26. “Tailspin” - For You #2
I nod and flip open the logbook in front of me. It’s dated 1829, so that’s an easy discard. The next several are also dated too early to be of any use. Finally, I come across one bearing 1837 on the title page.
“I’ve got one,” I say, looking through it for the passenger manifest.
“Me too,” Maisie says.
“And I’ve got nothing.” Henry slides the last logbook onto the dead-end stack. He stands and comes around to peer over my shoulder, barging into my personal bubble. My chair shifts slightly as he braces his hand against the back of it.
For a minute, I forget what I’m doing, and all I can think about is the fact that if I turn my head forty-five degrees, we could be kissing.
But that is the kind of thought that needs murdering.
I clear my throat and those thoughts from my mind and focus on the list of passengers in front of me. The handwritten script of a sea captain isn’t the easiest thing to read, but most of the names are semi-discernable.
My finger stops. “Is that P. Anderson?”
Henry moves even closer to make out the name for himself. Damn the way he smells. “Sure looks like it.” He rises to his full height, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Did we just find our proof?”
Without taking my eyes from the book, I move my finger. What I see next makes the blood run cold in my veins.
“How is that possible?” I whisper.
“What?” He leans over me again. I point to the note next to the name, and he freezes. “No. It can’t be.”
Oblivious to what is happening on the other side of the table, Maisie tosses her log aside. “Well, that was a bust. You guys find anything?” When she sees the looks on our faces, her mouth forms an O. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Philip Anderson did leave Ireland on a ship named The Caledonia in 1837.” I slide the book across the table to her. “But according to this, he died at sea and never made it to Wesbourne.”
The three of us stare at each other.
Maisie speaks first. “That can’t be right. Maybe it meant a different passenger.” She studies the manifest even closer, her nose nearly brushing the page.
It’s possible. The note simply says deceased at sea next to Philip’s name. The captain could have written it above or below the line it was meant to be on.
“Let’s look through the rest of the book. Surely the captain would have noted something as significant as a death,” I say. “The Caledonia only had fifty passengers on board.”
Maisie passes the log back. “You look. I need caffeine.” She leaves for the small kitchen, where she used to be in an intimate relationship with the coffee maker.
Turning the pages as gently as I can, I give each journal entry a quick scan, looking for any mention of death or sickness on board. Henry continues his spine-tingling vigil over my shoulder. Finally, about halfway through, I find the entry for 14 May, 1837.
6 AM
Light air to gentle breeze from N.N.W. Overcast and pleasant. Average speed of wind per hour 17 miles. Passenger died during the night. Identified as Philip Anderson from the inscribed pocket watch found on the body. Likely cause, dysentery.
“Well, I guess that’s it, then.” I close the book and lay it aside, and a weight settles in my stomach. “Philip died before he and Helena could be reunited.” For some reason, the tragedy of it seems worse than losing the chance to annul my sham of a marriage.
Henry is silent. I glance over as he sits down next to me, looking confused and frustrated. “It just doesn’t make any sense. Why would the diary have pointed to Helena having an affair if Philip never made it to Wesbourne?”
I shrug. “Maybe it was someone else?” Even as I say it, I know it’s a ridiculous suggestion. No woman as in love as Helena was with Philip would immediately start an affair with another man. It’s impossible.
Henry bites his thumbnail and shakes his head. “No. I don’t buy that. I don’t have an answer yet, but something feels off to me.”
“Feelings aren’t everything, believe it or not.”
“I assume there’s some hidden barb in that statement?”
I begin stacking the logbooks that are scattered across the table. “Believe what you want.”
“Feelings aside, you’ll give up that easily? I thought you’d keep looking.”
“Whether I want there to be more to the story or not doesn’t mean there is.”
“There’s always more to the story.” His gaze is so intent I have to look away.
“Maybe I’m just tired of searching for it.”
Maisie enters the room bearing three very welcome cups of coffee. I accept mine and update her on what we found.
“So it looks like we can lay this whole thing to rest,” I conclude.
“Not so fast,” Henry says. “There’s still the diary.”
“Which was probably forged,” I say. “Someone found out about Helena’s secret and decided to wreak havoc. You said yourself that people will do crazy things for money and fame.”
“Or for love,” he notes.
“What’s your point?”
“I’ve been thinking about the circumstances of Philip’s supposed death.”
“Supposed death? The logbook says he died. What more proof do you need? The body itself?”