Victorian Dream (3 page)

In bizarre contrast to the grisly scene, flowers lay gaily strewn about. The murderous crate, bound for Queen Victoria’s private garden, had contained a quarter ton of Vermont rose plants, all in full bloom, their pearly white petals spattered with blood. As if they were to blame, he crushed a pile underfoot and kicked them aside. How the hell could this have happened? Kneeling beside the couple’s unmoving forms, he blocked the wind blowing with cruel disregard for circumstance.

“Give me your coats,” he snarled, at the bystanders, rage replacing shock. “And find Seaman Barkley,” he added, catching the eye of one of his men.

He covered Ophelia’s trembling body with the cloaks and jackets tossed in his direction. A dark-suited man carrying a reticule made his way through the crowd and crouched down at his side.

“They might live,” he declared, with rather feeble enthusiasm as he finished his initial examination. “Bad luck them being struck down like that,” he observed, binding their most grievous wounds in preparation for transport to hospital.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Walker growled.

Why had Seaman Barkley ignored his order to remove and secure the crate? He damn well better have a good excuse for not following orders. As his anger flared anew, a saber of guilt slashed through him as well. He should have taken it upon himself to make sure the crate was properly off-loaded.

The doctor gained his feet and motioned for the stretcher-bearers now on the scene. “I’ll know more regarding their condition once I’ve check them over thoroughly.”

“Thank you for coming,” Walker acknowledged. “However, I wish my friends to go to the New Hope clinic, not New Bedford General. I would be grateful if you would accompany them in transit. When you arrive, ask for a Dr. Nathan Robinson. Tell him Walker Garrison sent you. He’ll take over from there.”

Discharged so quickly, the doctor appeared miffed, frowning he held his ground. Walker pressed two silver dollars into the man’s hand.

“If this doesn’t compensate for your expenses,” he reassured, “prepare a statement, and I’ll see you are paid in full.”

With a nod, and a more cooperative expression, the physician left with his patients.

****

The police inspector glanced around the dock. “Well, Captain Garrison, I must agree it appears to have been an intentional act. Most likely this missing seaman of yours was involved. Been having troubles with him? Seems odd him suddenly disappearing.”

Walker shook his head. “I can’t believe he would be party to anything of this magnitude. He’s been with me for nearly two years. A fine dependable man, married with four children. It just doesn’t figure.”

“And you’ve no reason to think anyone would want to hurt you, or stymie your business.”

“No,” he answered, without consideration. Then he recalled the boy who had interrupted him during the ceremony. If not for the lad, he would have been standing directly beneath the falling cargo crate. Perhaps he
was the intended target, the St.Christophers only unfortunate bystanders.

While the inspector busied himself elsewhere, Walker studied the neatly severed rope attached to the overhead beam. Unnoticed, some sonofabitch had stood right here and sliced it through, nice as you please. And that tiny action had changed several lives forever—including his own.

A discoloration on the rough hemp caught his attention. It resembled tar or resin. He touched the pliable matter, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, then gingerly sniffed it. He even went so far as to taste it. Chocolate, by heaven, how curious.

He searched the ground, his gaze following the direction of the wind. Several shiny objects had blown into a crevice in the planking. He retrieved the small misshapen foil balls and uncurled one. The inside was coated with the same brown candy smeared on the rope. The outside read;
Chocolates and Confections by Fry and Son, Bristol, England, Established 1847
. His missing crewman didn’t have the money or the nature to be eating imported bon-bons. Someone with connections to England had staged this murderous act.

“Inspector,” he called, secreting away the chocolate wrappers. “I think we should encourage the notion the St.Christophers are dead. After all, if someone wanted them out of the way, it seems safest to let that someone think he has succeeded.” He watched the wily little man mull over the idea.

“You might have something there, Captain,” he agreed. “But I don’t think the department can take the responsibility of feeding lies to the general public. We can’t encourage theatrics when it comes to police business.”

“Could you at least see your way clear to being noncommittal for a few days?” he bargained. “Perhaps if I were to release you from involvement and declare the occurrence an accident, you could turn a blind eye. It might make a difference as to the safety of my friends. Surely you can see that.”

Generally speaking, lies and subterfuge went against the grain, but it would buy needed time, and give them breathing room before he left for England.

“May I remind you,” he added, at the inspector’s hesitation, “the St.Christophers are foreigners. An international incident would be most unhelpful in your bid for becoming Mayor.”

Speculation shadowed the man’s expression, and he fidgeted with the buttons on his frock coat. “I’ll go along with your scheme,” he conceded, “but the resolution of this matter rests with you now. Good day to you then. And good luck.” Quick as a ferret, he scurried away.

Hands in his pockets, Walker glanced around uneasily. He was on his own—with hardly a clue as to where to start.

Chapter Three

At six a.m. on the second morning following the incident, Walker made his way to the clinic. This was his last chance before he took his leave to rouse Phillip from his coma. Loaded to the gills, the
Alicia Elaine
would cast off in two hours. As captain, he had no choice but to be onboard.

The diagnosis for both patients was a spontaneous return to consciousness with periodic relapses. And although this had yet to happen, he trusted Dr. Robinson completely. Nathanial was highly intelligent, had a good sense of humor, and never cheated at chess. In fact, Walker trusted Nate so completely, he’d dared to inform him of the details surrounding the situation.

Nodding to one of the guards hired to watch over the St.Christophers, Walker entered Phillip’s room, strode to the bedside, and stared down at his partner.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, for what seemed the hundredth time. Breaking through the silent barrier separating him from his friend was paramount. “Damn it, man, wake up. Your very life may depend on it.”

Downhearted, he paced the room, raking his fingers through his hair.
Come on, Phillip,
he silently prayed,
at least grant me some sign you’re on the mend before I leave.
About to give up, he turned toward the door.

“Ophelia,” Phillip croaked, his parched lips barely moving. “How is my Ophelia?”

Surprised and relieved, Walker hurried to the bedside. “She’s unconscious, but will recover. You were both nearly killed,” he bluntly added. “Your injuries were not caused by accident, Phillip.”

Having found Seaman Barkley’s body stuffed in a trunk, the man was no longer a suspect, and murderous intentions were no longer in question.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Phillip? Have you any idea who would want to harm you, or destroy our partnership?”

For a moment, it seemed Phillip had slipped back into unconsciousness. Walker snatched up a damp towel, and wiped the man’s face.

“Don’t know who or why,” his partner gritted, between raspy breaths. “You must go to Trelayne. Whatever it takes, you must keep my daughter safe. Trelayne is all that matters. Promise me.” With a burst of strength apparently fueled by profound concern, Phillip grabbed the front of Walker’s shirt. “No matter what it takes.”

“I promise I’ll protect her,” Walker vowed, “if need be, with my life.”

Phillip’s grip went slack. He was unresponsive again, and no amount of encouragement brought him back to the conscious world. As Walker hurriedly took his leave, he nearly crashed into Dr. Robinson.

“Nate, Mr. St.Christopher was momentarily awake. That’s a good sign, right?”

“An excellent indication,” his friend agreed. “But I’m afraid the cat’s out of the bag regarding their condition. It’s common knowledge they both survived. One of the girls who works—or I should say worked—in the kitchen spilled the beans. I let her go last evening when I found out what she’d done. Confounded silly female. She sneaked up here and was caught reading Ophelia’s chart. Apparently she was swayed by some fellow doling out English chocolates.”

“Chocolates? Where is the girl? May I speak with her?”

“Already packed up and gone I’m afraid.”

“That’s a bit of bad luck.”

The person with the candy was likely the same person who had been on the wharf. He slipped his hand into his pocket and touched the wrappers nestled inside. He carried the tiny foils now as if they were his worry stone.

“Sorry,” Nate apologized. “Is it important? We could try to track her down, but I believe she told one of the other girls she was catching the early train to Boston, and it’s already departed. ‘Had enough of this smelly whaling port,’ she said. All around grating personality. Don’t know how she got hired in the first place.”

“No time now to worry over the girl, Nate,” Walker said. “Hopefully, the St.Christophers will be up and about soon for all to see, so we couldn’t have kept up the pretense much longer.” He headed for the main entrance. “I appreciate all you’re doing for them,” he added, over his shoulder.

“Keep in touch,” Nate called back. “And keep safe. You’re the only one around these parts worth a darn at playing chess.”

****

With no time to spare, Walker boarded the
Alicia Elaine
. Guilt booked passage at his side. Why hadn’t he personally secured that crate? The injury to his friends, and Seaman Barkley’s death, had occurred on his watch. He was responsible for them, just like he was responsible for his ship, crew, and cargo when at sea.

Only a twist of Fate had saved him from ending up like them. That was a sobering thought. As they came about and headed for open water, he grazed his finger across his chest, seeking the comforting feel of the St. Brendan medal tucked beneath his shirt. Giving thanks for keeping him safe in the past, he offered his gratitude to the saint then prayed for an uneventful and swift crossing. Like most sailors, there was a little superstition mixed with his commonsense—good luck and spiritual intervention were always welcome.

Tired and worried, he scrubbed one hand across his face then leaned stiff-armed against the starboard rail. It had been a less than auspicious beginning for his new venture. But concern over the reputation of his ship and the transport company must be put on hold. His most vital mission was honoring his promise to protect the St.Christophers’ daughter. That and making sure the lowlife responsible for this nasty business paid in full.

****

Royston Hall, Twickenham, near London

Although not breaking any record, the clipper ship made good time, giving Walker nineteen days to formulate what he wanted to say to Philip’s daughter. It seemed a lifetime, and yet not long enough, and now as he stood before the pillared entryway to his partner’s country estate, he hesitated, unsure of his next step.

He was treading unknown territory—literally and figuratively. Whom could he trust in this foreign country, who might still have murder in mind? Relying on instinct seemed the best idea. One thing he knew for sure, delivering this heart-wrenching news to a delicate young woman wasn’t going to be easy. Again, responsibility for what happened weighed heavily.

How old was she? He tried to recall his conversation with Ophelia from the night before the disastrous ceremony. Full-grown had been the impression he’d gotten. He remembered thinking it odd their daughter seemed a bit past the usual age for a society marriage. Perhaps she had not inherited her mother’s striking good looks, or her father’s quick mind. He prayed she had at least inherited their strong constitutions.

Employing the doorknocker, he waited for a response. About to try again, the door swung open revealing a rosy-cheeked, smiling maid.

“The Mister and Missus ain’t home at present, sir. But if you be so inclined you’re welcome to leave a card or message.”

“I’ve come to call on Miss Trelayne St.Christopher,” he explained.

The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, and a blush deepened her milkmaid complexion. “Step in, sir. Who may I say is calling?”

“Captain Walker Garrison, from America.”

“America?” The girl appeared confused.

He smiled at her reaction. “Yes. New Bedford, Massachusetts to be exact.”

Her gaze traveled down to his boots then back up to the top of his head. He felt like a new species on Darwin’s list of most recent discoveries. “As soon as possible would be appreciated,” he prompted.

Her blush deepened. “Yes, sir. I’m beggin’ your pardon, sir. I’ll inform Miss Trelayne you’re here.” With that she scurried off, leaving him to stand in the foyer.

It was an impressive hall, attached to an impressive house, yet the feeling of down-home comfort and welcome was also present. With any luck, Phillip and Ophelia would soon be recovered and returning to their residence.

The maid returned and ushered him along. “This way, sir.”

He kept possession of his coat and hat, and followed the girl to a dayroom.

Light flooded through the east windows, relieving the otherwise dim atmosphere of wood paneling, heavy-legged furniture, and Persian rugs. But the true brightness in the room was the young woman sitting demurely by the hearth, her attention directed toward the needlepoint frame upon which she worked. With a sideways peek, she noted his entrance, but for some reason did not deem to fully recognize his presence.

As he waited, he utilized the opportunity to study the delightful image she evoked. Her dress of pale yellow muslin, worn off the shoulder, revealed smooth ivory skin. And her hair—arranged loose and flowing—glowed with a reddish-brown hue implying warmth would be intermingled with the promise of softness. She sat straight, her tapered fingers nimbly going about the business of creating some masterpiece. The urge to draw closer, to lean over her tempting shoulder and slender neck, to drink in her fragrance, and examine that upon which she work so diligently, was a tangible ache in his chest.