Amazed with the unknown presence, Jacquelyn became curious to what this
mystic presence could be and extended her hand out again. “What are you?” she
asked without fear. “Are you angels?” A red glow flashed where the eye sockets
once were. Frightened, Jacquelyn took off running towards the town. She did not
look back.
When she was two blocks away from the tavern, she heard voices coming
from inside the cemetery. Catching her breath, she walked slowly, not making
any sound as she approached.
“Let’s hurry, and finish digging
the grave. The rotting flesh is making me nauseous,” she heard Frank the gravedigger,
recognizing his scratchy voice.
Jacquelyn scrambled backward, grabbed hold of the black Iron Gate that
outlined the perimeter of the cemetery. Her gloved hands, slid down the length
of the bar, resting her knees to the ground.
“What do you think happened, Dr. Morehead?” Jacquelyn heard Constable
Montgomery ask, in his thick Scottish accent. She wrapped her dark blue cape
around to the front of her chest, concealing her presence.
“I’m not sure... but-,” replied Dr. Morehead. He stood up straight after
examining the neck of the boy, allowing Frank the gravedigger to lower the body
into the open grave. Dr. Morehead remembered the same markings, that are on the
boy's neck from when he traveled to Egypt twenty years ago. The puncture
wounds, and torn neck appeared to be the same.
Constable Montgomery handed a shovel to Dr. Morehead, taking one for
himself. The three men shoveled dirt into the grave. “What’s wrong, doctor?
You’ve clammed up.”
“Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all,” Dr. Morehead replied. The frown on his
face worried the others. Dr. Morehead remained silent. He did not want to say
too much, or cause alarm.
“Well, if you ask me,” Constable Montgomery started. “We just might have
a murderer loose!” His voice deep and convincing.
Jacquelyn could not believe her ears. Had she heard correctly? That there
might be a murderer in Port Townsmont. From a distance, she continued to watch
the three men shovel dirt into the grave and listen to their conversation.
When a rat ran across the length
of the gate where she sat, Jacquelyn covered her mouth so her fear would not
give her being there away.
“A murderer?” responded Dr.
Morehead, quickly. “I don’t know how you’re going to prove that, Constable. Not
with all the merchant ships in port. You would need to question the crew,
delaying their departure in the morning.”
The possibility of Port Townsmont having a murderer had Constable
Montgomery thinking. He took into consideration what Dr. Morehead said. How was
he going to prove that a murder took place without any suspects? And if he
questioned all the crew from the merchant ships, the captains would be unhappy
not leaving out of port on time.
Jacquelyn remained, hanging on to every word they said. She knew that she
had been away from the tavern too long and needed to return. But, she wanted to
finish listening to their conversation.
“What I think happened,” Frank said, unexpectedly. “The boy got into a
fight with one of the crew members, and got his throat cut. Then they threw his
body overboard.”
Dr. Morehead raised his brow, glancing over at Constable Montgomery.
“That’s a possibility, Henry.” Dr. Morehead packed down the mound of dirt with
the shovel. “You’d have more trouble conducting an investigation. And not
allowing the ships to leave port might cause trouble.”
“I’ve been entertaining the idea. I wish I didn’t find the boy's body lying
on shore.”
“Neither did we,” Frank added. “After being out here in the cold air, I’m
ready for a brandy.”
“Same here. I could use a drink myself,” Dr. Morehead remarked, tossing
the shovel down. “Let’s go, we’re done.”
Standing up slowly, Jacquelyn headed away from the cemetery onto the
cobbled street until a pebble caught underneath her boot, causing her to fall
down. “Ouch,” she cried, noticing a slight tear to the bottom of her dress.
“Who’s there?” Constable Montgomery called out. Lantern in hand, he moved
quickly through the cemetery, kicking dirt up behind his enormous boots.
Shrieking from the sound of his rugged tone, Jacquelyn limped back
towards the entrance of the cemetery.
“It’s me, Jacquelyn Cassiel,” she
said loudly, limping closer to the entrance.
“Stay where you are!” He ordered, huffing and puffing every step of the
way. Reaching the entrance, he caught his breath. Constable Montgomery pushed
his eyebrows together. “What are you doing walking the streets at this hour?”
His voice stern, and disgruntled.
Jacquelyn resented his approach. She understood it was a policeman’s job
to ask a civilian the reason for walking the streets during the night. But,
Constable Montgomery knew she used to work as a courtesan for Madame Aimée, and
she was afraid he had other ideas.
“I stepped out for a breath of fresh air,” she admitted. “Why? Have I
committed a crime?” A sharp twinge traveled down to her ankle. Jacquelyn slid
her right hand down her leg, giving her ankle a quick rub.
Grunting like a grizzly bear, Constable Montgomery released his air.
“You’re a little far away from the tavern to have stepped out for a breath of
fresh air. Hmm,” he replied, indicating something more. Jacquelyn glanced over
his shoulder, recognizing Dr. Morehead, and Frank the gravedigger approaching
the entrance.
There were many times during the years she worked as a courtesan when
both Frank and Constable Montgomery would be in the parlor wanting service. But,
she would not have anything to do with either one of them. And, that included
her boss, Alfred Struthers, who is the owner of the Black Rose Tavern. There
were times that Alfred would come over to the house, drunk, and wanting to be with
her when she sat alone on the settee, waiting for a gentleman. She refused him
every time. Jacquelyn fancied older men, with a more slender shape. Dark eyes,
dark hair much like her own.
Dr. Morehead met her eyes, reached into his front pocket, and pulled out
his watch. “It’s after eleven thirty.” Indicating his concern. “You shouldn’t
be out walking the streets alone at this hour, Jacquelyn,” he said
enthusiastically, scratching the lower part of his beard.
“I haven’t committed any crime, have I?” The three men looked off towards
the pier. Starting to feel uncomfortable, Jacquelyn started twitching as if she
had a tick. From their expressions, she could only imagine what they were
thinking.
Constable Montgomery snorted. “Not that I can prove...”
“Well, if you’d excuse me, I need to return back to the tavern,” she
said. Not being happy that they might be thinking she was prostituting,
Jacquelyn turned up her nose, and strutted off in the direction of the tavern.
She was not too thrilled in
returning to work. And, when she past the staircase that led upstairs to her
loft, she stopped walking for a moment, almost darting up. Animosity overflowed
her. She had been outside far too long.
Her boss, Mr. Struthers will be drunk by now. And, being away far longer
than the ten minutes allotted her, her pay would be docked one hour. But,
Jacquelyn did not care. She was still trying to digest the conversation in the
cemetery, and the apparitions that she saw.
After hanging her blue cape on the brass hook on the wall behind the bar
counter, Jacquelyn took the broom that was waiting for her in the corner. She
turned her head to one side when she heard a soft, pleasant humming.“You sound
happy,” Jacquelyn said, facing Gabriella.
“I am,” Gabriella replied. Her smile, larger than the length of a
centipede. “I have a date with a sailor in an hour.” Gabriella continued to hum
as she spun around behind the bar.
“Why a sailor? You normally like older men as I do. The one’s with
money.” Charley, who was standing two feet away, started whistling. Jacquelyn
nudged the side of his arm. “Do you mind? We’re trying to talk,” she implied,
pushing her way behind Gabriella.
“Damn, women. Always getting caught up in each other’s business,” Charley
said, stepping to one side to wash the dirty glasses. Gabriella and Jacquelyn
wrinkled up their faces. “Well, you better stop talking and get back to work.
Mr. Structures is heading this way.”
Jacquelyn breathed in deeply,
griping the broom handle tight.
Blowing a large puff of smoke into the air, Mr. Struthers tapped the
ashes down at Jacquelyn’s feet. “There's a table in the center of the room
waiting to be served,” he said with a depth of tone that can sink deeper than a
well.
“Yes, sir,” Jacquelyn replied quickly, and without hesitation handed the
broom to Gabriella. Once at the table were four merchants were sitting, she
glanced over towards the door. Sitting alone underneath a window, she saw an
older gentleman.
Clearing his throat twice, the merchant said, “Excuse me, miss, but could
we get three ales and one whiskey?” The merchant turned around to see the
distraction. “Saw him earlier, down at the pier.”
Jacquelyn pulled her eyes off the stranger, finding it difficult to do
so. “Certainly, I’ll bring them right over.”
A peculiar sensation came over Jacquelyn. She placed the drinks onto the
table and began her way towards the gentleman that’s sitting near the door.
Afraid to go any further when a smoke cloud covered her face, causing her to
cough, she turned around and off towards a table that had empty Steins.
“Bastard!” she angrily muttered under her breath.
Not understanding his reasons, and perhaps being disgruntled for never
giving him the time of day when she was a courtesan. Jacquelyn has tried to
understand Mr. Struthers’s attitude towards her. Unless she finds a way to
leave Port Townsmont, or if Mr. Struthers’s drops dead from a heart attack, she
had no idea how to solve the animosity with her employer.
In the brief silence, Jacquelyn heard low voices of men at the next table
where she was cleaning up spilled ale. She bent her ear to listen. “Tomorrow we
should go to the pier and see if we can find the ship the boy is from. It's
only fair to notify the ship’s captain,” Jacquelyn heard Constable Montgomery
say.
“It might be difficult to find exactly what ship the boy is from,” said
the grave digger grumpily. “Ship crews come and go. Its cargo, and slaves, they
keep an accurate log.”
“Frank is probably right, Constable. I was under the impression you
weren't going to conduct an investigation.” Jacquelyn detected hesitation from
Dr. Morehead’s voice.
“I’m not. I thought the captain should know what happened to one of his
crew.”
Frank glanced over the crowded room, spotting merchants sitting at
tables, drinking rum and whiskey. Meeting the constable’s heavy eyes, he said,
“Out in the rough waters of the Atlantic, sailing back and forth from port to
port.” Frank paused to clear his voice. “Do you really think any ship captain
cares or even knows how many men are aboard their ship?”
Constable Montgomery shrugged his square shoulders back. “I guess not,
Frank. I had forgotten before you arrived to Port Townsmont that you worked on
a merchant ship.”
Gathering the empty steins, Jacquelyn turned around right when Madame
Aimée approached the table next to her. “Good evening, Madame Aimée,” said
Constable Montgomery. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
Madame Aimée raised her brow. “Gentlemen, what drags all of you together
on a chilly night?” Madame Aimée asked, sounding suspicious. “All of you should
be home where it is warm. All except for Henry, who should be out walking the
streets.”
“Well, since you’re that concerned, how about sending me one of your
women?” Frank said, indicating intentions. Madame Aimée ignored his remark, and
turned instead to Dr. Morehead as he began a coughing spell.
When he caught his breath, the
doctor replied, “Frankly, I believe we stayed in the cold air too long.” He
continued coughing louder with every word.
“Charley,” Jacquelyn heard Madame Aimée yell over the crowded room.
“Bring over four whiskeys. Charley reached for the whiskey bottle and four
glasses. “That’ll clear your cough right up, Allan.”
“Just when I was going to order a round myself,” said Constable
Montgomery. By the expression on his face, Madame Aimée knew very well that he
wanted a drink without having to pay.
“Instead of rubbing elbows with these two, don't you think you’d be more
useful if you were patrolling outside?” Jacquelyn heard the sternness in Madame
Aimée’s voice.
“Clairee, don't be giving Henry a hard time. We’ve been out in the
graveyard for...” Dr. Morehead started.
Charley walked to the table with the glasses of whiskey, sat all of them
on the table. Madame Aimée reached into her purse, and pulled out a shiny coin.
“Thank you, dear,” she said, handing Charley a penny. Charley gave a quick nod,
returning to the bar counter. “As you were saying, Allan.”
Mr. Struthers strolled over to the table, right beside Madame Aimée. His
stare glowered toward Jacquelyn. Turning to face him, Madame Aimée frowned.
“Why the sullen look, Alfred?”
Mr. Struthers grumbled a little, took a long puff on his cigar, blowing
smoke in Jacquelyn’s direction. “Don’t you think you’ve spent enough time
gathering those steins?” His voice full of hatred. Jacquelyn turned around
sharply and headed towards the bar counter.
Jacquelyn despised Alfred Struthers. He thought of himself as a ladies’
man, and she could not figure out why. His body was beefy. His neck buried
below his shirt. She did not think he was very attractive either. His gray
thinning hair swept to one side. And his dark beady eyes have always been cold
as stone. She would giggle at times when he would be drunk, and strut like a
tomcat through the tavern.
“What's going on here?” Mr.
Struthers asked, his voice grouchy, and focusing his stare at Constable
Montgomery. “Shouldn’t you be out patrolling the streets, Henry?” Madame Aimée coughed,
waving the smoke from her face, and muttering profanity under her breath.
“Could’ve used your help two hours ago, big boy,” indicated Constable
Montgomery.
“You're not exactly small around the waist yourself,” barked Mr.
Struthers. “And what brings you in here tonight, Allan. Another interlude with
Clairee?” he said, making a rude insinuation. Dr. Morehead did not say a word.
In fact, all three of the men continued to sip their whiskey, as if Mr.
Struthers had not spoken.
Dr. Morehead coughed a few more times before being interrupted by Madame Aimée.
“You were saying, Allan, why the three of you were in the graveyard...”
Dr. Morehead met her eyes with a
blank stare. “We buried a young boy tonight.”
Madame Aimée’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Oh, my, anyone we
know?”
Dr. Morehead reached into his coat pocket, and took out a dark colored
handkerchief. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and said, “No! He’s from one of
the merchant ships. Constable Montgomery found his body washed up on shore.
