to the quarter deck.

  Everyone watched him go. Luckily, Trem was close enough to overhear.

  “Only one man missing, sir.” Trudeau stammered, nervous. “Mr. Nunn, sir.”

  The captain appeared genuinely stricken. “It cannot be.” He turned to face the masses. “Mr. Nunn! Show yourself!” After a long minute passed with no sign of the man, Titus shouted for the Quartermaster, the Master of Sail, the Master Gunner, and all senior officers to search the ship, stem to stern. The riggers were sent aloft with telescopes to search the waters aft. All others were ordered to remain where they were.

  The captain gripped the railing before him and waited. Time moved slowly in anticipation, but the ship was eerily silent. Every groan of the hull sounded impossible loud.

  When finally the ship’s masters appeared once more and shook their heads at one another, Master Trudeau looked to the riggers aloft, then spoke for them all.

  “Mr. Nunn is not aboard.”

  The captain’s eyes closed briefly, then he nodded. Trudeau ordered everyone back to their watches. A sailor pulled a kerchief from around his neck and wrapped it around the bell’s clapper.

  Esme nodded at the man and nudged Trem. “Why did he do that?”

  “Out of respect for the dead,” Captain Titus answered from above. “If Mr. Nunn is not yet dead, no doubt he soon will be.”

  Trem couldn’t afford to ask the question later, after the man recovered from his shock. “How did you know to look for him?”

  Titus pointed to the starboard rail. “Someone lowered the fishing boat early this morning. Boat’s gone. Trolling line’s been cut.”

  Trem prodded Esme back into the hallway and hurried her into the cabin. “Well, lass? Still want to take yer chances with a murderer aboard?”

  She swallowed and put her chin in the air. “Aye.”

  His only consolation came from the fact that her lovely chin trembled when she’d said it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “All right, then. Poor Mr. Nunn is no longer a suspect.”

  Esme wiped a tear from her cheek. “He was always looking after me. With all he had to worry about, he was always asking after my needs.”

  Trem wished there was more time to show respect for the bosun, but he was running out of time. His greatest fear was that the murderer would find a way to get to Esme, which well could happen if he left the cabin to go looking for clues.

  His second greatest fear was that Soni might call him away before he flushed the villain out—which he couldn’t manage while holed up in the room with Esme. Or worse, she would collect him in the blink of an eye, just as she’d delivered him, and he’d have no time to spread the word that Esme was not, in fact, Mary Campbell.

  And his final fear was just the opposite, that he would have the chance to reveal her secret—and would be forced to do so against her wishes—and they would part ways with her hating him.

  There was simply no winning without the killer knocking on the door and introducing himself as such.

  Esme sat in the center of the hanging bed huddled beneath a blanket, even though there wasn’t a fresh breeze to be had inside their sanctuary. They’d closed the window for fear of someone shimmying down a rope and climbing through it.

  She held a large shell up to her ear, to listen to the ocean of all things, looking as modern as could be had the shell been a cellular.

  She nodded at him. “Whom else do we suspect?”

  Oh, how precious she was to him when she used the word we. So he decided to use it back and hope it made her feel kindly toward him. After all, chances were good she would hate him soon enough, and anything that might dilute her ire would be welcome.

  A few more kisses, perhaps…

  He gave himself a shake. “We have set aside Mrs. Fredrick, for now. She isn’t hiding any resentment for ye, that’s certain enough.”

  “True.”

  “I can’t understand how ye can be immune to all her poison in yer ear, lass. Ye ne
ed to start defending yerself against all comers, aye? Even after ye’ve left the ship and…” He waved a hand to infer the bit about her marrying that stranger in Boston, for fear he might sound snide if he actually said the words.

  As long as he was still aboard, she belonged to him. And he wasn’t being boastful when he predicted she would agree with him if he put the question to her.

  Well, not overly boastful.

  Esme shrugged. “Mrs. Fredrick sees me as another of Campbell’s employees, aye? No better than her. So why should she have to wait on me? It matters naught to her that I was born a nobleman’s daughter. Not after I was willing to take compensation for my services—no matter what form that compensation took.”

  Trem rolled his eyes, wishing he could show the lass how the world would change in the 20th and 21st centuries. At least, for the most part. Where no one would be beholden to wait on anyone but themselves.

  She set the shell aside. “Have ye eliminated many suspects, then?”

  He couldn’t help grin, thinking her a fine Watson to his Sherlock. Then he gave a wistful sigh at the idea of her simply becoming a Watson. His Watson.

  His.

  “Did ye hear me?”

  He nodded and sat up straighter in the chair. “There was Mr. Peebles, the captain, and Mr. Nunn. Since the cook hasn’t found a way to poison us, he’s off the hook as well.”

  She looked surprised. “Ye don’t suspect the captain anymore?”

  Trem shook his head. “He was genuinely upset when Mr. Nunn was the missing man.”

  “Not pretending to be upset?”

  “Possibly. If so, he’s a far better actor than ye are, sweeting.”

  She blushed at the endearment, and he felt himself blushing for using it, but she was the only woman in all his incarnations with whom he’d ever felt so familiar, and he wouldn’t allow his pride to get in the way of enjoying the moment.

  “That leaves Mr. Mawbury. And I ken ye don’t wish to hear it, but he’s the last of our suspects. I have seen no one else take interest in yer welfare. And if the man is innocent, that means taking a close look at each and every one of the 70 souls aboard this ship.”

  He pretended to consider the ceiling for a moment, then gasped.

  “I’ve got it! I could tie ye to the mast and keep watch. And when someone steps forward to murder ye, I’ll catch them in my clever trap. Unfortunately, however, ye’ll not live to see my celebration!” He couldn’t help his voice rising throughout the last bit, until he was fairly shouting at her.

  She pulled the blanket away from her face long enough to grin at him, eyes closed, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But he knew—he knew—she was terrified. That quivering chin had given her away, which only proved she was putting all her faith in him catching the villain. And the pressure of her faith had made him a bit testy.

  Someone pounded on the door as if they’d rather break it in than have it opened for them.

  “Auch,” he said, rising to answer while the planks still held together. “I believe this is yer ambitious suitor, come to call me out for dishonoring ye.” He lifted the latch and stood aside, allowing the next blow to send the door flying. Without looking to see who stood in the opening, he headed back to the chair and mumbled, “Do come in, Mawbury. But unless ye want a dagger in yer heart, I wouldn’t advise stepping close to Miss…Campbell.”

  He didn’t have to look to see that both the lass and their visitor were glaring at him. Sherlock Holmes would have been proud.

  “Ye took your sweet time coming back ‘round, Mawbury, so I assume ye weren’t truly as enraged on the lady’s account as ye pretended to be. No doubt that sailor—” He glanced at Esme. “What’s his name?”

  “Red Mac.”

  “That’s right. No doubt Red Mac watched me bending over the woman to check her forehead for signs of fever. So, judging by yer sudden appearance this morning, the man likely told ye—and anyone who likes a good story—that he watched me ravage the lass. However, after ye had time to consider, ye realized that Miss Campbell…” He was careful not to pause that time. “…has the good sense to poke me in the nose and scream if I were to try such a thing, so ye decided not to pursue the matter further. And since ye were no doubt passing by when ye heard me shouting just a moment ago, ye thought it best to pop in and see if she needed yer aid. Is that it?”

  The man took a deep breath. “Yes… Roughly.”

  Trem glanced at the lass to ensure she was duly entertained, which she appeared to be. In fact, she was biting her lower lip in an effort to keep from smiling. So Trem went on, though it took great fortitude to tear his eyes away from her.

  Biting on her lip, indeed.

  “Well, it’s a lucky thing for me, then, as I was just about to send for ye, Mawbury. Ye see, ye’re the last on a long list of suspects, which means that ye must have been the man to throw Miss Campbell into the sea. And I demand to know the why of it!”

  Esme gasped, but Trem couldn’t afford another glance to determine whether or not she was acting surprised, or genuinely so. Truth be told, Mawbury gasped louder than she had. And unfortunately, that surprise didn’t bode well for Mawbury being a ruthless murderer.

  A gasping, ruthless murderer? Not likely.

  “Dr. Watson… Miss Campbell…” Mawbury took a step toward the lass, to Trem’s great satisfaction, so Trem was justified in letting his dagger fly. And fly it did. In fact, it fairly whistled through the air less than a foot away from Mawbury’s nose and drove home in the wall, slicing into, but not severing, the rope anchoring one end of the bed.

  Esme squeaked and raised a brow at him. He gave her a wink. Brave Mawbury, frozen in place by fear, noticed neither.

  “Let’s have it, man,” Trem demanded with a menacing calm. “Ye don’t really know Lord Angus Campbell, do ye?”

  “N…no. I only know of him.” The poor man didn’t dare look at Esme, so he kept his attention on the floor.

  “And ye wished to become fast friends with…Mary…” he’d nearly forgotten the name. “…so ye could bandy her father’s name about when it might advance yer ambitions—”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it. I certainly wouldn’t harm her.”

  “But ye’re not quite brave enough to taste her food for her.”

  The man’s posture fell. “No.” To Esme, he said, “Forgive me.”

  The lass gave him a kind smile. “Don’t be silly, James. I never needed you to taste my food.”

  After the despondent, weasel of a man was gone, Trem barred the door, leaned back against it, and frowned at Esme.

  “No,” she said, climbing to her feet. “Ye’re not going to tell anyone my secret yet. There is still time.”

  Trem shook his head. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  He sighed. “Another suspect. I’d nearly forgotten. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be proud of me at all.”

  “Sherlock Holmes?”

  “No one you would know, lass.”

  “So who is our suspect?”

  He smiled as she came near and ran one hand up his chest. “Ours? I like the sound of that.”

  She lifted a brow and he realized, sadly, she wasn’t waiting for a kiss, but for a name.

  “Red Mac,” they said in unison. Then Trem learned something new, that it wasn’t as easy as it might seem—kissing when smiling.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Half an hour later, they sat beside each other on top of a trunk, facing Captain Titus and explaining their theory while the man petted his beloved chair.

  Esme let Tremayne lay out their suspicions. She hoped they were right about Red Mac so the handsome rogue could stop threatening to expose her, and perhaps they could ignore his Culloden story and enjoy the last days of the voyage together. To that end, she chose to ignore all those times he’d insisted he’d be leaving her soon and pretend that they hadn’t a care in the world.

  The future was waiting on the shores of Massachusetts, and she wouldn’
t worry about it until they came in sight of those shores.

  And, of course, there was still the murderer to catch.

  “When I shouted there was a man overboard,” Tremayne told the captain, “Red Mac manned the boat with Mr. Nunn, if you’ll recall. Perhaps he’d tried to lead the bosun astray so Miss Campbell would drown before they reached her. Perhaps the big man suspected. Or perhaps, in working together, Mr. Nunn had witnessed something else that made him suspicious.

  “Tell me. Was it Nunn who you assigned to watch for trouble, who saw someone run from this room last night?”

  Titus nodded.

  “Maybe he only claimed he didn’t recognize the man. Maybe he confronted Red Mac and told him to leave Miss Campbell alone.”

  Titus nodded again. “Anything else?”

  Something bothered Esme, so she asked. “When ye said ye took full responsibility for the man spying through the window, did ye mean to say ye’d ordered him to do so?”

  The captain shook his head. “My crew. My responsibility.”

  She looked at Trem. “That’s what I reckoned.” Her gaze caught on his lips.

  Titus cleared his throat and stood. “Well, then. I supposed I’d best go question Red Mac. If he lies, I’ll know it. But in case it wasn’t him, I suggest you bar the door and remain inside. Weather’s headed for us. Bound to be a long night.” He chuckled. “For some of us.”

  ~

  The storm arrived at four bells, just in time for supper. Apparently, the kerchief had been removed from the clapper either in deference to hunger, or to cut through the volume of the downpour. Also due to the rain, combined with the interrogation of Red Mac, the memorial service for Mr. Nunn had been delayed until the morrow.

  Mrs. Fredrick appeared with the evening meal, but she wouldn’t come inside. “Thanks to the storm,” she told Trem, “the cook won’t allow a fire. So it’s salt pork and bannocks for all. I watched them pull your portions out of the same barrels as the rest. No need to taste them, unless you think I’ve poisoned them. And with the chance you’d make me try them first, that wouldn’t be too clever of me, would it?”