Ghost Ship: A Port Chatham Mystery

by P. J. Alderman

“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.”

  A slight frown marred Mona’s features. “Hattie Longren’s younger sister, yes. I fear she isn’t taking seriously my advice to steer clear of Jesse.”

  “Canby is slowly destroying himself,” Michael acknowledged. “Yet he still possesses the charm and wit to turn a young girl’s head. I’d hate to see her dragged down with him.”

  “As would I,” Mona agreed. “Charlotte is well loved by a number of my regular customers; she can have a long and successful career, should she learn to curb her impulsiveness. I fear her sister’s death weighs heavily on her, creating a sadness deep within that she fights against.”

  “In that respect, she is in good company,” Seavey murmured, causing Mona to give him a sharp look. He shook off the thought, continuing. “I felt I should mention the liaison between the two, in case you weren’t aware of it. I suspect Canby doesn’t have long now before his decline becomes impossible to conceal. I’d hate for Charlotte to become unnecessarily attached, only to lose yet one more dear friend.”

  Mona nodded. “I will see what I can do to persuade her that her friendship comes with certain risks. Unfortunately, barring Jesse from my establishment is probably not wise, but I will do what I can to influence the situation.” She appeared to study her parasol, then gave Michael a thoughtful frown.

  “Pray, speak your mind, madam,” he urged.

  Michael was aware that Mona had steered well clear of him in the past, considering him extremely dangerous. In the days leading up to Hattie’s murder, when she and Mona had become reluctant allies of a sort, trying to influence events taking place on the waterfront, Mona had even gone so far as to warn Hattie to beware of Michael. Mona’s harsh opinion of him had eased, however, once Charlotte had gone to work at the Green Light and revealed Michael’s role in the events surrounding Hattie’s murder and ensuing investigation.

  Mona continued to hesitate, studying him warily. Michael waited, in no hurry to influence her. People believed of him what they would—he’d never found it profitable to attempt to change their minds.

  All around them, the noise of the busy wharf ebbed and flowed as dockworkers unloaded ships and placed cargo on wagons. Street vendors hawked their wares to sailors coming ashore; saloons opened their doors in preparation for serving rotgut whiskey to those who couldn’t afford anything better. Whores strolled along the docks in their finery, hoping to relieve the watermen of their wages.

  “Very well.” Mona finally nodded, seeming to have reached the conclusion that it was safe to confide in him. “I hesitate to insert myself into your business affairs, but I feel you should know that your man Garrett has recently taken an increased interest in Charlotte. And though all my customers comment on her improving talents in the bedroom, as well as her sweetness and willingness to please, I suspect there’s more to Garrett’s interest than meets the eye.”

  Michael frowned. Surely Garrett had no knowledge of Charlotte’s family connections to Hattie. Or of the potential leverage he could apply, given Michael’s attachment to Hattie at one time. “I will look into the matter,” he said at last. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  Mona inclined her head, her elaborately coiffed auburn hair shining handsomely in the sunlight. “I suspect we both understand well the advantages of keeping the other informed. There are those who would be pleased to see either of us fail.”

  Though her warning was necessarily oblique, he took it to heart. He executed a slight bow. “Pray enjoy the remainder of your outing, Miss Starr. I am glad to have had the pleasure of your company.”

  Her pale blue eyes warmed a bit. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Seavey. I intend to do just that.”

  As he watched her walk away, Remy appeared silently at his side.

  “Inspector Yardley of Customs awaits you in your hotel suite, Boss. He has a matter of some urgency he wishes to discuss.”

  The sound of a throat clearing came from behind them. “Sir?”

  Michael turned back, impatient. MacDonough stood a few yards away, looking nervous. “What is it, man?”

  “I’ll be needing a name, sir.”

  “Pardon?”

  “A name. For the ship, sir? Unless you’d be wanting to keep the old name, but most owners replace it with one of their own choice, a name that means something special to them …” MacDonough’s voice trailed off as Seavey scowled, staring out across the bay.

  After a long moment, he replied, feeling as if the words had been wrenched from him, “Henrietta Dale.”

  “A fine name, sir! Would it be belonging to someone I might’ve met?”

  “No,” Seavey replied coldly. “It belongs to someone long dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “Yes, so am I.”

  * * *

  IT took Michael only minutes to cross the wharf and walk the block to his hotel. The building was two stories high, and he’d added an annex that allowed for separation of the luxury rooms used by well-heeled guests from the wing of dormitory-style rooms used to accommodate sailors. A balcony ran the length of the second story, and the name of the hotel was attached in large painted wooden letters to the railing. His hotel was easily the most imposing structure along that part of the waterfront, just as he’d intended.

  Though it was early in the day, he glimpsed a few sailors already partaking of spirits in his bar, while his wealthier guests reclined on comfortable settees in the adjacent hotel lobby, drinking coffee and reading the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette. No doubt perusing Eleanor’s editorial, Michael thought, and nodding their heads in agreement. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

  He quickly climbed the back steps, accessing his suite of rooms through the rear hallway and taking a few minutes to freshen up before entering the sitting room where Yardley waited.

  A tall man with a grim expression and a huge handlebar mustache, Yardley was fond of using his size to intimidate others. The Customs inspector’s job was to collect import duties and taxes on incoming cargo, and he had at his disposal a fleet of revenue cutters crewed by agents who had the authority to board and inspect any ship in local waters. Yardley had even become so bold as to insist that his agents travel on board the ships for the shorter runs between local ports.

  Still attired in his uniform of wool pants and a double-breasted coat sporting two rows of gold buttons, Yardley must have come directly from being on duty. He held his narrow-brimmed hat with its gold Customs insignia in one hand at his side as he paced. Spying Michael, he halted.

  Michael approached, gesturing at the brocade furniture gracing his suite. “Pray be seated, Inspector.”

  “I prefer to stand.” Yardley’s tone was pleasant, yet Michael thought he detected a hint of grimness.

  “May I offer you refreshment?” he asked, taking a seat in a handsome wing-back chair and propping a boot on one knee.

  “No.” Yardley must have realized how rude he sounded, for he added, “Thank you.” He returned to his perusal of Michael’s plush furnishings and expensive artwork, his expression disapproving.

  Michael waited him out.

  Yardley swung around abruptly. “Last night, my men retrieved the bodies of several Chinese from the local waters. What do you know of this?”

  “I’m sorry to hear of it,” Michael replied, not revealing the alarm he felt. “I’m afraid I am of no help, however—I was at the mayor’s soiree for the evening.”

  “My men were patrolling an area just off North Beach.” Yardley’s tone was impatient. “According to the police, a Chinaman by the name of Lok lodged a complaint this morning, claiming Sam Garrett atte
mpted to hang him last night in that same location. Lok also stated that another man, one fitting your description, was responsible for saving his life.”

  Michael gave a silent curse. No good would come of this; Garrett would be hunting the man to permanently silence him. One would’ve thought Lok had the sense to remain silent about the affair.

  He shrugged, maintaining an air of indifference. “The man must be mistaken—I know of no such incident. If I had, I would have reported it.”

  “Do you deny that your man Garrett was out there last night, then?”

  Michael feigned astonishment. “Come now, Inspector. Sam Garrett is not ‘my man,’ as you put it. I take no interest in his whereabouts—indeed, I rarely have any dealings with him at all. Therefore, how could I possibly confirm or deny?”

  Yardley snorted. “You don’t expect me to swallow that story, do you, Seavey?”

  “I don’t really care whether you do or not. It is the truth, however.”

  Yardley clenched his hands at his sides, the only indication that he was less than composed. He evidently decided to take a less confrontational approach, however, for he said in a more equable tone, “As you may know, we’re experiencing an increase in these types of incidents. Because of the Chinese Exclusion Act, the Chinese are desperate to find a way to our shores by whatever means. Unfortunately, they sometimes book passage with ships’ captains who are less than candid about the risks associated with the crossing. Many of these captains feel justified in tossing them overboard, should one of our cutters approach, given the steep fines they would face upon discovery.”

  “It seems a great risk indeed,” Michael agreed serenely, “to book passage with someone who thinks your life is expendable at the merest provocation. However, I fail to understand why you’ve come to me to discuss these incidents. I have no history of—indeed, no inclination to ever consider—trafficking in humans. I can assure you, I hold a man’s life to be far more valuable than that.”

  Yardley merely raised an eyebrow. “Your reputation says otherwise.”

  “Yes, well.” Michael waved a hand impatiently. “A man can’t spend his time trying to live down the foolish rumors that circulate about him along the waterfront. I conduct my affairs privately, discreetly, and to the benefit of all those involved. I certainly do not barter in human lives.”

  “This man Lok,” Yardley said, abruptly changing the subject. “He claims you saved him from certain death last night. Do you categorically deny it?”

  “I wouldn’t think such a crime would fall under your jurisdiction, Inspector.”

  “It would if it had anything to do with illegal smuggling—either of drugs or humans.”

  Close scrutiny by the authorities would be most unwelcome. It was imperative that he stop this line of inquiry immediately. “The man appears to be delusional on this account,” he lied without compunction. “I was at the mayor’s home until quite late. Any number of his guests can vouch for my presence throughout the evening. Payton’s sister, whose name escapes me at the moment, played an exceptional Bach cantabile. And I do admit to indulging in the fine port on offer. I was hardly in any shape to be gallivanting about on North Beach.” He paused, then shook his head. “Perhaps this man—Lok, you said?—suffered some disorientation because of the alleged attempt on his life.”

  “Perhaps,” Yardley allowed, studying Michael silently for a long moment. “I suspect it’s also quite possible, however, that you guard your secrets closely.” He placed his hat on his head, turned to leave, then turned back. “I trust that if you hear of anything that might help us solve the drowning of the Chinese, you’ll contact me at once?”

  “On that, Inspector,” Michael felt comfortable replying, “you can rely.”

  Chapter 7

  THE sound of the construction worker’s footsteps overhead roused Jordan from her reading. Glancing at her watch, she was astonished to learn that more than two hours had passed, and immediately felt a pang of guilt about Malachi. She contemplated the various papers she’d gotten only halfway through, then—without a qualm—stuffed the pages from Captain Williams’s diary inside her jacket and headed upstairs.

  Travis paused in the act of smearing grayish-white stuff vertically down a wall seam with a metal trowel. “Find what you were looking for?”

  “Not entirely,” she admitted. “I seem to have more questions than when I started.”

  He went back to his scraping, the tool scritching against the wallboard. “That’s usually the way of things, now isn’t it? Some days even this Sheetrock mud refuses to give up its mysteries.” He leaned down to scoop up more of the glop. “You found the section of the archives we had to temporarily relocate to the other side of the basement, right?”

  She turned back from the front door. “You did what?”

  “Let me show you.” Dropping the trowel into a tray, he led the way back downstairs and to a darkened corner of the basement. There, binders full of newspapers, photos, and books had been stacked on a wooden shelf. “We needed the room for the display cases we moved down from upstairs. We were afraid we’d crack the glass, then have to pay for them.” He looked apologetic. “I probably shoulda told you about this right away, huh?”

  “No problem.” She peered at the handwritten labels, her excitement building as she spied several from July and August 1893.

  “I’ll just head back upstairs then?” he asked after a moment.

  “Hmm?” She refocused. “Oh, sure.” She shot him a distracted smile. “Thanks.”

  Selecting a binder from August, she balanced it on top of the stack of papers in her arms and hauled everything back over to the small table where she’d been reading. Flipping through the binder’s contents, she quickly found a second issue of the Port Chatham Weekly Gazette displaying a banner headline about the wreck of the Henrietta Dale.

  Survivor Describes Final Moments of Terror and Despair Aboard the Ill-Fated Henrietta Dale

  August 8—“The moment I felt that awful grindin’ jolt, I knew we were doomed. It’s a miracle any of us survived,” First Mate Dan Jensen told this reporter just hours after the heroic rescue. “We were goin’ full bore on a broad reach, sails extended, when we hit the spit. ’Tweren’t no chance to slow ’er down.”

  As related in this paper’s previous issue, the Henrietta Dale, owned by Michael Seavey, a businessman well known on Port Chatham’s waterfront, ran aground on the west side of Dungeness Spit late in the evening of August 5. Locals did their best to help rescue survivors, though by the time they arrived, the beautiful clipper ship was already mortally damaged by high waves and was a danger to those on shore.

  According to what this intrepid reporter has been able to discover, the Henrietta Dale, recently refurbished by Seavey, was on her maiden voyage from Victoria, British Columbia. Along with the crew of the ship, passengers included several Port Chatham residents as well as the son of this paper’s owner and editor-in-chief, Eleanor Canby. Jesse Canby is believed to have perished when he was crushed by the collapse of the mizzenmast, which caused the deck to cave in, damaging the great cabin below. An unofficial accounting of the victims can be obtained by their loved ones from the Port Chatham Police Department.

  Rescue workers were able by valiant measures to help six souls extricate themselves from the terrible wreckage. All suffered from severe injuries and were transported to medical clinics in Port Chatham. Among the survivors were three of the Henrietta Dale’s crew, including Captain Nathaniel Williams and the first mate quoted above. A young girl, Martha Smith, and Michael Seavey were also among the wounded.

  Though rumors abound regarding the purpose of the doomed ship’s voyage and of nefarious attempts to lure her off course, this reporter has not yet been able to determine the cause of the lethal grounding. A formal inquiry into the matter will no doubt be held, at which time the Gazette will provide for its readers full coverage of the proceedings. It is essential that, in these modern times, we continue to monitor the safety and w
ell-being of those among us who choose to travel our treacherous waterways.

  Yes! Seavey was listed among the survivors.

  After scribbling the names of the survivors on a crumpled bank deposit slip she found in her pocket, Jordan returned the newspaper to its binder. So Jesse Canby had been on board the Henrietta Dale that night. And he had perished. Could that be the reason behind Seavey’s comment that Eleanor had despised him?

  Replacing the binder on the shelf, Jordan gathered her papers and headed back upstairs. She thanked Travis and went outside to let an outraged Malachi out of the car. He sniffed the grass at the edge of the lot while she mentally reviewed what she’d learned. Although Eleanor Canby had railed in her editorial against the demon opium, her writing style had more to do with ranting than providing useful facts. Not one opium smuggler had been mentioned by name. Which meant Jordan had no idea who Seavey’s competitors were, and therefore no idea who might have lured the Henrietta Dale onto the spit. Then again, if she assumed Seavey was telling the truth in his own papers, wouldn’t his business partner have had motive?

  The real surprise she’d uncovered in her reading was that Charlotte probably knew even more about Michael Seavey than she’d let on. If Charlotte had been close to Jesse Canby, and if Jesse had been purchasing opium from Seavey, then it stood to reason that she might also have been around Seavey during the weeks before his death.

  Until now, Jordan had purposely avoided asking Charlotte about her life in the years following her sister Hattie’s murder in 1890. She was afraid of raising issues that would be too painful for the young ghost to discuss. In less than a year, Charlotte had gone from a carefree, pampered teenager to losing her parents in a carriage accident in Boston, then traveling out West to live with her older sister here in Port Chatham. Even worse, within months of her arrival, Hattie had been murdered, leaving Charlotte destitute and in the employ of a notorious madam. The psychological trauma from such events could cause irreparable damage to a strong person for life, and, well, Charlotte simply wasn’t that strong.