P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“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 well-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.

Perhaps, given the lengthy passage of time, there was a way to gently question Charlotte about what she knew. Whistling for Malachi, Jordan decided that she should proceed cautiously. Regardless of the teenage ghost’s antics, she’d become fond of Charlotte and didn’t want to be the cause of her becoming even more fragile.

Jordan helped Malachi into the Prius’s cramped hatchback area, then drove downtown. The night before, she’d promised Bob MacDonough she would stop by the Wooden Boat Society’s headquarters at Point Hudson to provide more details about her sighting of the ghost ship. And after what she’d learned in the last two hours, she had a few questions of her own.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that it had been a long time since breakfast, so she stopped at a natural food cooperative to grab an energy bar and some dog biscuits for Malachi. As she drove down the main drag, she munched on the bar, getting crumbs all over her sweater. Glancing down from the steering wheel to brush off the crumbs, she came within inches of running through a black carriage carrying a beautifully dressed woman holding a black Battenburg lace parasol. The horse shied, almost flipping the carriage. Jordan jerked the wheel to the right, craning her neck to assure herself the lady and the horse were okay.