Chapter Twenty
P
HAETON GRABBED A BELAYING PIN
and tapped the guard on the shoulder. “Avast there, Davey Jones.” The pirate swung around.
Thwack!
The seaman wavered, then crumbled to the ground. Dexter dragged the man behind the funnel while Phaeton searched the unconscious guard and pocketed several useful items. “Yo ho, heave to, a-pirating we go.”
Dex nodded upward. “Take a look above when you get a chance, Long John Silver.”
Phaeton craned his neck. “Thar she be—a good-sized mark near the chimney rim.” He peered around the side of the smokestack and gave a whistle.
The light-footed Miss Jones walked the gangplank like a cat. Monitoring her stealthy progress across the ship, he grinned. Nimble all right, when she wasn’t otherwise occupied stomping his toes. She drew close, and he pulled her behind the funnel. Her eyes were bright with excitement and something more akin to nerve, or courage. Dog’s bollocks, she was appealing. He resisted the urge to toss the wench against the stack and impale her, much like that first night in the Savoy Row. Quashing his insatiable appetite for the young lady, he continued to marvel at just how pleased he was to have her around. “Where to, me beauty?”
“Captain’s cabin below, through the wheelhouse.”
He placed his hands on her waist and swiveled her about. “Make your way carefully; I’m right behind you.” Dex fell in step behind them.
“Keep a tight group.” They scurried aft and slipped into the deck housing. A shaft of moonlight and the hollow tick of a clock permeated the control room. A huge iron ship’s wheel, tipped with brass handles, dominated the space. America waved them past a high desk, covered in nautical charts. When they reached a narrow, spiral ladder, Phaeton caught her arm. “Any crew quarters below?”
She shook her head. “Passenger cabins and captain’s quarters.”
Phaeton positioned her between Dex and himself and took the lead. At the bottom of the stair, he craned his neck fore and aft. No duty guard. He waved her ahead, and she led them to a glossy lacquered door. She lifted a finger to her lips and pointed to a dark rectangular spot on the wood where a name plate had been removed.
Gingerly, she tried the knob. “Locked.”
Phaeton held up an iron ring and dangled a set of keys. “Thought these might come in handy.”
She fumbled through the bunch, fingers trembling. “Dear God, I know these keys.” She fit one to the keyhole and jiggled. The door swung open. A single lantern, low on fuel, sputtered above. Rich dark wood paneling covered the walls of the cabin. America pointed to a built-in secretary. “Second drawer down, there is a false bottom compartment accessed from underneath.”
The desk’s roll-top cover didn’t budge. America bit her lower lip. “Only the captain keeps the key.”
On his knees, Phaeton wedged a knife between the writing surface and cover. He angled the tip and lifted the latch. He nodded to America. She rolled back the slated wood and exposed a bank of small drawers and pigeonholes along the back of the desk.
Phaeton removed the second drawer and turned it upside down. The lantern sputtered a last gasp of light, plunging them into darkness. “Bollocks.” A dim pool of moonlight poured through the porthole. “Dex, have you a torch on you?”
“Right here.” Dex retrieved a long metal tube-shaped device from his coat pocket. He toggled a switch and slapped the gadget against the palm of his hand. “Only, the damn thing won’t—” A beam of light shot across the room, as the torch tumbled to the floor. Several small cylindrical shaped objects rolled out of the bottom. “Jeezus, Dex, get them back in before the wires detach and we lose the light.”
Tentatively, Dex picked up the small batteries and tried fitting them back in. Phaeton exhaled. “Come on then, pretend it’s cock alley.”
“Stuff it, Phaeton.”
“I assure you, mine won’t fit.”
America elbowed her way in-between them. “If you’re going to act like schoolboys—” She deftly pushed the two cylinders back into the tube and screwed on the end cap. She pointed the torch at the small storage compartment. Phaeton moved his fingers around the drawer’s edges.
She steadied the beam. “What is this thing, anyhow?”
“Experimental. Electrical light generated by dry cell batteries.” Something shifted under his fingers, and he slid back a wooden peg. The bottom dropped down along with a packet of papers. America angled the circle of light over as Dex untied the stack.
“Several letters here, of a personal nature, written by ... appears to be a lady.” Moore turned over the note paper.
“Abigail.” Her voice, little more than a whisper, faltered. “Captain Jackson Starke’s fiancée.”
Dex looked up from the signature and nodded. “All my affection, Abigail.” He unfolded another loose sheet. “Looks as though this was torn from a journal.”
“12 July 1888.” Dex read on in a low whisper. “Two days out of Rangoon, we were fired upon and boarded by men who took over ship and cargo. I remain locked in this cabin, and do not know what fate lies in store for me. In the event the pirates do not scuttle the
Ruby Star
, I record here, my experience of these dastardly events. It is my greatest wish this accounting might one day assist in bringing the blackguards to justice.” Dex read on silently for a few more sentences. “If this note is discovered, then rest assured, I am dead. Please tell my mother, sister, and my dear fiancée, Miss Abigail Fisher, they were in my last thoughts.”
Tears streamed, and Phaeton dabbed a handkerchief over her cheeks. “You now have written testimony, my dove.”
She blinked and turned to Dex. “Need we go further with these proofs, then?”
His thin-lipped grin appeared hopeful. “Hardly seems necessary to go on with the investigation.” He refolded the papers and stuffed them inside his coat. “Captain Starke names the ship several times, and I am in receipt of a copy of her English registry. No magistrate in the land would not recognize the ship as yours, Miss Jones.”
Phaeton nodded upward. “Well then, shall we wake the harbor master?” As if in answer, several loud thumps and a shuffling came from above. Phaeton switched off the torch and stuffed it in his coat. “Is there another exit?”
America nodded. “Forward, past the boiler room.”
“Dex, you go with Miss Jones. I’ll wait here. Ready yourselves near the main deck, close to the gangplank. I hope to make quite a din.” Swiftly and quietly, they exited the cabin and closed the door. He caught Moore’s eye. “Wait for a commotion, then make your dash down the plank.”
America shook her head. “We’ll not leave without you.”
Phaeton turned her around and shoved her in front of Moore. “Do not wait for me. I’ll join up with you at the harbor patrol office.”
Dex took her arm and pulled. She resisted.
“I shall hold dear your adorable and worried glare, Miss Jones.” Phaeton eyeballed Moore. “Muzzle and carry her off if necessary. Now go, the both of you.”
Phaeton waited in the narrow corridor, until he completely lost sight of her. He sensed activity above in the wheelhouse and climbed the spiral of stairs high enough to get a glimpse of several men entering the control room.
He poked his head higher and still the dullards paid him no heed. Finally, he climbed near to the top of the stairs and leaned back against the curved rail.
He cleared his throat. “Might any of you bilge rats tell me where the whiskey is located? Devil take it, I can’t seem to find a drop of grog in the captain’s quarters.”
All three men spun around and stared, openmouthed.
“And where’s that bloody bottle of rum you blokes sing about?” Phaeton crossed his arms across his chest. “I’ll take a noggin o’ that matey.”
“Here now, what have we got—?” One of the stunned seaman finally came to his senses, while another found his voice and yelled out the door. “Found one of ’em.”
Three crewmen lunged at once, and Phaeton slid down the banister. He headed straight for the captain’s cabin and pressed his shoulder to the door.
He threw the latch, backed up and waited. How he might extricate himself from these scurvy pirates, he had no idea. If caught and captured, which seemed imminent, his only hope rested on Dex and America. They would have to find a way to marshal the harbor patrol—and be quick about it.
A battery of shouts and scuffles had every man on deck headed for the wheelhouse. Dex nudged America. “That’s our signal.” He pushed her ahead, and they skittered down the plank and slipped behind a stack of dockside barrels. Between casks, she angled a view to the ship. “What will become of him? If they—”
“No time for worry, Miss.” Dex checked behind them. A full moon lit up the docks like it was twilight. He grabbed her hand and they ran for the deep shadow cover of the looming warehouse.
Plastered against the brick wall, he exhaled. “We need to make our way to the harbor patrol office.”
She nodded, licking dry lips. “Somewhere near the gates, I believe. Do you know which way?”
“Not sure, exactly,” Moore pointed across the street. “When I give the signal, run for the corner shop front.” He waited for a lone carriage to pass by. “Now.” Gingerly, they made their way in the direction of a wire office, where a single lamp lit the window. He tried the door and found it open.
America stepped inside. The office appeared deserted.
Dexter ventured ahead. “Hello?”
“Finally, got you!”
She sensed Moore stiffen as they both instinctively backed up. A red-eyed clerk with a great shock of orange hair sprang up from behind the counter. The man held a growling tabby cat by the scruff of its neck. The struggling feline swung a paw at the telegraph worker.
America exhaled. Dex cleared his throat. “Sorry to intrude, but could you direct us to the Harbor Patrol station, please?”
“There now, out you go.” The wiry man swung open a Dutch door and exited the counter area. He chuffed the neck of the longhaired cat and sneezed. “That’ll be the last of you for the evening, Mr. Chubbs.” He opened the door and tossed the snarling puss out.
The clerk pulled a cloth square from his pocket and snuffled. “Two blocks south, past the gunwarf. Patrol office is straight across the way from the Harbor Master’s Lodge, just this side of the Victory Gate.” The man gasped for air.
Dex tipped his hat. “Be sure to take a powder for that wheeze.”
They made a run for the Harbor gates and found lamps ablaze inside the police station. Dexter’s calling card got them ushered into the sergeant’s office. A rather young man for his station, he listened intently to their story, with few interruptions. America, for her part, took a moment to catch her breath. When the sergeant eyeballed her chest, she took the opportunity to unbutton her coat, show a bit of cleavage.
She noted that Inspector Moore left out certain significant parts of the story. Namely the fact that a full accounting of the act of piracy had been found, signed by the deceased captain. “You must tell him about Phaeton.”
“Indeed. Detective Phaeton Black, also of Scotland Yard, may well be in trouble. If he does not meet us here, within the hour, we must assume he is captured.”
The young officer leaned back into his chair. “Certainly the crew will believe him to be an intruder and bring him here to the police cells?”
Dear God, was the man a bit thick? America bit her lip. “No. They are pirates, Sergeant–?” She searched her memory for his name.
“Nathan James.”
She inhaled a deep breath to calm her racing heart. “Sergeant James. These men stole half of my father’s merchant fleet in order to force a bankruptcy. Yanky Willem is a desperate man. He will stop at nothing to end this investigation. I fear for Mr. Black’s life.”
“A rather sophisticated plot for pirates, don’t you think, Miss ... Jones, is it?” The man had the gall to plunk his booted feet onto the corner of his desk. “Searching a foreign registered ship without a warrant is a serious breech of maritime law. Might well have to wait for a ruling by the magistrate.”
The sergeant’s nonchalant demeanor was beyond bearing. All manner of suspicious thoughts ran through her head. She turned to Moore, out of the policeman’s view, and raised a brow.
Moore blinked a nod. “I’m afraid this incident could quickly escalate into a life and death matter. Might we chance disturbing the Harbor Master at this hour?”
The sergeant shifted black eyes to the clock on the wall. “Near to midnight, if ye wake him, he’ll not be kindly disposed to your plight.”
She noted a phone box mounted on the wall, and posed an innocent question. “Oh my, is that a telephone? I have heard so much about them.”
Feet whisked off the desk, he leaned forward and widened a grin. “Yes, Miss. Installed just last month, connects us to a substation in the basin and across the street to the lodge.”
She brightened. “The Harbor Master’s lodge?”
The captain’s grin faded to something icier. “Yes.”
“Lovely. Shall we call him straight away before he’s off to bed?” She glanced at Dex, whose mouth twitch pleased her to no end.