The young sergeant’s eyes darted from her to the telephone box. “Well, I suppose ...”
She batted her eyes enough to make them water. “I don’t believe the Harbor police of Portsmouth would let down a fellow officer of the law. If Mr. Black is injured or killed in the line of duty ...” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Well, I would hate for anything to reflect poorly on the Harbor Master.”
The sergeant cranked up the phone and waited. “Yes. Hello. Might I speak with the Harbor Master? If he’s abed—No? Yes, I’ll wait.”
The sergeant rolled his eyes and grinned. “We’re in luck, he’s—”
“Captain MacLeod. Yes sir, quite late to be calling, but there appears to be an incident brewing.” After a heated exchange with his boss, there quickly developed a noticeable shift in the sergeant’s demeanor. “Yes sir, she claims to be the daughter—a shipping merchant, named—?” He quirked a brow.
“Charles Gardiner Jones.”
The sergeant dutifully repeated after her. “Her name? Jones, as well, sir. Right away, sir.” Incredulous, he held out the telephone’s earpiece. “He wishes to speak with you, Miss.”
Tentatively, she took the cone-shaped device and held it to her ear.
“Say hello.”
“Hello?”
The sergeant positioned her closer to the box on the wall. “Keep the listening end to your ear and speak here.”
“Oh yes, I see.” She leaned close to another black metal cone and spoke. “Hello?”
“Am I speaking with the daughter of Captain Charles Jones?”
She nodded to the thin, metallic phantom voice. When she heard no response, she remembered to speak into the black metal cone. “Yes, sir. I am America Jones.”
Openmouthed, she returned the listening end to the sergeant. “He says he’ll be here straight away.” She glanced at the clock. A great unease surged through her body, not unlike the night she had discovered Phaeton laid out prone beneath Qadesh. Just two nights ago, he lay deathly still, as the Nile queen drained the life from his body. He was in no condition to fight off Yanky Willem’s bruisers.
America took a deep breath and jumped back as an imposing gent hurled the bulk of his frame into the room. He lifted his hat to reveal a wavy head of hair that merged seamlessly into a fuzzy wealth of grey muttonchop sideburns.
The gleam in his bright blue eyes sparked a memory. His face, a crisscross of seaman’s wrinkles, was lined from years of salty air and sun. The man was older now, but his essence somehow oddly familiar. She inched forward as recognition burst forth. “Alastair MacLeod?”
“The very same.” The man’s cheeks grew rosy as he took in the sight of her. “Great guns, it is you, lass.” He lifted her into a great bear hug of an embrace and whirled her about the room. Setting her down, he took a longer look at her. “And what a beauty you’ve grown up to be.”
While she gasped for air, the Harbor Master sized up her companion. “Used to be a scrawny little mulatto child scampering about the ship. Into plenty of mischief, as I recall.”
“I imagine she was quite the ... scalawag.” Dex stepped forward. “Inspector Moore, Scotland Yard.”
“So my sergeant tells me.” The large Scot examined both their faces. The sort of examination one sensed whenever being questioned by a law officer of some experience. He watched their eyes, looking for any tell-tale physical twitch that might indicate a falsehood. “By the looks on both yer faces, you’d like me to arrest a few pirates, dockside.”
America wrung her hands together. “Captain MacLeod, might we go over the details as we make our way down to the ship? Another Yard man on the case, Detective Black, was to have met us here at the station, and I’m afraid he is long overdue. Inspector Moore and I believe he is in grave danger.”
The hulking Harbor Master eyeballed his second in command. “Show a leg then, Sergeant.”
The younger man barked an order down the hallway and bobbies came running from every corner of the station to assemble in formation. “Get yourself and every man on duty to the wharf.” MacLeod turned to Dex. “What pier?”
“Not sure. Just past HMS Storehouses.”
“That would be Pier 9 in the old basin, sir.” The sergeant turned to leave.
“Hold on.” The elder man barely had to raise his voice to halt his men. “Surround the ship, stealthy-like, and wait for my arrival.”
“Yes, sir.” Someone unlocked the armory cabinet and each man took a weapon as they filed out.
MacLeod turned back to her and Detective Moore. “Have ye any proofs these claims you make are true?”
America eyeballed Moore’s inside coat pocket. With a reluctant sort of half smile, he removed the stack of letters and unfolded the journal pages. “We found these.”
MacLeod braced himself against the heavy oak desk and donned a pair of spectacles. “I’ll not be asking ye any questions about how ye came into possession of these documents so don’t go offering any answers.” Peering over the rim of his glasses, he gave them a stern look that softened into something more akin to a wink.
Dex grinned. “Yes, sir.”
He read through the first half of the captain’s recounting of the piracy before he refolded the document and returned the pages to Moore. “Keep these safe; I’ll be wanting to study them further. For now, I’ve seen enough.”
He smiled at her. “Under the special power of the Local Authority Act granted me by the Naval Office, any ship or cargo suspected of being taken by illegal means may be detained by warrant and searched, until such time as sufficient evidence of guilt or innocence may be established.”
Relief welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Captain MacLeod.”
“Your father was a fair trader, Miss. I was greatly saddened to hear of his passing last year. Captain Starke, as well. Both men were well thought of in these waters.”
America swept an errant tear or two away with her hand. “I don’t mean to be rushing you, Captain, but might we?” She nodded street side.
The hulking man eased himself off the edge of the desk, and limped toward the door. She hadn’t noticed the hitch in his walk until now.
“Touch of the gout, lass. Might ease a bit as we take to the road.”
It was all America could do to keep from breaking away and running down the cobbled lane ahead of Detective Moore and Captain MacLeod.
Chapter Twenty-one
“D
AMN YE
,
BILGE-SUCKING SCURVY DOGS
.” Phaeton tightened his midsection against a battery of punches. The sharp, rapid-fire blows did not relent until he wheezed for air and his knees buckled. The men on each side of him tightened their grip. A teeth-chattering blow to his jaw ended in a brief respite into merciful senselessness.
“Where is she?”
A trickle of red spittle dripped to the floor. Hundreds of bloody mallets throbbed a drumbeat inside his skull. He lifted his head. “She?”
The burly seaman drew back his fist. “Seems like he wants more of this.” Poised to strike, the man waited for the order.
Phaeton tried moving his jaw. A nice pipe of opium would be just the trick right about now. His partially swollen eye failed to blot out the angry man who spoke from the doorway.
“What are you? A fellow confederate? No, I think not.” Words uttered in a thick accent. The unattractive, probable leader of this motley crew sauntered closer. “Lover, perhaps? Much more likely, I think.”
So. This was Yanky Willem.
“If I were you, I’d give Miss Jones up.”
Eye-to-eye, Phaeton returned the man’s stare. “If I were you, I’d be rather homely.”
A hard slap across the face roused Phaeton into alertness. “The ladies do like to climb aboard, if you take my meaning, Cap’n.”
“Not for much longer.” Willem nodded to his men and Phaeton braced for more. Pummeled by a barrage of jabs, he nevertheless managed to rally. At some point, one simply became inured to the pain. He ran his sore tongue over loosened teeth. A swollen lip stung when he licked away blood. After a few shallow breaths, he lifted his chin to face his captor.
A billow of smoke curled up one side of Willem’s mouth. Pale eyes twinkled as the Dutchman’s skeptical gaze traveled over him. “You were seen dancing with Miss Jones.”
Phaeton shut his eyes for one glorious moment. Flickering candlelight whirled about her pretty face as he waltzed her around the room. “That bonny wench?” He shook his head. “A might too rich for this Jack Tar’s pockets.”
Willem rolled his eyes slowly over the low-vaulted ceiling before settling his gaze on Phaeton. “Do you know what a keel haul is?”
He muttered a few curse words and lifted his chin. “Surely you don’t need me to explain ...” At Willem’s nod, a swift fist met the side of his torso. Phaeton gasped the answer. “A sailor is tied to a rope that loops beneath the vessel; he’s given the toss overboard and dragged under the ship’s keel to the other side.” He sputtered out a cough and forced a grin. “That what you have in mind for me, Cap’n. Shark bait?”
“Scraped along the bottom, quick-like, and ye’ll be cut to shreds by barnacles.” Willem pressed forward, crowding his chest. “Pull ye slow, and yer own weight will drag you down. Dead men tell no tales.” Pleased with the idea, the captain’s eyes glowed.
Phaeton examined the mole alongside the man’s nose. He counted three hairs before shifting his gaze. “A fine old Dutch Navy custom.”
A flash of suspicion registered on Willem’s face. “Take him above.”
His hands were bound before they shoved him up the ladder. Phaeton staggered across what felt like a mile of deck to the ship’s bow. Cool air wafted over his cuts and bruises but offered little relief from his injuries. Nothing but shivers and chills.
“Catch a line under the bowsprit, Mr. Cheever, and tie him up.” Willem’s pale eyes, bright as moonbeams, gleamed in anticipation.
Phaeton stole periodic glances toward the pier. Any time now the harbor patrol would arrive. What was keeping them? No doubt there were more of Willem’s men still about town. If Dex and America were captured, he was a dead man, and they’d soon be joining him. Phaeton winced at the thought of the lovely Miss Jones at the hands of these filthy pirates.
She had never lied to him. Not even from their first meeting. She had been chased down Savoy Row by these blaggards and by some queer stroke of fortune, he had been selected to partner her that night. Oddly, he had no regrets.
Odder still, his mood brightened. What if she and Dex had made it to the harbor patrol station? He inhaled a deep gulp of air. There might still be a chance to catch these knaves in the act.
“Who are you?” So, the Dutchman was going to give it another go.
He had nothing to lose. “Phaeton Black, Scotland Yard. And you are under arrest for piracy and murder.” He flashed a winsome smile that stung.
Willem stared, without so much as a twitch of expression. Then he began to laugh. Uproarious, hearty laughter. His crew joined him.
From the corners of his eyes, Phaeton perceived the faintest flutter of movement. A scurry of footsteps behind the barrels on shore. “Mind my advice, Cap’n.”
“And what might that be, Inspector Black of Scotland Yard?”
“Detective Black, actually.”
Willem glared at his crew. “Hurry up with those ropes.”
“There is an important distinction.” Phaeton raised a supercilious brow. “Metropolitan police—that is, CID and the like, use Inspector. Whereas Special Branch agents—”
Willem pulled out a pistol from inside his coat. “Take a walk up the bow and onto the boom.”
Phaeton tilted his head. “Why not shoot me? A lot less bother—”
Willem’s eyeballs nearly burst from their sockets. He grabbed Phaeton by the coat and shoved him onto the bowsprit. “And now, Detective, you shall die.”
He glanced at a smattering of stars before squinting at the captain. “ ‘To die would be an awfully good adventure’—who wrote that?”
Willem seized the line and pulled Phaeton off the boom. A high-pitched scream came from the direction of the pier as he fell through the air and plunged into the frigid water of the basin. Gun shots rang out.
Shocked into keen awareness by the icy water, bindings cut into his wrists as he was towed farther under the bow. He waited for a bit of slack in the line and reached for the knife strapped to his leg. In the inky blackness, he could see nothing, all he could do was feel his way along the ship’s keel. He tried walking the underside of the boat until all movement ceased. Under fire from the shore patrol, Willem’s crew must have abandoned the job and left him tied under the keel.
Death by drowning appeared imminent.
The echo of pistol shots rang in his ear and an odd zing of bullets zipped through the inky blackness of the water. The heavy
swoosh
of bodies plunging into the water meant some members of the crew had jumped ship.
His lungs, starved for air, began to burn. Phaeton angled the knife through the coil around his wrists and sawed through the rope. In another minute or so, his windpipe would close off, and soon thereafter, he supposed, his heart would stop.
And she was there, omnipresent in his thoughts. Just one more kiss, before he lost consciousness.
A last jerk of the knife finally unraveled rope, and he tore at the rest of his bindings. He had no more than seconds to come up for air before his lungs burst.
He stroked again and again. Was he swimming up or down? For a terrifying moment, he lost his equilibrium.
Amid a spray of bullets, he burst to the surface of the water and gasped for air. He spun around in the water to get his bearings. Advancing on him was a small crew boat holding several men making their escape. Phaeton lunged for the craft and grabbed hold of the skiff. An oar lifted in the air.
Thwack.
A spray of stars crossed his vision before everything went dark. His fingers lost their hold and let go. The dark, smothering chill of harbor waters engulfed him once more. Air left his lungs.
Just one more kiss, my dove.
America had just about chewed her bottom lip raw. Phaeton was below the keel and drowning. Fearful thoughts raced through her mind. She prayed he had somehow worked loose of the ropes when the crew abandoned their punishment and returned fire. She would haul in those lines herself if they would ever let her go aboard.
“Hold yer fire.”
She strained against Moore’s hold on her. Out of bullets, the crewmen who remained aboard came out from behind barriers, hands in the air. She wanted up the plank. “We must get to those lines.” She wrenched herself out of his hold and slipped in a slick puddle of red. She sniffed the air. The smell of Portuguese port was everywhere. The burnished crimson wine dripped onto the dock from barrels shot full of holes.
A gathering of sailors and citizenry, roused out of the pubs by the gun battle, crept forward for a closer look.
“Hold on there, Miss.”
“Captain MacLeod, we must go aboard and haul in the line. Detective Black is—”
“Is dead, my girl, if he hasn’t freed himself by now.”
The look on her face said it all, she supposed. “There now, lass, we’ll be hauling in the lines straight away.”
“Now,” she demanded.
His frown relented. “Come aboard then—if yer sure you wish to witness what we dredge up.”
A shiver caused her to pull her coat together. She followed alongside the patrolmen who walked the ropes back toward the bow. The keel haul line was dropped from portside and hauled in quickly, hand over hand. The job was too effortless—too swift. Her heart quickened. There was no dead weight hitched to the line. “He is alive. I feel it. I know it as sure as I breathe in and out.”
Wait. Something clung to the frayed edges of a coil of rope. The same coil that had fastened around Phaeton’s wrists and held him to the line. She squinted. Pray God it was not a severed limb or some other ghastly part of him. Her eyesight blurred.
One of the patrolmen unwound the item and held it up. A length of knitted wool.
“That’s his scarf.” Dexter stood behind her. She spun around. His mouth formed a thin, grim line. “I’m sorry, Miss Jones, he—”
She shook her head “He is not dead.”
He reached out, and she pulled away. “He is not!” America walked around the deck rails, stopping to inspect every wretched piece of flotsam and jetsam in the water. Crewmen who had jumped ship during the gun battle were being hauled out of the basin. She studied each drenched man closely.
No Phaeton.
She made her way around the deck a second time as the harbor police captured the last of the crew and led them off to the brig. Captain MacLeod and Mr. Moore approached her again, no doubt concerned about her state of mind. “There now, I shall be needing you to make out a claim of ownership. In the meanwhile, I will confiscate the—”
“The
Ruby Star
.” America sniffed, her eyes scanning the harbor landscape for any sign of him.
“
Ruby Star
it is. I’ll hold her cargo, as well, in the name of the crown.”
“I cannot leave, as yet. Not until we have found Detective Black.”
The harbor master’s forehead furrowed. “Ah, lass, we’ll not be able to send a man underwater till well after daylight.”
America glared. “He’s not dead.” She shook her head. “He cannot be dead. I would know if he was dead. We have—we have a kind of—” Her gaze darted about the ship and beyond, into the darkness of the surrounding waters. She searched for him, and for words. “I’m not sure what to call it.”
The looks on the men’s faces said it all. They believed she had suffered a hysteria of the mind, no doubt brought on by the terrible duress of recent events. Shoulders squared, she faced the two of them. “You go ahead Captain. I would like to remain here for some time.” She dragged a raw lower lip under her teeth. “Just in case.”
The harbor master widened his stance, folded arms over his chest, and shook his head.
“Perhaps, if we give her a bit more time.” Dexter stepped forward. “I’ll stay with her.”
The big Scot scrutinized Moore, then herself. Any other time, she would have been amused, even touched by his fatherly protective manner. “Inspector Moore has always conducted himself a gentleman, Captain.”
MacLeod grunted. “Mind you have her back to my office afore sunrise.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain stationed two patrolmen at the gangplank and left the ship. Detective Moore turned back to her. “Quite a stroke of luck you knew the Harbor Master, wot?”
“For me, perhaps, but not for Mr. Black.” She ripped her gaze away from the horizon line to Moore. “There is a pontoon landing, just aft of the stern. We need to find the down ladder and have a look.”
Moore didn’t budge. “You’re soft on him, aren’t you?”
His scrutiny made her eyes water. “Don’t make me cry, Mr. Moore. Detective Black has been very kind to me.”
“Yes, so you say. Took you in when no one gave a care.” His lips pressed into a thin line. When he opened his mouth to speak again, America turned away.
“I have no time to refute your rude insinuations.”
He caught up behind her on the gangway. “Miss Jones, I would never suggest—”