He did a quick mental inventory. A short stack of books and papers on a rolltop desk. No computer. The maid had fixed up the room after the historian had gone downstairs for dinner, a few hours before his murder. That was too bad. Everything was very neat, but whether this was a reflection of the maid or the historian’s personality was hard to say.
He walked over to the small desk where the historian had stacked the books and papers. He took out his notebook and glanced over at Constance. She was looking around the room, her violet eyes taking everything in.
He examined the books: Storms and Shipwrecks of New England, by Edward Rowe Snow; a photocopied document called “Registry of Missing Ships 1850–1900,” from the Lloyd’s archives. There were several bookmarks in each publication. As he was jotting down the titles, he heard a soft rustle and Greene materialized behind him.
“May I pick up the registry, Sergeant?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
She opened it to where the bookmark was, turning from his field of view. Gavin began looking around for wallet, watch, or money. Nothing had been found with the body. He then took a closer look at the Snow book, turning to a bookmarked chapter titled, “The Mysterious Disappearance of the S.S. Pembroke Castle.”
“May I direct your attention to this?” Constance said, handing him the registry. It, too, had a marker at a page about the Pembroke Castle. Gavin was vaguely familiar with the story—but he read the entry with interest anyway.
S.S. Pembroke Castle, 1884. In February 1884, enroute from London to Boston, lost in a storm along the New England coast between Cape Elizabeth (Maine) and Cape Ann (Massachusetts).
The S.S. Pembroke Castle was a 300-foot (100 m) oak-hulled steamship built by Barclay Curle & Co in Whiteinch, Glasgow, Scotland, as a passenger and cargo vessel. She was launched on 12 September 1876. On 16 January 1884 the Pembroke Castle began her final voyage from London, England, with 140 passengers, under charter by Lady Elizabeth Hurwell of Hurwell Ossory, Warwickshire. On 18 January the ship was passed by the liner Wessex and noted in that vessel’s log. On 2 February 1884, the Pembroke Castle was sighted at sunset by the F/V Monckton from Portland, Maine, laboring through heavy seas near Halfway Rock in outer Casco Bay. Signals were exchanged by lamp. This was the last known sighting of the ship. A northeastern storm was bearing down the coast and continued for three days. When the ship failed to reach Boston at the scheduled time, on 5 February, the U.S. Coast Guard deployed several cruisers, joined later by two Navy ships, in an unsuccessful search for survivors or debris. The ship was presumed lost in the storm somewhere along the coast between Cape Elizabeth and Cape Ann; had the ship rounded the latter cape, it would have been seen by the keeper of the Eastern Point Lighthouse, and would have been able to take refuge in Gloucester Harbor. No trace of the ship or its crew was ever found, nor has confirmed debris from the wreckage ever been identified. The insurance claim was settled by Lloyd’s for ￡16,500 on 23 March 1885, paid to the London and Bristol Steamship Company, owner of the Pembroke Castle, with an additional sum of ￡9,500 paid 6 April 1886 to Lady Hurwell for loss of cargo.
“This must be what our historian was looking into,” he said, closing the document and laying it back on the desk.
“Yes,” said Greene. She had been standing close to him, reading the entry over his shoulder. There was something oddly thrilling in her proximity.
She stepped back. “Do you find it strange that no money seems to have been paid for the loss of the passengers?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“And this ‘loss of cargo’—I wonder what that was, why it was so valuable, and why it took over two years to get reimbursed for it?”
Gavin shrugged.
“Why would an English noblewoman charter a ship to begin with? And why wasn’t she on the ship?”
Gavin looked into her face. She was really very young, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. But there was an unusual depth in those violet eyes. He felt a most unprofessional stirring. “Well,” he said, “those are interesting questions, but I doubt they’re relevant.”
“Why not?”
He swallowed, stung by her sharp tone. “Because I’m pretty sure some crankhead from Dill Town killed our guy for money and kicks.”
“Crankhead? What’s that?”
She seemed almost to be from another world—at least, a world far from Exmouth. That, too, was appealing. “Meth addict. You know, methamphetamine? Breaking Bad?”
A silence. “Are there many addicts in Dill Town?”
“A few years ago we busted a lab over there, and we think there might be another one operating, maybe out in the marshes.”
“Why is there an addiction problem?”
“‘Addiction problem’ may be too strong. It’s just…you know, poverty, lack of education, no opportunities… Fishing’s been in decline for decades. And fishermen, well, they’re a rough bunch.” He paused. “Just saying.”