Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (9 page)

Morgan grabbed the last of his gear and stuffed it into a leather satchel before sliding the strap through a worn loop and securing it over his shoulder. Under his feet, waves rocked the
Caitriona
Marie
, pushing her from side to side like a cradle beneath a mother’s gentle hand. Times like this, he didn’t mind so much the life his father’s passing had compelled him into, though the ship did feel oddly lifeless with all the crew members except for Bozey gone ashore.

Morgan stepped from his cabin and made his way to the stern, where Bozey was totaling up the last of the off-load and entering the figures into a log.

“So? How does it look?”

Bozey handed him the ledger, a broad smile creasing his plump face. “Good, Cap’n. Better’n we’d hoped.”

Morgan scanned the page. He wasn’t a man given to much praise, but when it was warranted . . .

He handed the ledger back and clapped Bozey on the shoulder. “Good work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Morgan turned to go.

“Cap’n, have you got a moment?”

He paused. “Aye?”

Though he wouldn’t have thought it possible for a sailor as salty as Bozey, the man actually blushed. He looked to be working up the courage to speak.

Morgan crossed his arms and stared. “What is it, Boze? Speak up.”

Bozey cleared his throat. “It’s the men, sir. They’ve all gone ashore, but with orders to return in two days. I figure that would give me plenty of time to line up the repairs you asked for and see to the stocking of the galley.”

“And?”

“It’s Donal, sir. I’ve not seen him since . . .”

“Since?”

His chin lifted. “The crew overheard the skirmish between you and him the other day. I know you wasn’t pleased, so I’d understand if you told Donal not to come back.”

“I wouldn’t do that without telling you.”

Bozey reached up and scratched the top of his head. “Right, but ain’t none of us laid eyes on the lad since he stormed off. If you didn’t fire him, where in blazes could he be?”

Morgan shifted the satchel on his shoulder. “Has he any kin in New York?”

“None that I know of.”

“What about his gear?”

“I checked his berth this morning. It’s all still here. He hasn’t been by to collect anything.”

That
was
odd. Morgan nodded his thanks. “I’ll check into it. Thank you, Bozey.”

Morgan stowed the information, then made his way off the ship and down the length of the dock. Two figures waited at the end: one large, the other short and slight, both wearing the same black wool coat and twill trousers. On their heads
were tan dome hats, and fixed to belts around their waists were black wooden nightsticks.

The smaller of the men stepped forward to meet him. “Keondric Morgan?”

Morgan nodded. “Aye, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

“Police, Captain Morgan.”

Police? Though the man continued talking, Morgan’s thoughts flashed to Tillie and his brother. But he shook his thoughts free of this grip of fear. “Beggin’ your pardon, what . . . what did you say?”

The smaller man gestured toward the street. “I said we’re going to need you to accompany us to the morgue. I’m afraid there’s been an accident and, well, unfortunately we’re going to need you to identify the victim.”

For several seconds, Tillie could do nothing except will air into her burning lungs. She’d scraped both palms when Cass shoved her out of the way of the oncoming wagon, but it was the blow to her back when they hit the cobbled street that had left her dazed and breathless.

“Are you all right?”

Cass rolled into her vision, his face a worried mask and his eyes smoldering copies of the look she’d witnessed from Captain Morgan earlier that morning.

“I . . .”

He gripped her shoulders. “Tillie?”

“Aye.” She squeaked the word through tight lips and then, with his help, managed to push upright. She cast a bewildered look at the people gathered around them on the street. “What happened?”

Now that she was talking, the color seemed to return to Cass’s wan cheeks. He stood and bent to grasp her forearms.
“You tripped. ’Bout scared me to death, too. You could have been killed stumbling out into the street like that.”

Lifting gently, he helped her to her feet. Tillie eyed the wagon that had rocked to a stop just a few feet from where she and Cass had landed. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“Not yet,” Cass growled, shooting a blazing glance at the driver, who slouched alongside his horse.

She shook her head. “No, Cass. I’m fine. Really. Let’s just go.”

Indeed, she was most anxious to get away from this particular corner, but not because she hoped to keep Cass from a fight.

It was because she was most certain she had not tripped.

She scanned the faces surrounding them again. One of them belonged to the person who’d pushed her into the path of the rushing wagon. Why? If it was an accident, why did they not speak, if only to offer an apology?

She shuddered. “Come, Cass. I’m not feeling well. Please help me back to the boardinghouse.”

The crowd seemed satisfied now that they saw she wasn’t seriously injured, and they slowly began to disperse.

Despite Cass’s glowering face, the wagon driver straightened and took a hesitant step in their direction. “You all right, ma’am?”

“No thanks to you,” Cass shot back. “What if it’d been a child who stumbled out in front of you? Did you think about that?”

“Sorry,” the man mumbled. He tipped his cap to Tillie, then turned to go. “Glad you’re all right, miss.”

“Wait.”

Cass started toward him, but Tillie grabbed his arm and held him back. “Let him go.”

Seconds ticked by before he finally relented. Grabbing his cap from the street, and her reticule from the sidewalk where
it had flown from her wrist, he turned from the driver and led her away from the scene. He hunched protectively over her all the way back to the boardinghouse, admonishing her as they walked to watch her step.

Ach, but she must have looked a sight for him to hover so. And though she tried to reassure him, she wasn’t quite able to control her trembling, even after they’d arrived home and Laverne had deposited them in the parlor and then went to fetch tea.

Meg wrung a towel in a bowl of fresh water and laid it gently over Tillie’s scraped palms. “Tell me again how you fell into the street? Tripped, you say? On what?”

Tillie shrugged. “I don’t know. I dinna look.”

“Not like you to be so clumsy,” Meg said, not unkindly but in her typical blunt way.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Cass said. “It was very crowded today. We were probably much closer to the street than was safe. I blame myself for what happened.”

Tillie’s heart warmed at Cass’s defense. She flashed him a grateful smile, then turned to Meg. “Don’t listen to him. ’Twas an accident, nothing more.”

But inside, she wasn’t so certain. ’Twas no careless jostle that had sent her skittering into the path of the wagon. It had felt more like two hands thrust against her back in a calculated manner meant to cause her harm.

She shuddered.

“You’re cold,” Cass whispered. He eased closer on the settee and clasped her wrapped hands.

Laverne entered bearing a silver tray. “This’ll warm her right up. Chamomile, your favorite.”

Setting the tray down, Laverne glanced at Tillie’s face and
tsk
ed softly. “Poor dear. Got quite a fright, I expect.”

Was it her imagination or did Cass appear reluctant to let
go of her hands as he rose to make room for Laverne? Her heart gave an odd little flutter.

“All right, let me see those wounds,” Laverne ordered. She gave the scrapes on Tillie’s palms a cursory investigation before grunting in approval. “Looks a sight better. Good job, Meg.”

She poured a cup of tea and then pressed it into Tillie’s shaking fingers. “Drink this. It’ll fix you right up. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Normal? Tillie took a hesitant sip. She didn’t think so. Something had happened today that had shaken her to the core, and she doubted Laverne’s tea, or Cass’s defense, or even Meg’s concern would ever be enough to make her feel normal.

Indeed, she wondered if she’d ever feel normal again.

Unbelievable. The morgue. Again. Would things never return to normal?

Morgan hunched his shoulders and ducked inside the place. The two policemen who’d met him at the dock led the way down a long hall.

The knot of dread that had formed at their appearance tightened in his gut. They’d already told him the victim was a man, someone they suspected to be a member of his crew. Could it be Cass?

He clenched his fists tighter. No. He wouldn’t let himself consider such a thing. His breathing turned shallow as they approached the examination room, where Ramsey waited at the table next to a sheet-draped figure.

The undertaker dipped his head. “A pleasure to see you again, Captain Morgan.”

He couldn’t claim likewise. Instead, Morgan tipped his cap and kept his eyes fixed on the examination table.

“We found some papers in his coat pocket. No identification, but we were able to make out the ship’s name. Looked like a work order of some kind.”

Fear stabbed Morgan’s heart. He waved toward the head of the table. Lips tight, he said, “Who is it? Let me see.”

Ramsey’s hand moved toward the edge of the sheet, then hesitated. “You should know, Captain, the body was found floating in the harbor. He was trapped in the pilings below Liberty Pier. The waves, the pushing against the rocks . . . well, it’s a gruesome sight, I’m afraid. By the look of him, he may have fallen in quite a ways upriver and floated downstream. You may want to prepare yourself.”

As though the place itself had not already sparked the worst possible imaginings? His stomach rolled. Sweat trickled down his back and neck. He clenched his jaw and shot Ramsey a glare. “Enough. Pull back the covering or I’ll do it myself.”

Bit by agonizing bit, Ramsey complied. Slowly, dark hair appeared.

Morgan sucked in a breath and took an involuntary step from the table. The man’s hair was black, like Cass’s. Or was it just that the man’s hair was soaked that made it resemble his brother’s so?

Forcing himself to look at the man’s face, Morgan let go a sigh of relief that sapped the strength from his shoulders. It wasn’t Cass lying on the table.

It was Donal.

“Do you know him, Captain?” one of the policemen asked.

Gradually, his heart calmed its wild racing. Though he was by no means glad to see another member of his crew dead, it did mean his brother was safe, and for that he couldn’t help but be grateful.

Morgan gave a curt nod. “Aye, his name is Donal Peevey. He was one of my crew.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?” the other officer asked.

“A couple of days.” He fell silent as Ramsey replaced the
sheet over Donal’s bloated face. Along with numerous bruises, jagged cuts and scrapes marked him from brow to chin. “Any idea what happened to him?”

“It wasn’t the water that killed him,” Ramsey announced matter-of-factly. “That much was obvious.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had multiple stab wounds to his back and shoulders, all pretty vicious gauging from the depth of the blows. Bloke probably never saw it coming.”

“And the river?”

“No water in his lungs that I could tell. Looks to me as though the killer stabbed him and then dumped him in the river to get rid of the body.”

Disbelief slowly replaced the fear that had gripped Morgan. Two members of his crew murdered? Why? Worse yet, who was next?

The shorter officer rounded the table, thanked Ramsey, and then dismissed him. The door to the examination room closed behind him with a soft click.

The officer looked at Morgan. “Any idea who could have done it, Captain?”

He thought briefly about telling the officers about Doc, then shook his head.

“What about enemies? Did the man have any?”

Obviously. But were they Donal’s enemies, or his? “None that I know of,” Morgan said, his throat dry. That much was true.

“What about the rest of your crew? They get along pretty well?” the taller officer asked.

“They get along just fine.”

“Mind if we ask them?”

Unease spread through Morgan’s belly. The questioning didn’t feel right, as though the policemen were looking for
clues to Donal’s killer among the
Caitriona Marie
’s crew. He frowned. “Aye, you can ask them, but it might take a while to round them all up. Gave them all a couple days’ leave while I have repairs made to the ship.”

“What kind of repairs?”

Morgan eyed the smaller officer critically. “Does it matter?”

He shrugged. “I suppose not.”

The taller officer stepped forward. “Mind coming to the station, Captain? We’ve a few more questions we’d like to ask. Besides that, we’ll need to gather any information you have regarding the man’s family. Where he’s from, things like that.”

He signaled toward the door quite congenially, but Morgan sensed it wasn’t a request. A man had been murdered, and the two officers standing across from him were determined to figure out who’d done it.

Unfortunately, they were both staring at him, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the look in their eyes said they’d already formed a few suspicions.

And that couldn’t be good. It would be worse when they found out that Donal was the second man from the
Marie
to be housed inside one of Ramsey’s cold lockers, if they didn’t know already.

Morgan cast a glance at the shorter officer. If they’d spoken to Ramsey . . .

Who was he kidding? Of course they had. Which explained why they were both watching him so intently.

No. Following these men to the police station for questioning wasn’t good. Not good at all.