Death in Salem (26 page)

“Any idea how long he's been there?” Rees asked.

Shrugs all around. “Could've been days before the tide washed him in.”

Rees sighed and stared down at the almost invisible mound moving with the tide. He didn't
know
that that man hadn't drowned—after all, what could be more common this close to the sea—but an ominous premonition had stolen over him. What better way to dispose of a corpse than to drop it over the side of a ship? He needed to examine that body. Perhaps, he hoped, this was some awful coincidence. “He has to be pulled out. Anyone have nets? A hook?” Rees looked around. Everyone shook his head.

Turning and narrowing his eyes against the glare, Rees looked both ways on the wharf, searching for something, anything he could use to pull the body from the water. And there, a short distance away, with the Customs House as a backdrop, was a rowboat drawn up against the rail. “Let's get that boat into the water,” Rees said. “Anybody willing to help me?”

“You, sheeny,” said an old man to the mate from the
India Princess.
“You help him. You got the caul.”

The mate sighed. “I'll do it.”

“But we'll have to put the boat back where it is,” said a boy with dusty colored hair, “put it back exactly or else old man Jenkins…” He rolled his eyes.

“Of course.” Rees cut him off. “Let's get it now.”

By the time they carried the rowboat to the plank ramp and slid it into the water, the sun had dropped to the horizon. They would have to work quickly if they were to reach the body and bring it to shore before dark. Rees settled himself into the bow and watched the mate, Rees's younger by fifteen years, put the oars into the oarlocks and begin rowing, smoothly and almost effortlessly, with the ease of much practice. He rowed out into the harbor, where the water was more turbulent, guiding the boat around the moored whalers.

“We're fortunate the corpse fetched up at this end of the dock,” the mate said suddenly. “If he'd floated into shore at the other end, why, it would take us an hour or more, and be much more difficult to boot, to row around those long Derby and Crowninshield wharves.” Rees nodded and tried to look over his shoulder as the sailor spun one oar in the oarlock to guide the boat toward land.

No ships were docked near the body—
Anstiss's Dream
had sailed—and the rowboat slid easily up to the pilings. The movement of the water did not appear so gentle here; the waves rose up and splashed against the wood in foot-high swells. And the body, for it was a body, though Rees had been hoping it was something else, crashed into the posts with every motion. Rees looked at the mate.

“I'm as close as I can get,” he said, his face glistening with sweat and saltwater. “I don't want to crash against those pilings.”

Rees waited for the lull between waves and then reached across the water to grasp the back of the victim's shirt. The body, in clothes weighted with water, moved toward the rowboat slowly, oh, so slowly. The next wave almost tore the burden from Rees's hand. He quickly released the side of the boat and stretched across the filthy, slimy water to grab the corpse with both hands. He held on although his hands, so cold from the water, began to cramp. And in the next pause between rollers, Rees dragged the body to the side of the rowboat and tried to pull it in. Even as strong as he was, he could not do it. The sailor, with an impatient epithet, threw the oars into the boat and, kneeling, lent his strength to Rees's. And the sea reluctantly released its prize. The body flopped into the boat. The mate spared Rees one triumphant glance before grabbing up the oars once again, fitting them into the oarlocks, and bending into them to row away from the pier. Rees could see the strain in the man's shoulders and arms; the cords in his neck stood out like cables. Slowly the boat crept away from the pilings and into open water. It seemed almost calm after the breakers by the dock. Rees, who hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, exhaled in a great gust of relief.

“I knew I could do it,” the mate said with cocky confidence. Rees tried to smile in return but his lips were trembling too much. The skin of his face wore a mask of salt and his mouth tasted of brine.

When they pulled the boat up on shore, the mate helped Rees tumble the body facedown onto the planks. The sailor took one glance and retched. “S'a sailor,” he said, his words labored as he tried not to vomit again. “I'll take the boat back.” Rees put his handkerchief across his nose and mouth and bent to inspect the corpse.

Although he gagged at his first look, that feeling passed. As always when he examined a body, he did not allow physical discomfort to deter him.

The body's rough clothing did suggest a sailor, maybe a common deckhand. But, Rees reminded himself, the shoes that could indicate an officer might have been washed away. Through the tattered shirt, he saw the darker markings of a tattoo on the man's swollen back. The man's hair, spread out upon the dock, lay long and lank like seaweed.

The shirt, cut through, hung in rags around the man's slashed back, and the wound riveted Rees's attention. Although the sea had washed the laceration clean of blood and the fish had nibbled at it so that the lips of the cut were ragged, Rees saw that the gash was almost identical to the one upon Jacob Boothe's side.

Rees struggled to turn the heavy body, finally succeeding as the corpse flopped over with a thud. His eyes went first to the belly. But this time, although the wound on the cadaver's back was deep, the blade had not gone all the way through. The dark skin on the man's front was uncut, although he was bloated and an odd greenish color overlay his brown skin. Rees examined the corpse's face. The swelling that had lifted the body from the deep had also distended his features. Or what was left of them. Fish had eaten the eyes and the lips, and repeated blows as the tide had washed the corpse up against the pilings had battered him until Rees thought the man's own mother wouldn't recognize him. Still, a sense of familiarity nagged at Rees. He had an unhappy suspicion that this cadaver was the remains of the African mate from the
India Princess.

Rees straightened up with a sigh. As he'd feared, this sailor had not drowned. He'd been murdered—and probably by the same hand that had killed Jacob Boothe.

 

Chapter Twenty-four

During his examination of the body, Rees had collected a small crowd of onlookers, although no one wanted to approach too closely. “Does anyone know this man?” Heads shook no. No one was willing to admit to it, anyway.

“He looks familiar,” one grizzled old veteran said finally. “But I don't know 'im.” Rees glanced from face to face. No one stepped forward. Rees gestured at the
India Princess
's
first mate.

“You said you thought he was a sailor?”

The man nodded. He still looked pasty under his tan. “He's got a tattoo. At least one. And if he wasn't a sailor, what's he doing in the water?”

“But you didn't know him? Could he be the man missing from the
India Princess
?” The mate's eyes shifted over to the corpse and quickly flicked away.

“Maybe.” He gagged. “I'll go fetch the undertaker,” he said and fled. Several other men took the opportunity to quit the wharf as well. Rees invited the old man to approach. He carried himself with the air of someone who had seen everything and had lost the ability to experience surprise.

“The fish have been at this fellow,” Rees said, pointing at the damaged face. “How long do you think the body might have been in the water?”

The veteran looked at the victim's face, a quick fleeting glance, and grimaced. “Hard to say. The water is warm. Corruption goes quick in the warm. And all of his face would have been completely devoured in a couple of days. So I'd guess two or so days. Most likely happened at night. He was probably drunk, missed a step, and got washed overboard.”

Rees nodded his thanks and stepped away from the corpse. Now that the excitement was over, most of the spectators were departing. The sun was almost touching the horizon; work would soon be over for the day and the men were eager to leave. Rees turned around and looked for Lydia. Despite his command, she'd followed him along the docks and he'd seen her standing in the crowd watching him. Now he'd lost her. He swept his gaze up and down the length of the wharf. Finally he spotted her, talking to a street vendor. As he watched, she turned from the man and began walking down the wharf toward Rees. In one hand she carried a small cake. The other clutched a corner of her apron. As she approached him, he smelled ginger, sweet and spicy. “I bought you a ginger cake,” she said when she was still several yards away. “I thought you might need it to settle your stomach.”

“I'm fine,” Rees said. “What do you have there?” He nodded to the lumps tied up in her apron.

“Lemons. I thought I might make a pie.” Her voice trailed away as her gaze fastened upon the body lying on the wharf. “Who is it?”

“I don't know. But the mate went for Twig.”

“I'm here,” he said as he came striding up the dock. Grinning at Rees, he added, “I should have guessed you'd be here, and involved in some way.”

“Not involved,” Rees said. “I just helped bring the poor soul out of the water.”

Twig shook his head as though he knew Rees were lying and turned to look at the body. “You might almost have left him. I think he'd have preferred it to Potter's Field outside of town.”

“And the Negro side of Potter's Field at that,” Rees said. He did not mention the wound. He knew Twig would see it, but did not want to discuss this or Boothe's murder on the dock in earshot of the spectators. Twig motioned to the wagon waiting several yards away. Painted lamp black, the death cart was driven by a scruffy fellow who swayed in the seat with each step the horse took. His partner, even dirtier than the driver, sat in the wagon bed. Rees eyed them and decided they were too drunk to care they were handling a dead man.

“Don't bury him,” Rees told Twig, tipping his head at the corpse lying at his feet. “I want to take another look first thing tomorrow.”

“I knew you were investigating this,” Twig crowed.

“This is not the time to congratulate yourself on your intelligence,” Rees said softly, leaning forward. “I want this kept private for now.”

Twig made an elaborate pantomime of laying his finger over his lips. “Of course. You can rely on me to keep this a secret. I'll put him on a block of ice.”

Rees sighed in exasperation. Every man on the dock would be curious now, after Twig's playacting.

The body went into the wagon and the swaybacked old nag started back to Twig's home. The steady motion of the wagon caused the corpse's hands to twitch and its head to move; Rees shuddered at the macabre sight and turned away.

By now, the sun was almost hidden behind the horizon. Rees rolled his neck from side to side. He would pay for his good deed tomorrow with sore shoulders and a stiff neck. With the excitement done, his energy had drained away and left a haze of fatigue behind.

“I wish I had not promised to call upon Twig and Xenobia tonight,” he said.

Lydia nodded. “But we did.”

With dusk fast approaching, the lanes were growing dark. Here and there, a candle flame made a spot of light. Rees and Lydia turned up the alley that ran by the Black Cat. Thrifty housewives might light a candle or two now, but they would wait until darkness was fully advanced before illuminating every room. The Black Cat, however, glowed like a beacon: candles in every window, and more shining in the rooms behind. Beeswax candles at that. Rees automatically glanced up at the window where he'd seen Annie. But instead of the girl, a woman in a filmy dress sat gazing over the sill. She waved provocatively at Rees. He looked quickly away, his face burning. Lydia, without demonstrating any sign that she'd seen the woman, grasped Rees's arm tightly.

Mrs. Baldwin's shop was closed for the night. In unspoken agreement, Rees and Lydia went past the shop and headed north, to Twig's house. Rees knew if he retired to his room and sat down, he would not want to rise again.

*   *   *

Xenobia was already at Twig's house when Rees and Lydia arrived. She seemed surprised to see them, and Rees guessed Twig had not told her they were coming. Coffee perked on the hob. Xenobia swung the teakettle over the fire and brought down cups from the cabinet built in by the fireplace. Lydia sat down at the table but Rees, although he planned to participate in the discussion with Xenobia, was drawn to one side of the room by Twig.

“Do you want to take a look at the body?” he asked Rees in an elaborately private whisper.

“What, now?” Rees looked around the kitchen. Despite the fire burning in the hearth and the candles upon the table, shadows lurked in the corner. He couldn't imagine what he would be able to see in the shed.

“Certainly,” Twig said.

Rees looked at the other man. He knew from past experience that Twig wouldn't take no for an answer. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. Twig took the lantern hanging on a hook by the back door and lit it with a candle. By the flickering golden light, they descended the back stairs.

“The talk in the taverns is that Captain Benoit killed Mr. Boothe,” Twig said.

“No one knows that. And I believe if he's guilty of that deed, he did so at the behest of someone else.” Rees heard the sharpness in his voice and took in a deep breath. It wasn't Twig's fault gossip had already tried and convicted Benoit.

“Was it robbery? A sailor down on his luck?” Twig put down the lantern and began fumbling at the shed's latched door by the pale silvery light of the crescent moon.

Rees thought of Mr. Boothe's gold pocket watch and the gold earrings in Benoit's ears. “I don't think robbery was the motive,” he said.