Death in Salem (19 page)

“You do know this is a seraglio?” Lydia said in a chilly voice. Rees turned to look at her. Her brows were drawn together over her eyes and the corners of her mouth drooped down. “Or would you prefer I pretend not to know?” she added.

“Of course not,” Rees said, regarding her in surprise. “I haven't visited the place. I offered that girl an orange.” And then, fully understanding her reaction, he said emphatically, “She's just a child, not one of the soiled doves inside. And they're working her to death,” he added. “I'm sure she's hungry.”

Lydia muttered something about a three-legged pig, but Rees elected not to ask her to repeat it.

Then they stepped onto the dock, bright in the blazing sun with the glittering water beside it. Sailors, all ages, from boys to grizzled veterans, swarmed the boards, shouting at one another in a variety of languages. All were burnt as dark as Arabs. Lydia stared at the neckerchiefs tied about their necks and at the tattoos on arms and calves. Rees watched her with pleasure as she began to smile.

Rees took her arm and propelled her to the Boothe wharf. Although the
Hindoo Queen
had sailed, another ship was now docked in its place. “
The India Princess,
” Lydia read aloud. As with the
Anstiss's Dream,
a sailor stood at the foot of the gangplank, tracking all the barrels and bundles going into the ship. This mate was African, a short skinny fellow with scarified dots on his forehead. He wore the duck trousers and blouse as though it were a costume, put on for the benefit of an audience, although, for cosmopolitan Salem, he was barely exotic.

The sailors sang lustily as they rolled barrels up the gangplank, coiled ropes, and stacked bales, but this wharf was subdued in comparison to the frenzied activity on the others.

“Why did you want to see this?” Lydia asked.

“Curiosity mostly,” Rees said. “This is Billy's dream, to sail on a merchant ship.”

Lydia nodded. “Mrs. Baldwin told me you persuaded the boy not to sign on to one.” Her head turned from side to side as her fascinated gaze was caught by one astonishing sight after another.

“That was a whaler. He doesn't really want to work as a whale man. I suggested he wait until an opportunity to sign on to a merchant vessel presented itself.” Rees looked at his wife. “I hope Mrs. Baldwin realizes it's only a matter of time before he leaves home.” Lydia did not reply, but her forehead under the straw bonnet wrinkled.

“I understand how she feels,” Lydia said, putting one hand protectively upon her belly.

“This ship is smaller and older than the
Hindoo Queen,
” Rees said. “For all it seems well maintained.” As they approached the ship, he turned his gaze upon each of the crew in turn, wondering if Philippe Benoit was among them. He could be, couldn't he, since he had some connection to Matthew Boothe? But Rees didn't see the Frenchman. And these sailors appeared little different from the other men working on the docks, a polyglot mix of varied backgrounds.

“Do you see Monsieur Benoit?” Lydia asked.

Rees shook his head. “No.” He took a few steps closer to the gangplank. “Is Captain Benoit around?”

The mate turned. He was easily more than a foot shorter than Rees, but despite his scrawny build, his arms were corded with muscle. “No, sir. He not here.” His accent was so thick Rees could barely understand him. Like his fellows, he wore a bandanna at his neck, and pictures of ships and a compass decorated his arms.

“Thank you.” Rees returned to Lydia's side. “He's not here. I thought it was worth a chance.”

“I would have liked to see him,” Lydia said. “Just fancy; a real smuggler.” Rees looked at her. Her face was turned away from him, half-hidden by her bonnet, and what he could see of her cheek was in shadow. He could not read her expression but suspected she did not believe his smuggling theory. Her next words confirmed his suspicion. “Matthew Boothe seems too lazy to be a smuggler.”

“But not too lazy to be a killer. Maybe Jacob discovered his son's activities.”

Lydia turned to look at her husband. “Possibly.” She sounded doubtful. “I don't want to concentrate on Matthew and ignore all others. In my estimation, neither his sisters nor the slave Xenobia have been entirely truthful with us.”

“Surely you don't see Betsy as a smuggler,” Rees scoffed.

“Of course not. I don't see any of them as smugglers. But…” She hesitated again. “There's something…” Abandoning her efforts to explain, she said, “Let's inspect the Coville wharf. I'd like to see their whaling ship.”

Rees looked at his wife and the belly that swelled her gown. “It's a little distant,” he said, unprepared for the protectiveness that surged into his chest. “I don't want you to tire yourself.”

“Don't fuss, Will. I'm sure I can manage,” she said.

They walked north.
Anstiss's Dream
was still docked and supplies continued to roll up the gangplank onto the vessel as though there would never be an end. Rees could not imagine how the hold could take any more; it must be full to bursting by now. When he looked up to the deck, he saw Edward Coville staring down at him. Rees waved.

“There's Edward Coville now,” he told Lydia. She tipped her bonneted head back, shielding her eyes from the sun, and looked at the captain. He flung a rag to one side and hurried down the gangplank to greet them.

“Mr. Rees. And this must be your wife.” Casting her belly a quick glance, he bowed over Lydia's fingers. “What brought you to this end of the docks.”

“My wife wanted to see your ship,” Rees said. And then, deciding that a little flattery wouldn't hurt, he added, “I told her yours was an especially fine example of a whaler.”

“One of the best,” Edward Coville agreed, his chest puffing out just a little. “You won't see a better ship anywhere, whether it be in Boston or New Bedford.”

“How long will you be at sea?” Lydia asked.

“Can't tell. Could be three months to a year or more. That depends upon the whales.” He glanced over his shoulder at the ship, his expression full of pride. “She's a beauty all right. And, God willing, she'll be as successful as most of our ships.”

“Who is your ship named after?” Lydia asked, affecting innocence. “Your wife, perhaps?”

Edward Coville's expression darkened. “No. My sister. She passed away less than a week ago.”

“Oh dear, I am sorry,” Lydia said with genuine sympathy. “You must miss her.”

“Captain?” The first mate peered over the ship's side.

“Yes?” Edward glanced over his shoulder, his expression irritated.

“Problem, sir,” said the mate with a jerk of his head.

Edward nodded. “Forgive me, but I must return to the ship.” With an abrupt bow over Lydia's hand, Edward spun around and hurried away. The sound of his boots clattering up the gangplank echoed down the wharf.

“My word,” Lydia said, looking at her husband. “Mr. Coville's departure was so hasty I could almost be offended.”

“Indeed,” Rees said, his gaze following Edward. “I wonder why. And where is Adam?”

*   *   *

Although Rees thought about his investigation all through the afternoon, he did not mention it to Lydia. He wanted her to remember these few hours as solely pleasurable. So they spent a pleasant time returning from the docks to Mrs. Baldwin's Emporium. Lydia exclaimed over the different fabrics and touched the silks gently but, although Rees watched her closely, she exhibited no partiality to anything. When they returned to their room, Rees showed her what he'd already purchased for the family. She was pleased by it all. “I had thought to purchase some silk for you to make into a dress,” he said, putting his arms around her. “But it is so very dear.”

Shaking her head with finality, she said, “Please don't worry. I prefer simple clothing, and besides, I can use this to freshen up one of my older gowns.” Leaning forward, she kissed him on his cheek. “I am content.”

They retired early to bed, but Rees awoke only a few hours later. Although the sky was dark, he could hear the sounds of conversation and the clinking of glasses coming from the brothel on the corner. The room's windows overlooked the back yard and the barn but, by leaning out and turning his face to the right, Rees could see down to the docks. Although the wooden vessels themselves were invisible, the masts of the ships formed a forest of black spears pointed at the rising moon.

But it was the brothel that filled most of Rees's field of vision: every window ablaze with candles and conversation and raucous laughter shattering the nighttime peace. He could see movement too, as the women and their clients walked past the windows. He hoped Annie was not among them. She was just a child and, from his few glimpses of her, she still seemed innocent and fresh.

Did that house contain a tunnel that connected to Salem's underground labyrinth? For that matter, did the Witch's Cauldron, the tavern from which both Matthew Boothe and Philippe Benoit had disappeared? A nearby tunnel would certainly explain their vanishing acts.

“Will? What are you doing?” Lydia sat up in bed, yawning. “Did something happen?”

Rees pulled his head inside. “No. Just thinking about Benoit.”

“Perhaps he's already left Salem?”

“Possibly, but I doubt it. I think he realizes someone—me—is looking for him, and he's hiding. And that means he must feel guilty about something, otherwise why not present himself to me? Tomorrow I'm going to speak to Twig.”

“No doubt he knows Monsieur Benoit. Twig seems to know everyone.”

“Indeed. And maybe he can suggest a few places to search.”

“I thought I would go to the Customs House tomorrow and talk to Inspector Oliver,” Lydia said. She yawned again and added, “I'm certain he can direct me to the women on the committee charged with aiding widows and orphans, and probably to the most important ladies at that. But tomorrow is another day.” She patted the sheets next to her. “Come back to bed, Will dear. There's nothing we can do now.”

Rees directed one final glance at the brightly lit house near the harbor and pulled his head inside. He closed the window against the cool night air and rejoined Lydia between Mrs. Baldwin's lavender-scented sheets.

 

Chapter Eighteen

After breakfast the following morning, Rees hitched Bessie to the buggy. He was concerned about the mare's steadiness, but he'd taken Amos out the day before and thought he would give the gelding a day's rest. He assisted his wife into the buggy seat, and they set out for the docks and the Customs House. Although still early, the lanes were crowded with pedestrians. Bessie trembled with nerves but moved at a good pace, and Rees began to hope they would experience this outing without incident.

“When are you planning to speak to your friend Mr. Eaton?” Lydia asked, turning to look at her husband.

“After we visit the Customs House,” Rees said. “We'll look for him then. Finding him may take some time.” His peripatetic friend seemed to roam around Salem as his whims took him. “He may even be visiting the Boothe residence. If so, we don't want to just drop in on them.”

“Not after Matthew asked us to leave,” Lydia agreed.

“And not unless we have some new information.” Rees also didn't want to run into William, who might take it into his head to fire his investigator, especially now that he was asking pointed questions about Matthew. Not that that would stop Rees. Now that he was involved and knew the players personally—neither Jacob Boothe nor Isabella Porter had deserved such deaths—he would see this through to the end no matter what anyone said. But he enjoyed more clout among the denizens of Salem with the Boothe family behind him. “I wish I could find that Philippe Benoit.”

“I doubt William Boothe will take the word of a sailor over that of his brother,” Lydia said, her tone dry.

“I know. I doubt the deputy sheriff will either. And I think it unlikely they'll listen to me. But at least I will have another account to add to my own.”

“Where do you think the Frenchman is hiding?”

Rees shrugged. “I don't know. But there are thousands of people here in Salem; it is almost as big a city as Boston. If Benoit wants to stay hidden, he can surely do so. I've tried the docks.” His voice trailed away. He had already decided to return to the Witch's Cauldron that night, and as many nights as it might take, to wait for Benoit to appear. Matthew knew now that Rees was aware of Benoit, and he would want to warn his partner that they were under observation. Then Rees would follow the sailor back to his room. He wasn't sure whether to involve Deputy Swett or not.

He did not intend to confide his plan to Lydia. She would be alarmed and try her best to persuade him against taking such risks.

With a horse and buggy, Rees couldn't follow his usual route down the lane. Instead, he followed one of the wider thoroughfares. Although jittery, Bessie was manageable.

They arrived somewhere in the middle of the docks, the current Customs House visible at the south end. The Inspector, who rented his office, had had to move more than once. Rees had been assured that plans for a permanent customs building were being prepared.

The strip of land running past the wharves bustled with activity. All the warehouses were open and dockworkers trundled barrels of goods offloaded from the ships into them. Another wagon, drawn by two rangy farm horses, trotted by, the wagon bed full of cabbages. Seagulls drifted down to the ground and squabbled over scraps. Rees breathed through his mouth; the smell of salt and tide and rotting food was overwhelming.

A large barrel, escaping from the dockworker, hurtled toward the water, rumbling loudly over the ground as it headed straight for the buggy. Bessie jumped in the traces and burst into a run. Rees felt as though his arms were being torn from their sockets. He began shouting, trying to soothe her as he held her back from bursting into a wild, terrified gallop. Controlling her took all of his strength, but she finally slowed to a trot. She shuddered and twitched away from every pedestrian, every seagull who approached her. Still, they were moving in the right direction and finally arrived at the broad steps of the Customs House. “You go in,” Rees panted, leaning back against the reins. He didn't dare release them, not even to tie Bessie to the rail. Lydia struggled down from the high seat, arriving on the ground flustered and disheveled. She straightened her skirts and walked up the broad steps. Rees began crooning to the mare, watching her gradually calm down. Then he slowly and carefully descended from the buggy. Still keeping a tight grip upon the reins, he moved to her head and began stroking her nose. She settled but she was trembling, and every sudden noise brought on a fresh bout of shudders.