A new chapter! This one is a riff on the idea of ghost ships. I had wanted to get this one finished before S13 started airing, but there are a lot of moving parts and it took a while to make sure they were all working together. (If I left anything dangling, please let me know.)

I have always found Toronto Island fascinating, and not just because I can see it from my front window. These days it's actually a chain of 15 small islands whose geography has changed dramatically over the years, shaped by storms and reclamation projects. It wasn't even an island until some huge storms in the 1850s disconnected it from the mainland. You may want to look up "visual history of Toronto Island" and "curated collection of vintage Toronto maps" for an idea of what Hanlan's Point looked like in 1905. The area where part of this story takes place is an airport now.

Lighthouse keepers John Paul Radelmüller and George Durnan were real, as were the Gibraltar Point Lighthouse (now the oldest building in Toronto on its original foundation), Gooderham & Worts Distillery, Hotel Hanlan, and Ward's Hotel. The distillery closed in 1990, but the complex of Victorian-era buildings is now a popular tourist attraction, especially during the annual Christmas Market. Hotel Hanlan burned to the ground in 1909.

Always thrilled and grateful for your reviews, favourites, and follows. They help fuel new chapters. Next up: Paris (not Atlantis). George and Nina in Montmartre during la Belle Époque.

Note, December 19, 2019: Chapter 4 is almost done (the draft is finished; I just need to proofread it and let it sit for a few days). I've edited the last couple of paragraphs of this chapter to connect it more with the next one. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading and commenting!

Chapter 3: Bafflements at the Bay

Sunday, July 2, 1905, 2:00am, Hotel Hanlan, Hanlan's Point, Toronto Island

The night was a quiet one, small waves lapping at the shore nearby. Now and then a frog croaked. Alton Hogarth, quite oblivious to the soothing sounds, rose from his bed to stagger to the water closet for the second time since he had gone to bed an hour before.

Hogarth, a louche young man with a dizzyingly high bar bill and, to some, a rakish charm, was one of the full-time residents at the Hotel Hanlan. Until a few months ago he had been quite a fixture among the idle young rich of Parkdale, throwing frequent parties that had become legendary among a certain set. His parents had grudgingly paid the bills for his various escapades until the night that one of his friends rode a horse through the parlour, and Alton himself drove his father's brand new Lozier automobile into the neighbour's swimming pool. His family, having had quite enough, had installed him at the hotel to turn his extravagant drinking and the havoc it wreaked into someone else's problem.

On this particular evening his tipple of choice had been a fine, strong ale in some quantity, hence his need to relieve himself. As he stumbled back to bed, he stopped to look out the window. He still found it strange to see the city from this perspective, after so many years on the mainland.

It was a dark, moonless night, with a cloudy sky. Hogarth was about to climb back under the sheet and the thin quilt when his eye caught something moving outside. He thought he could make out a shape across the water.

Is that a ship? Why is it dark? He would have expected to see white—or at least tan—sails standing out against the inky darkness, but all he could make out was a rough outline of something that might have resembled a small schooner. Was he imagining black sails?

He leaned out the window as the… ship? (he supposed it was a ship, there was little else for it to be) silently made its way west, around the tip of the point, and headed out toward the open water of the lake. It occurred to him that he might report the sighting to someone, if only to cause alarm. He did enjoy stirring the pot.

After a time, the ship was out of sight. Alton Hogarth shrugged, and crept back to bed.

July 3, Station House Four, 8:00am

"Look, Crabtree, more from your best mate." George hadn't noticed the inspector approach his desk, but there Brackenreid was, smirking a little, holding the day's Telegraph open to a page where the headline read, "GHOST SHIPS, or, HAUNTED VESSELS ADRIFT AT SEA."

Oh, marvellous. Another column. I suppose I should be grateful he's not bellowing this time…

"Ah." George rubbed his forehead. "I see that chap Mister… oh, I beg your pardon, the… the…"—he waved at the empty space next to the inspector—"nonexistent Doctor Verbiceanu has put forth another opus." He looked skyward.

"This one's not bad, Crabtree. Not bad at all."

George brightened a little. Maybe Louise didn't butcher this one. It was quite an intriguing one to write. "Oh really, sir. Ghost ships?" he asked innocently. "May I take a look?"

"Go right ahead, Crabtree. You can be the one to read it to the lads this time!"

A smile froze on George's face. "Is that right, sir."

"Be my guest, sunshine!"

George glanced around, and realised the entire bullpen was staring at him in eager anticipation. And—yes—Detective Murdoch had risen from his desk and was standing in the doorway of his office, a hint of a smirk on his face as well.

Crabtree swallowed, and regarded the men as gamely as he could. "Very well, then, sir, today's column it is. Ghost ships." He began to read.

One may be familiar with the phenomenon of ghost ships, nautical vessels that glide across the seas crewed apparently by no one. Ghosts in an derelict house are quite unnerving enough; it is difficult to contemplate the depth of the terror one might experience on finding oneself aboard a haunted conveyance with no easy path back to safety. Think of it! You are trapped alone on the deck of an abandoned ship, and out of the corner of your eye you see… what, exactly, you cannot be sure. A frightful apparition! Is it alive? Is it a ghost? Is it—or was it—even human?

George paused briefly and glanced around the room. It dawned on him that the words that currently riveted his colleagues and superiors were his own. She's hardly changed a thing!

A thrill went through him, and he could barely suppress an enormous grin. A split second later, another thought struck him, flaring like a smouldering coal: They never pay attention like this when the name on the piece is mine!

A quieter version of himself splashed some water on the flames. Buck up, old chum. They are listening now. He took a moment and a breath to collect himself, and went on.

Murdoch's office, 10:00am

The door opened, and George beetled in. "You wanted to see me, sir."

"Yes, George, I wanted to discuss a new case. Before we do, though, I must say your reading this morning left everyone quite captivated." Murdoch regarded the younger man bemusedly, and nodded at him to take a seat.

"Did you like it, sir?" There was a note of eagerness in George's voice that sent Murdoch's eyebrow upward.

Murdoch cleared his throat. He was fiddling with a small screwdriver and some odd contraption on his desk. "Well, George, ah, I can see why those in the audience consider your inimitable style of reading to be entertaining. I do, however, find the content of the column to be rather questionable. The anecdotes were most implausible. A black Newfoundland dog that supposedly haunts the entirety of the Great Lakes? The disappearances of a statistically unlikely number of ships in order to create a so-called 'Ghost Fleet'?"

"Ah, so you were listening, sir!" George enthused. "I dare say I find all this quite fascinating. Which of the mysteries do you consider most intriguing? I confess I, I, I'm quite captivated by the story of the Bannockburn—I mean, why did it vanish? And why has it been seen all over Lake Superior for the past three years?"

"That's the one that intrigues you, George? I'd have thought it more likely you would be interested in the tales of the Ghost Galleon off Newfoundland."

"Well, certainly, sir! I'd thought that would've gone without saying. I mean, perhaps you may have noticed my keen interest in, in, in… ah, in how the column discussed it in some depth. I grew up hearing my aunts and their visitors speak about it repeatedly. How would you explain that one, sir? A Spanish galleon blown off course two hundred years ago, boarded by pirates who stole and buried the treasure, and who defend it to this day! It's quite terrifying if you think about it, sir! The mere sight of the apparition of a ship, marking you for death!"

"That's… hardly plausible, George."

"It's a story I've heard my whole life, sir! Why, Aunt Hyacinth knew a man whose uncle's father-in-law had disappeared after going over to Chapel Cove to look for the bounty." His voice dropped, and his eyes sparked with excitement. "Sir. Do you think… something like that could happen here? Could there be spectral, unmanned ships roaming about Lake Ontario defending buried riches?"

"George." Murdoch put down whatever it was he was tinkering with, and regarded Crabtree over his glasses. "Buried treasure. On Lake Ontario."

"Well it's not without precedent, sir! There's a long history of hidden treasure caches all around the Great Lakes. There's the cache of gold that the conquistador Hernán Cortés stashed near Sarnia… and the one on the Isle of Fellow Sands that the British soldiers hid there during the American Revolutionary War! And the 37,000 pounds sterling lost a little more than 90 years ago near Oshawa, when the Mary Ann was transferring military pay chests from Kingston to York! Yes, sir!"[i] He stood up in his excitement. "There are many stories of lost treasures on waterways, and shadowy ships haunting various lakes and harbours to protect riches beyond measure." He nodded triumphantly.

"George. Listen to yourself. You are arguing that buried treasure would be defended by phantoms, even generations after those who concealed it have passed on."

George paused. "Why, yes, I suppose I am, sir." Murdoch just looked at him. George shrugged a little, and sat back down. "All right, then, sir, prove me wrong," he said gamely.

"I would do so happily, George, should a 'ghost ship' arrive in Toronto. But for the moment we are dealing with far more pedestrian matters. Now, George, I'd like to ask you to look into the affairs of one Mister Michael Logan."

George straightened. "Yes sir, I can certainly do that. What are we looking for? Michael Logan, is it? He and his wife Florence are quite a wealthy family, they've a massive house on Jarvis. Heavily invested in the liquor business, if I recall. I believe Mister Logan is particularly interested in…"

Murdoch held up a hand. "Before you give me the full report, George, I should explain why I made the request. Mrs. Logan came to me this morning, presenting these two sets of ledgers, and alleging that her husband has committed a very serious crime. She told me that…"

George leaned in. He was always eager for a story.

July 3, Station House Four, 3:30pm

"Crabtree! Go and put the kettle on," bellowed Brackenreid from his office.

George looked up from the stack of ledgers and receipts in front of him. Well, I suppose it would do me some good to move about a bit. Quite a lot of sitting today. He rose from his desk and stretched, glancing over his shoulder for a quick "Yes sir!" before he went to the induction hotplate to fetch the kettle and fill it with water for a fresh pot of tea.

The odd little plate was yet another invention of Detective Murdoch's. Everyone was wary of open flames since the Great Fire the year before, and the detective had come up with an idea for an electrical device that would remain cool to the touch even as it generated a magnetic field strong enough to boil water in a cast iron kettle at an astonishing speed. George thought he finally understood how it worked, after Murdoch had provided a long, illustrated explanation about how the combination of electricity and magnetism created many small electrical currents in the iron, thus heating it. Many of the other lads who hadn't been privy to the lecture, though, seemed to regard the apparatus as nothing short of magic.

George returned to his desk to resume staring at the piles of paperwork. The penmanship of the bookkeeper at the Gooderham and Worts Distillery left much to be desired, and he was starting to nurse a bit of a headache. He glanced up to notice that Doctor Ogden was visiting Detective Murdoch. He thought he'd heard her voice.

He was content to assume they were discussing a personal matter until he heard Murdoch utter the words "column" and "George." He flinched, very slightly—imperceptibly, he hoped—and let the papers blur in front of his eyes as he pricked up his ears, suddenly riveted by the conversation. Sometimes this excellent hearing of mine is a bit of a curse, he thought ruefully, and rubbed his forehead.

He listened as Detective Murdoch described the day's column, and George's fascination with it. His blood ran slightly cold when Doctor Ogden spoke: "William, the topics of all the columns so far have been ones on which George seems to have most extensive knowledge."

"I've thought that myself, Julia. You and I both know that George is quite well versed on matters of… well, for lack of a better word, the make-believe."

George thought he heard mirth in the doctor's tone. "I believe the preferred term among believers is the supernatural." Yes, that was a giggle, then a pause.

Doctor Ogden spoke again. "You don't think George is writing those columns, do you, William?" George's heart skipped a beat, and he drew several deep breaths in an attempt to keep himself from turning scarlet. He looked straight down at the ledgers, seeing nothing but scribbles dancing around on the page.

Murdoch chuckled. "He certainly did seem to relish reading today's epistle… but he is most adamant that he is not masquerading as this 'Doctor Verbiceanu.' You may recall he was quite offended by the suggestion."

The knot in his stomach loosened very slightly.

"Well, I suppose that's true, William.

"Quite a thing in which to have such a devoted interest."

"One might say the same about your interest in electricity, William," Doctor Ogden teased.

Murdoch sputtered. "But… Julia! Electricity has real, practical applications and greatly improves our everyday lives! Why, it was only a few short years ago that every light after dusk was an open flame! How can anyone possibly argue that… mere imagined phenomena could have such effects!"

Electricity was thought to be imaginary until Benjamin Franklin flew his kite, George thought a touch acerbically, but bit his tongue. He wondered if the detective would speak quite so strongly if he knew how much George could overhear.

"May I remind you that germs were deemed figments of the imagination until quite recently, William?" Julia responded. George thrilled slightly, and successfully fought the impulse to punch the air in agreement. Thank you, Doctor!

There was a brief silence. George decided Doctor Ogden was getting the same look over the glasses that he himself had received earlier.

Murdoch cleared his throat. "Julia."

"Yes, William."

"You had a reason for dropping by this afternoon?" The detective's tone was not unkind.

"Yes, William. I wanted to talk to you about the house. I've been speaking to a friend at who volunteers with me at the orphans' home about a builder she and her husband hired…"

Nothing of my concern, then. Bless you, Doctor Ogden. George took a few more breaths, and finally managed to tune out enough that he could turn back to the ledgers.

The detective had instructed him to look for any irregularities in the financial records of the biggest distillery—and, perhaps not incidentally, the biggest corporate taxpayer, and one of the biggest employers—in the Dominion of Canada. George was no accountant, but what he was seeing in the comparison of the two sets of records certainly made it look to him as if the icily calm Mrs. Logan had been telling the truth about her husband's embezzlement scheme. The two sets of books, both reporting the company's income and transactions for the same periods of time, each gave a very different picture of the distiller's financial well-being. One made the business look quite indebted, containing a number of references to capital expenses for new tanks and boilers, as well as several tonnes of cane sugar ordered from one of the refineries in Montreal. The other, showing a much more robust bottom line, mentioned none of these. George wondered about the intended audience for each set. The detective reported that Mrs. Logan had not been sure, but she had thought that the one with all the expenditures was related to the plan her husband had spoken of for Gooderham and Worts to introduce rum to its product line.

As George compared the two ledgers line by line, he found himself pondering what Detective Murdoch had told him about Mrs. Logan. He knew that before marriage, she had been Florence Massey of the Rosedale Masseys (thank you, Madge Merton), and that any reputation and wealth brought to the marriage most certainly came from her family and the Hart-Massey Company, not that of Michael Logan. He also understood from Miss Merton's column that although the couple had always appeared most smitten with each other, there was lingering consternation within Toronto society that someone from such an august family as the Masseys would marry a working man from rural New Brunswick.

George had certainly not seen any sign of affection for her husband in Mrs. Logan today. Were it wintertime, her quiet fury might have heated the room. The deeper the love, the greater the sense of betrayal on seeing the lover with another, George supposed. An image of Emily Grace with Leslie Garland appeared unbidden.

George pushed the good doctor out of his mind. She was gone, and he would always wish her well.

Mrs. Logan. She was a rather attractive woman, likely in early middle age, impeccably dressed in the latest fashion, clearly accustomed to deferential treatment. She came across at first as frosty and imperious, but Murdoch had watched enough people telling painful stories over the years that he could catch an occasional glimpse of the rage and the heartbreak simmering underneath her cool demeanour.

Mrs. Logan's tale was one that Murdoch had heard many times before: an adulterous husband, romancing a much younger woman at the office. She had suspected her husband of a dalliance with one of the young secretaries, and had returned unexpectedly from a visit to her sister in Newmarket to find the couple in flagrante delicto in her own home. She had loved him, she told them, but now she intended to ruin him utterly by bringing his crimes to light.

Apparently Mister Logan had convinced the senior management of the distillery that the future of the alcohol business was rum, and that Gooderham & Worts needed to make significant investments in order to start producing it. So why does there exist a second ledger mentioning nothing whatsoever about this new venture?

George noted the name of the steelworks in Buffalo from which the tanks and boilers had supposedly been ordered. He felt mild amusement at the name "Lackawanna"—perhaps an absence of motivation? He suppressed a smile, knowing no one else except perhaps Doctor Ogden would find that joke funny.

He would telephone the steelworks, and the sugar refinery in Montreal. He would be surprised if either of them knew a thing about orders from Toronto. A relatively simple case of embezzlement, on rather a larger scale than usual, I suppose.

July 4, Station House Four, 8:00am

"Sir!" George greeted the detective. "You'll be wanting to see this." He held out the day's edition of the Telegraph.

"What have you, George?" Murdoch spent a few moments regarding the front page. "A ghost ship? Come now."

"That's what it says, sir! It would seem that a Mister Alton Hogarth, a guest at the Hotel Hanlan, witnessed what he called a, a, a, an apparition of a ship making its way through Toronto Harbour."

"An apparition." Murdoch regarded him dourly.

"Well, sir, there was no moon that night, and Mister Hogarth could barely make it out at all against the darkness."

"And how does Mister Hogarth know that what he saw was not in fact an actual ship?"

"Well, sir, I haven't spoken personally with Mister Hogarth. But according to this, he was quite clear about what he saw. A ship moving silently across the harbour, its sails as black as the moonless night. He reported as well that he saw no one on the decks, thus making it… well, ghostly, sir."

Murdoch adopted a long-suffering expression. "And what else do we know about this Mister Hogarth, George?"

"He is nineteen years of age, from quite a wealthy family in Parkdale. He lives in the hotel because his family wishes nothing to do with him. He is apparently quite a… well, his father refers to him as a hellion, sir."

Murdoch's eyebrow rose. "And how would you know that?"

"Well, sir, his father brought their new Lozier automobile to Sam for repair after the young Mister Hogarth managed to submerge it in a swimming pool. A dratted shame, that kind of damage—Sam was able to help only to a point with the engine and the transmission, as the lubrication systems were quite complex, and I'm sorry to say the leather upholstery was a dead loss. Mister Hogarth Senior had to ship the entire vehicle back to Plattsburgh to get the seats replaced. It was really a crying shame, sir."

"So perhaps Mister Hogarth is not the most reliable narrator." Murdoch shrugged a little, and exhaled in exasperation.

"Even if he is not, sir, I confess I am most intrigued by his account. I should like very much to speak with him about the sighting."

Murdoch pressed his lips together and shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not possible, George. Station House Three is looking after this one, and we're under direct orders from the inspector to leave the other station houses well enough alone after what happened with Chief Constable Davis and his men. Inspector Brackenreid specifically asked that we give the new chief constable a chance to assess the entire Constabulary without our… 'butting in,' as he put it. And we do have the matter of the Logan case to attend to."

George rubbed his forehead. "I suppose so, sir. But perhaps I shall visit the island and converse with the locals nonetheless." Murdoch's brow furrowed in warning. "Not in a professional capacity, I should say, sir. I have been quite enthralled of late by the tale of the ghost that haunts the lighthouse at Gibraltar Point. Apparently a John Paul Radelmüller, the lighthouse keeper there a hundred years ago, was brutally murdered in 1815 by soldiers who were upset that he had run out of beer, and he continues to make his presence known. And I've heard, sir, that when the current steward was a young man, he found fragments of bones and a coffin a short distance from the lighthouse itself. But no one was ever convicted of Mister Radelmüller's murder. It's the oldest cold case in Toronto, sir!"

Murdoch shook his head once more. "And again, George, not our case. I hope you can appreciate that matters of jurisdiction are quite sensitive given recent events."

George looked closely at the detective. He thought he saw anguish in the man's eyes, and a memory of Constable Jackson sprang to mind. In his darker moments he would dwell on how good people had died because Station House Number Four had not left well enough alone. He wondered if that wound would ever truly heal.

"Of course, sir. It would be… inappropriate of me to investigate either of these matters in any sort of official capacity. But you know me, sir. I love a good ghost story."

Murdoch gave George a look over his glasses again. Both men knew George was indeed going to pursue his inquiries, as a private citizen if not a member of the Constabulary. Murdoch shook his head briefly in warning, and George's response was to shrug again, a little ruefully. You know me, sir.

Murdoch cleared his throat. "Now George. Should anyone ask, I am completely unaware of any such efforts on your part."

George nodded, and a corner of his mouth went up. "Thank you, sir. I assure you I shall exercise discretion."

Murdoch lowered his head a little, never breaking eye contact, and gave George a look. Make sure you do. Finally he blinked, and sat back a little. "Have you anything directly relevant to one of our cases? The Logan case, perhaps?"

"Ah. Well, yes, sir. Mrs. Logan's story has held up quite well so far. I, I've spent quite a bit of time reviewing the two sets of ledgers, and I've also spoken to several of the men in the accounting department at Gooderham and Worts, as well as Colonel Albert Gooderham, who has just taken over as managing director of the distillery business after the death of his father George. Apparently Colonel Gooderham was quite unaware of the significant investment his father had authorised Mister Logan to make in in expanding the distillery's business to the production of rum. He was very surprised—and, dare I say, sir, extremely angry—to learn of the second ledger with the large transactions. He was very clear that he had only ever seen the records of routine business for the company."

Murdoch inclined his head toward George. "What was the mental state of the late Mister Gooderham before he passed?"

"Well, sir, the colonel reported that his father had been rather… well, muddled of late. His business acumen was reportedly quite sharp until about a year ago, not long after Mister Logan took the position of bookkeeper."

An eyebrow went up. "Do you think Mister Logan could have had something to do with Mister Gooderham's death? Perhaps a slow poison?"

"It's possible, sir, but I suspect unlikely. The colonel described his father's behaviour as paranoid and aggressive, and indicated that Mister Gooderham had increasing difficulty with language and memory as he drew closer to the end."

"So why not poison?"

"Well, sir, I consulted with Doctor Ogden, and she was unaware of any poison that would cause these symptoms. She did, however, liken the symptoms reported in Mister Gooderham to those she had sometimes seen in the asylum. She recalled one elderly woman in particular who behaved similarly, and who was quite convinced that her young husband would soon return to her from fighting in the war in Crimea."

"But that war began in 1853!"

"Precisely, sir. And her husband never did return. The patient Doctor Ogden described was certainly not of sound mind, and the good doctor could ensure that by being cared for in the asylum, she was not being poisoned. So there must have been something else causing her madness."

"So it is possible that Mister Gooderham's affliction could have been caused by something other than a toxin deliberately introduced into his body."

"It is possible, sir, that instead of causing the elderly gentleman's decline, Mister Logan merely noticed it, and chose to take advantage of it to his own benefit."

Murdoch's eyes widened in approval. "Very good, George. That would indeed be a distinct possibility. What have you about the current whereabouts of Mister Logan?"

"Sir, he's quite disappeared. His wife has seen neither hide nor hair of him since she removed the ledgers from his office, and he has not reported for work since then either. I have the lads checking the train stations and distributing photographs of him, but so far, there's been no reports of anyone fitting his description in the past 48 hours."

"Well, we shall have to keep looking. It would appear that Mister Logan has quite a large sum to account for. And without knowing why an apparently loyal, trusted employee would embezzle tens of thousands of dollars from his employer of nearly a decade, I cannot rule out the possibility of co-conspirators with the mysterious bookkeeper. He might not be the only one invested in ensuring his scheme remained hidden for as long as possible."

George returned to his desk to find an envelope waiting for him. Inside was an unsigned, typewritten note bearing his name. He picked it up, and turned it over a few times. "Hm. Higgins, did you see who left this on my desk?"

"I did, George. It came in this morning's post."

"But, but look at it, Henry! There's no stamp, and no address. The only thing it says is 'George Crabtree'! Someone has to have dropped it off."

"Well if he did, I didn't see him."

"That's no help, Higgins!" George turned toward the room and raised his voice. "Lads, did anyone see who left this letter for me in the post?"

The other constables glanced at each other and shrugged. A chorus of "no's" went around the room.

"Well, that's just wonderful. Let me see what it says."

July 4, Hotel Hanlan, Toronto Island, 7:45pm

"I confess I was surprised not to see George on our ferry. From what you told me, I assumed he would join us." Julia took her husband's arm as they stepped off the dock and began the short walk to the hotel.

"Though his correspondent did not direct him to come alone, George suggested it might be wise not to be seen with anyone else."

It was a muggy summer evening, with dark clouds threatening rain at any moment. Julia had always liked the light, airy wooden hotel: its lovely pointed turrets and sloping Mansard roofs, the wide balconies, the lovely view of the harbour and the city itself. She had fond memories of summer days on the sandy beaches of Block House Bay, when her nanny would bring her and Ruby to swim and ride the carousel.

"I suppose we'll just have to pretend to be a happy couple as we follow him, then!" Julia teased.

William smiled briefly at her, then grew serious again. "This could be nothing. At best someone has wasted George's and our time with a red herring, and we'll have a nice supper in the restaurant and then go home."

"A nice island supper hardly seems a waste of time. And we could perhaps spend the night! A romantic little getaway sounds quite enticing."

William looked at her blankly. "Now why would we spend a night in one hotel when we already live in another?"

Julia glanced at him, and squeezed his arm. He was clearly distracted. "Oh, William. You are concerned, aren't you?"

"I am. George's investigation into the background of the distillery's bookkeeper, Michael Logan, revealed no record of such a man before he began work for Mister Gooderham eight years ago. He was promoted into the position of bookkeeper about one year ago, not long before the second ledger appeared. If he is not above living under an alias and embezzling tens of thousands of dollars, what other criminal acts may give him no compunction?"

"I see. So we are here to observe, and step in should Mister Logan arrive."

"I am to step in should Mister Logan arrive. You are to stay out of harm's way," William replied firmly as he opened the restaurant door and held it for his companion while he quickly surveyed the room. "He's over there," he said as quietly as possible, and inclined his head toward George. The constable was seated at a table near the window, with a drink in a highball glass, a notebook, and a pen in front of him. He wore a nondescript dark suit, and William was impressed by how inconspicuous he appeared. He hoped he and Julia could manage the same, although it was rare these days for them to travel about Toronto without someone recognising one or both of them. Best they gave no indication they knew the unremarkable gentleman sitting alone.

Hanlan's Point, Toronto Island, 9:00pm

George stood outside the hotel, considering his next course of action. He was irritated that his correspondent had never arrived. If not for a productive couple of hours of writing about his afternoon chat with old Mister Durnan, and his epiphany about the Logan case, he would have considered the entire endeavour a waste of time. He hoped that Detective Murdoch and Doctor Ogden had at least enjoyed their supper: the food at the hotel was quite delicious, and the view was always lovely, even in the rain.

It was readying itself to be a particularly dark night, with only the tiniest crescent of a new moon peeking now and then through menacing-looking clouds. Several showers had blown through during his fruitless wait in the hotel restaurant, pitter-pattering against the window next to him. He stood outside wavering a bit about whether to head home, or pay another visit to the lighthouse.

He wasn't feeling particularly well, and he did not relish the prospect of getting caught in another rain shower. Still, though, he decided to overrule his misgivings and head back south toward the tall stone tower: he was not likely to be back on the island during the evening anytime soon, given that most evenings these days found him at the Star Room watching Nina dance, and he had a few more questions for Mister Durnan.

He found himself especially tired this evening, and slightly queasy. Perhaps that sliced meat sandwich at lunchtime had been a bit off. No matter: he was utterly fascinated by Mister Durnan and his tales, and he wasn't going to let a bit of stomach upset get to him.

He was almost to his destination when he realised he could no longer deny it: he was feeling quite awful. His head was swimming and his vision was hazy, and his legs were more and more resolute in their refusal to carry him at anything like their usual speed. By the time he reached the lighthouse, they quite balked at holding him up at all. He was startled to see the dirt rushing upward, and he heard and felt a dull thud as the blurred brown motion stopped abruptly. Blackness took him, and he knew no more.

William and Julia had wasted no time in settling their bill as soon as they saw George drain a glass of water and rise to leave. Julia was going to suggest a walk along the promenade after they had seen George safely onto the ferry, but to her and William's surprise, George turned right, not left back toward the dock. Where was he going?

They kept a discreet distance behind him as he headed southward, and both noticed him start to move somewhat unsteadily, rather as if he had had quite a lot to drink. Julia gripped William's arm, wondering what had been in that glass, when all at once George collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

Both she and William were at his side in an instant. "George! George, can you hear me?" William was nearly frantic as he loosened George's tie and unbuttoned his collar.

Julia dropped to her knees, pressing her fingers to George's neck to check his pulse before she rolled him over onto his side and lifted his eyelids, one at a time. "William, his pupils are no bigger than pinpoints!"

She leaned in to listen to him breathe, and wrinkled her nose. "Tinned fruit. He smells of tinned fruit. Pears. Very strong. Irregular pulse… shallow breaths…" She picked up his arm and shook it. It was limp. "Completely unconscious." She scowled. "William, George has been drugged! Almost certainly a dangerously large dose of chloral hydrate!"

William flinched at the memory of his own awful experience with the stuff, and briefly felt the ghost of a tug of rope at his wrists. He shuddered just as the rain began to fall.

"We must get him to a hospital!" Julia went on, with an urgency that snapped William back into the moment. "Excess amounts of chloral hydrate can cause grave harm to the digestive tract. He could be bleeding internally. He could die!"

Murdoch paled, and blinked several times. Julia could not tell whether the water that began to run down his face was rain or tears. "Oh, George," he whispered, anguished. "I'm so sorry." He reached out toward his unmoving friend, steadying himself to hoist him over his shoulder, only for Julia to catch his hands and push him away.

"William. You weren't going to try to lift him, were you?"

"Well, yes, of course! You said he needs the hospital!" Murdoch pushed back, just a little, against Julia's arm.

"You must not lift anything heavy, William! You'll injure your shoulder again!"

"Sod my shoulder, as the inspector would say. George needs help," William said tightly. Julia's eyes grew huge as he continued. "The ambulance carriage will take too long to get here if one of us has to run all the way back to the hotel to summon it. I'm going to carry him."

"You will do no such thing, William!" Julia was furious. "Do you want to damage yourself permanently?"

Murdoch flinched. "Well, then, Julia, I look forward to watching you handle this, then," he nearly shouted, stung. He wondered for half a second whether she could actually manage George's dead weight on her own, and then it hit him that yes, she probably could. For a moment he wanted to see her try.

Neither of them had paid any mind to the modest, somewhat ramshackle clapboard house in need of a good whitewashing near the foot of the lighthouse, so both were surprised when its front door opened and a spry old man with a white beard poked his head out into the rain. He called out to them, a little too loudly, "What seems to be the matter, then? Quite a commotion out here."

Slightly deaf, William decided. He and Julia exchanged a look of relief tinged with lingering anger. Julia spoke first, raising her voice so the man could hear her. "Sir. We are certainly pleased to see you. I'm Doctor Julia Ogden. Our friend here"—she gestured at the unconscious George—"is in immediate need of medical attention. Would you be so kind as to call for a carriage so we can get him back to the mainland?"

The elderly gentleman regarded Julia and then William carefully for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. "Doctor Ogden. Doctor Julia Ogden! You're the city coroner. And Detective William Murdoch! I am honoured. I'm Durnan. George Durnan. A pleasure to meet you both." He stepped out his front door, extending a hand to shake William's. He looked surprised when Julia offered hers as well, but picked it up and kissed the back of it after only brief hesitation. "Madam. Doctor."

"George Durnan!" Murdoch exclaimed. "The lighthouse keeper." The old man nodded, his chest swelling proudly for the recognition. "For more than 50 years now! Your father was the keeper before you. He—"

Julia cut in, her tone sharp as she crouched back down next to George and gently lifted his lolling head onto her knees. "Detective Murdoch. I do hate to interfere with these warm introductions, but—and with all respect to Mister Durnan—the life of our friend Constable Crabtree may be in peril at the moment."

Murdoch looked stricken. "Of course. Mister Durnan?" he shouted. "Would you be able offer assistance?"

Durnan eyed the insensible man, cradled in the doctor's arms. "I certainly would, my good sir. I shall ring the bell to summon an ambulance carriage to the ferry dock on the mainland." He gestured at the stable next to the house. "Detective Murdoch. You will find a horse and a small wagon inside. We shall use those to transport Mister Grace—" William and Julia exchanged a curious look, and Murdoch's eyebrow rose skyward. "I'm sorry, is that not his name?"

"Crabtree," said Murdoch. "George Crabtree. He is with the Toronto Constabulary as well."

"Why, yes! The one who runs the automobile repair shop. Now I recognise him from the newspaper. That's not how he introduced himself to me! In any case, we must get him to the ferry. Detective, would you hitch up old Ronnie to the wagon?"

"Of course, sir." Murdoch practically sprinted to the stable door as a bolt of lightning split the sky.

Durnan nodded and made his way, almost as quickly, toward the lighthouse. It started to pour.

The bell, when it finally rang in an odd staccato rhythm, was ear-splitting. Though George was senseless enough to be completely unperturbed, the knell startled Julia so much that she nearly dropped him. No wonder the old man has gone deaf, if he has to listen to that every night, she thought as he emerged from the hexagonal stone tower.

Murdoch had already rematerialised somehow, driving the wagon. He clambered down and handed Durnan the reins, and stooped back down at George's side.

"Don't even think about lifting him, William."

William had barely opened his mouth to protest again when Mister Durnan hoisted George up over his shoulder in one smooth motion and deposited him carefully on the bed of the wagon. Durnan saw the couple staring at him and smiled. "All that shovelling coal for the lantern has to do a body some good, no?"

Julia blinked, and shook her head in awe. "My goodness! I suppose so!" she said as Durnan climbed up to the driver's seat, and William joined him in the front. She glanced around out of habit, then huffed impatiently at the impulse toward modesty and lifted her soggy skirts high to climb up onto the wagon next to George. Some things were far more important than decorum. George needed someone with him for the ride.

There was only one ferry at the dock on the mainland when the alarm rang; all the others were in transit, and word went out quickly that members of the Constabulary were meeting the boats as they returned to the mainland so they could interview all the passengers who might have seen something on Hanlan's Point.

When the boat from the mainland arrived, two young medical residents and four constables were the only passengers, per Detective Murdoch's orders. The residents bore a stretcher and a large kit bag full of medical supplies and equipment. They wasted no time moving George from the wagon onto the boat, Julia at his side, and the ferry captain pulled away from the island dock the moment a crewman lifted the gangplank. Julia had sometimes wondered how the island dwellers handled medical emergencies, and she was impressed by how swift and practised the whole process appeared, despite the increasingly dreadful weather.

She gave a half wave to William as the ferry departed; he was on the telephone in the call box at the dock, likely with Station House Four to give details about what had happened to George. He waved back, wiped some rain out of his eyes, and mouthed, "Look after him." Julia nodded and crouched down next to George. He was panting slightly, and his pulse was still quite irregular. She was quietly distressed to see him unresponsive to any but the most painful stimuli.

The ride to the foot of Yonge Street took only a few minutes, but it felt far longer. The two residents were slightly cowed and baffled by the presence of a female doctor who did not hesitate to take charge of their patient's care. One of them could think of nothing to do but offer her a cloth. She accepted it gratefully, drying her own hands and face, then sat George up and asked the other attendant for help in easing him out of his sodden jacket, waistcoat, and trousers. The young man balked at the last, scandalised that a woman not a man's wife would undertake such a task, but she would have none of it. She was a fully qualified medical doctor, and the Chief Coroner of the entire city, no less, and she had seen many a man's union suits before, and if a doctor at the beginning of his career in Toronto wished to cross her, well… woe betide him.

Julia used the cloth to dry George as best she could, and then tucked blankets around him before she folded his suit into a small bundle. It would certainly have to be cleaned and pressed well, and his hat reblocked. She would take them home to the hotel laundry.

The boat arrived at the dock. George's stretcher was loaded onto the ambulance carriage almost before the ferry came to a full stop, and Julia clambered up behind him. She was willing to teach these two young men, but she would brook no disrespect from them, or argument about the care of the patient. She was soaked to the skin, and her patience was in scant supply.

The rain poured down outside, and she heard the whip crack before she felt the carriage lurch into motion. Other than his slow, shallow breaths, George moved not a muscle. Julia gritted her teeth for the trip.

July 5, Toronto General Hospital, 5:00am

The last thing George remembered was the sound of gulls cawing overhead. He came to only slowly, trying to understand why now there was only silence, punctuated by the occasional noise of indistinct voices or wheels squeaking past nearby. His head was pounding, and his tongue was dry and much too big for his mouth.

Where was he? He felt terrible, as if he'd singlehandedly finished off the bottle of overproof rum his Aunt Iris had brought him from Newfoundland. He did enjoy the occasional evening of excess, of course, and had weathered the next day's resultant unpleasantness more than once, but this? This felt like he had been hit and run over several times by an omnibus.

He must have stirred: he felt a hand on his arm, and heard someone softly calling to him.

"George? Can you hear me?"

Who was there?

And where was here?

He tried to roll over onto his back, and the entire world lurched around him, leaving him unspeakably queasy. He froze again where he was, and waited for the room to stop whirling around him.

"George," the voice came again. A small, warm hand took his own.

"Nina," he croaked, without opening his eyes, and smiled. He felt a gentle kiss on his lips. The spin of the room slowed a little.

"I'm here, George. You're awake! Oh, I'm so glad. Doctor Ogden was most concerned."

He finally did look around for a moment, and contemplated what he saw: a white room. A grey blanket on a bed with a white frame. Sunlight filtering through white curtains onto nondescript walls. Hospital, he concluded. But why?

He considered for a moment how he felt. Nausea, headache, the bedspins… Good Lord. I must have had quite the tipple of that godforsaken rum. He tried and failed, though, to summon the memory of opening the bottle. Odd, he mused, as he opened his mouth a little and tried to move his thick tongue: he tasted no remnant of it.

If not rum, then, what had he imbibed? Surely the inspector would not have been so generous with his scotch? Who else was there with whom he could have gotten four sheets to the wind? But there was no lingering tang of whisky in his mouth either.

So why was he here? What was wrong with him?

"What happened?" he finally managed, looking up at Nina. She looked tired, and worried, and more beautiful than ever.

"You're in the hospital, George," Nina said softly, and squeezed his hand. "You were drugged."

"Drugged!" He stiffened a little, and felt everything tilt again. The nausea that ensued from the small movement nearly overwhelmed him. Right. No moving whatsoever, then. "Drugged," he repeated slowly, and swallowed. "What?"

"Detective Murdoch and Detective Watts are on Toronto Island trying to find out who gave you what Doctor Ogden said was a dangerously high dose of chloral hydrate."

A foggy memory tried to rise. Toronto Island. I was going to Hanlan's Point. It was hard to make sense of anything. He flashed back to the sound of gulls, and realised he must have made it there, but he could remember nothing else. He would have had to go by ferry, but he had no recollection whatsoever of anything after leaving the station house and heading by bicycle to the ferry docks. Had he been on a boat? Had he spoken to anyone? What had he been looking for?

"I'll get Doctor Banister," Nina told him as she moved toward the door. "He's the one who's looking after you. He'll want to know you're awake. He and Doctor Ogden were quite anxious about bleeding."

Bleeding? What? From where? She was gone before he could ask. He took a deep breath, and gripped the sheet to steady himself against the gyrations of the room. A tall, grey-haired man with a round face and wire-rimmed glasses appeared at the door, with Nina—radiant Nina!—at his side.

"I'm Doctor Banister," the cheerful-looking gentleman informed him. "Let me get a look at you." He walked behind George, lifted the sheet, and peered at the back of George's gown. "No blood. Constable Crabtree, I believe you are a very lucky man."

Oh, thought George. He exhaled.

July 5, Windsor House Hotel, 6:00am

"William!" Julia exclaimed, hearing her husband's key in the lock of their suite and rising from the bed to greet him. She had been there since half past midnight, but she had slept not a wink, instead reading and rereading journal articles about the effects of high doses of chloral hydrate, and fretting about whether she had made the right decision to entrust the doctors at the hospital with George's care.

A bleary-eyed William came through the door, took off his hat, and enfolded his wife in an embrace. "Julia," he said quietly.

"You're exhausted. What have you found?" she asked, as she took his hat and placed it in the customary spot by the door.

He held up a hand. "First things first. How is George?"

"He's going to be all right, William. Miss Bloom phoned from the hospital nearly an hour ago. He's awake, and Doctor Banister has detected no bleeding, and he is willing to release him by nine o'clock."

Julia could see some of the tension drain from William's body. He loosened his tie, and took off his jacket. "Good. Very good. Miss Bloom is with him?" He reached down to take off his shoes, and wrinkled his nose. They were still damp, and his socks smelled dreadful. His suit was going to need a good cleaning. He hoped the shirt was salvageable. It had taken forever to dry.

"Yes. She says he's dizzy and nauseated, but very much still with us." She paused to let him take in the news. "I'm so relieved, William."

"As am I." His eyes shone for a moment before he brought himself back to business. "Now. What we have learned. I spoke to a number of people at the hotel."

"And what did they tell you?"

"Quite a lot. We believe we know who drugged George."

"That's wonderful! Who was it?"

"He was a waiter at the hotel, hired only a few days ago. He gave his name as John Marshall, but that may have been an alias. The maître d' reported that he was a hard worker, polite to the customers but rather distant with the other members of the staff. It seems he received a telegram just before nine o'clock last night—he told the maître d' that his mother had taken ill in Peterborough and he needed to go to her. He departed the hotel toward the ferry dock very shortly thereafter."

"Perhaps he had help, then. Someone who had arranged to send him the telegram at a specified time?"

"And he was apparently gone from the island before we could shut down the four ferry lines to begin our investigation. None of the ferry crews remembers seeing anyone who matches his description, but Constable Benson is working on a sketch to circulate to all the railway stations and dockyards in southern Ontario and Quebec." William reached into the wardrobe to retrieve a fresh shirt.

"Could he have escaped on another boat?" Julia, having given up on sleep, went to the drawer to fetch a corset before she pulled her nightdress off over her head.

"The constables who interviewed everyone on the ferries after George 's collapse identified no one who matched his description either." He paused to gaze admiringly at his wife in her dishabille.

"But ferries are not the only type of boat that visits the island," Julia pointed out as she wrapped the hated garment around herself. "There are rowboats, and canoes, and the occasional kayak."

"It was still light out, though. Someone would have seen a small boat depart, would they not?"

"Perhaps not, if Mister Marshall managed to hide somewhere until after dark. Perhaps he waited for George's ghost ship!" she teased.

"Julia! Don't humour him."

"He's not even here, William."

William shook his head. He was so tired.

"Did you find any other evidence of his involvement? Fingermarks, or residue of chloral hydrate in George's glass?"

"The bartender remembered preparing a whisky and soda for him, but the glass was washed as soon as George left. Wherever Mister Marshall went, he seems to have taken the drug with him. We shall have to find the man himself, as he has left very few clues, and we have no idea of motive."

Julia turned her back to her husband for help with lacing her corset. "What about the note that George received summoning him to the hotel?"

William's skilful fingers finished the lacing quickly, and he ran his hands down Julia's waist and over her hips before he pulled her close and planted soft kisses along her neck. She turned around to kiss him in return, once, then twice, and then again as her hands disappeared under his shirt and up his back.

"It was typewritten, on plain paper of the kind that the stationery department at Eaton's sells by the ream," he told her. Another kiss. "And the text mentioned nothing about the reason for the invitation, other than that the correspondent had information pertaining to a matter into which George had been making enquiries."

She leaned toward his ear and nibbled the lobe. "But no indication of which matter."

"No." William shivered as Julia ran her fingernails down his spine. He was leaning in to kiss her once more when he remembered something, and pushed himself back a little. "Julia, Mister Durnan said something very curious. He said George was at the lighthouse yesterday afternoon well before he was to meet his correspondent at the hotel. He introduced himself as a Robert Gee Grace—hence Mister Durnan's confusion about his name."

"'Robert! He has never looked like anything but 'George' to me." She sat back as well, withdrawing her hand from under her husband's shirt. "How curious!"

"Mister Durnan also informed me that George presented himself as a writer, interested in the legend of the ghost of the first keeper of this lighthouse. He apparently wished to write a novel about the man's murder and his subsequent haunting of this part of the island. He spoke with Mister Durnan at some length about the local… ghost stories, as it were, including the latest one about the mysterious ship with the black sails."

"Goodness," said Julia. She was intrigued. "Well, George is indeed a writer, and I can certainly see his interest in such subject matter. But why adopt a pseudonym?"

William narrowed his eyes. "And not just any pseudonym. 'Robert Gee Grace'—Mister Durnan says he was most clear that the middle name had the two e's—is an anagram of 'George Crabtree.'"

"What? How clever! What is George Crabtree up to?"

William grimaced, and looked away. "George is, as you might imagine, quite enthralled by the idea of the 'ghost ships' mentioned in the recent Telegraph column. I warned him off any sort of enquiry into the reported sighting of the one leaving Block House Bay, for fear of stepping on toes at Station House Three."

"It's their investigation," agreed Julia.

"Yes. But it would seem that George chose to pursue it anyway, because he is George."

Julia looked at him sideways. "His doggedness couldn't possibly have anything to do with his working with you for more than ten years. You never let anything go, William!"

William winced a little. "Perhaps not. But I did ask him to leave this one alone."

"But he was on the island for a different reason, was he not? He came because of that anonymous note he received at the station house."

"That is true," William agreed, "but he took an earlier ferry than he had mentioned to me. Perhaps he had planned to speak to Mister Durnan before he was to meet his correspondent at the hotel. I had thought I was clear about engaging in investigative pursuits outside Station House Four's jurisdiction, but I suppose I must speak to him again."

"Well, let us take heart that you can, William."

He gave a small smile, and nodded. "That is true as well."

"He's awake. Let's go see him."

William held his beloved wife's face in his hands, and kissed her once more. He pulled down his shirt, and reached for a tie. "Let us, then."

"Oh!" she cried. "I almost forgot. I sent George's suit to the laundry, and found this in the pocket." She handed him a small, damp notebook that looked quite the worse for wear, and watched as William leafed through.

"It appears to be George's notes on story ideas and characterisations for his novels." He turned a few pages. "Some of the notes are blurred because of last night's rain, but the ink seems fortunately rather resistant to water."

"And what does he say about last night? Could that provide a clue?"

"It could indeed! Let us take a look before we go."

July 5, Station House Four, 11:00am

"Crabtree! My office!"

George sighed. He had hoped at least to sit down at his desk before the inspector summoned him to discuss the previous night's events. Truth be told, he remembered very little, and he suspected that what he did remember would likely be of little help in catching whoever had nearly killed him.

Murdoch sat in one of the chairs opposite Brackenreid's desk. George thought he saw a hint of relief and warmth pass across the detective's face as he took the seat next to him. "It's good to see you, George." George nodded in thanks.

The inspector closed the door, and took his own chair. "I suppose the lads are all going to think you're in trouble for skiving off and coming in late," Brackenreid said, and smiled. "How are you, Crabtree?"

"Well sir, I suppose I'm all right, considering. A touch of nausea, but certainly nothing to compare with when I woke up. I felt quite awful. Rather like I'd had the biggest tipple of my life."

"But better now." Murdoch leaned forward slightly, awaiting George's agreement.

"Yes, sir."

Murdoch relaxed, and smiled a little. "I suppose you're the only one of us who's had a decent night's sleep."

George smiled. "I suppose I am, sir. And I suppose you're going to want to hear about what I remember of last night."

Both his superior officers nodded. He noticed for the first time how weary they both appeared. Murdoch was faintly grey, and the inspector's eyes were bloodshot.

"Very little, I'm afraid. I recall that I intended to go to the island, and I left the station house by bicycle at about four o'clock. I arrived at the ferry dock by four-thirty and procured a hot sausage to eat before I boarded at four-thirty-five."

"But the letter-writer advised you to meet him at the restaurant at eight o'clock. Why did you go so early?"

"Well, sir, I quite enjoy the island, and I wanted to take the opportunity for a sojourn along the boardwalk."

Murdoch regarded him sceptically. "Was that all, George?"

"Well, sir, I, ah…" George trailed off uncomfortably. He suspected he had crossed a line somewhere, but his recollection was still fuzzy enough that he was unsure where it was.

"George. We found you unconscious at the lighthouse. The keeper identified you as one Robert Gee Grace, and indicated that you had spoken to him at length about ghost stories of the island earlier in the day."

George felt his ears get warm. "Did I, now?" He furrowed his brow. Robert Gee Grace. Of course.

"What were you up to, then?" Brackenreid's expression was expectant, but not unkind.

"I, I suppose I must have been researching my new novel. I had been wanting to speak with Mister Durnan for some time."

"You remember his name," Murdoch prodded.

"Sir, everyone in the city knows his name," George retorted. "He's kept that lighthouse for fifty years. And everyone knows about the ghost of John Paul Radelmüller haunting the place. You'd have been surprised if I hadn't gone to visit the lighthouse!"

The inspector looked baffled. "A ghost. On Toronto Island."

"George is among those who believe that the first lighthouse keeper's spirit remains present at the site of his alleged murder ninety years ago," Murdoch noted under his breath.

Brackenreid's eyes widened. "Is that right."

"Well, sir, it's coming back to me now, and despite the passage of time I believe there is abundant evidence that foul play was involved in Mister Radelmüller's death! Why, Mister Durnan found a jawbone and part of a coffin when he was a lad! And there have been countless reports of an apparition in and around the lighthouse itself, and unexplained moaning sounds at night!"

"George." Murdoch regarded him placidly.

"Yes, sir."

"What could this have to do with your being drugged?"

George sat back. "I, I, I fear I don't know, sir."

"Did you enquire into the recent ghost ship?"

"I, I suppose Mister Durnan must have mentioned it. It's the talk of the island, sir."

Murdoch's expression grew stern. "George. You will recall that I asked you to refrain from enquiries into the so-called 'ghost ship.'"

Brackenreid nodded, his expression hardening. "The chief constable will have our guts for garters if he sees us stepping on toes like this."

George shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then sat bolt upright as a memory returned with what felt like a thunderclap. He straightened, and drew a breath. "If I may, sirs. I think I may have uncovered information that proves the Logan case and the case of the ghost ship are one and the same."

The two men looked at each other, surprised.

"Sirs, you may remember that Mister Logan's scheme involved billing the Gooderham and Worts Distillery for large purchases that never arrived?"

"Yes, George, what of it?"

"Well, sir, I spoke to the manager of the shipping department of the St. Lawrence Sugar Company in Montreal, which was listed in the second ledger under a transaction for fifteen tonnes of sugar, and he assured me that the company had indeed packaged the merchandise and sent it by ship to the port of Toronto."

Murdoch's eyes grew distant, in a look both George and the inspector knew well. They glanced at each other and waited for the detective to finish his reverie undistracted: they knew when he came out of it, he would have answers that might have taken others hours or even days to reach.

"Dingley," he finally said.

"Sir?"

"The Dingley Act. The American law that established high tariffs on sugar entering the United States."

"What are you on about, Murdoch?" Brackenreid looked at him quizzically.

"The so-called ghost ship is very likely smuggling sugar to Buffalo, through Lake Ontario and the Welland Canal to avoid the tariffs."

Brackenreid sat back and blinked. "Sugar. Crikey."

"But who would be buying it in such quantity?" George piped up.

Murdoch thought for a very brief moment. "There are a number of distilleries in Buffalo, George. Mister Logan—or whoever he conspired with—would likely find them eager customers."

George cocked his head. "Very good, sir. And by embezzling such a significant amount from their main Canadian competitor, perhaps they considered themselves to be killing two birds with one stone," he added.

Brackenreid shook his head. "My motto proves itself yet again."

"'Follow the money,'" Murdoch and Crabtree said in unison.

"Follow the money," the inspector agreed.

"George, would you please contact the US Customs Service in Buffalo and ask them to look into—"

There was a knock at the door. "Constable? Detective?" Henry asked, peering in with some trepidation. "Louise Cherry is here to see you."

George's heart skipped a beat, and even Murdoch looked alarmed. "Oh. Bloody Hell. What does she want?" Brackenreid demanded, speaking for them all.

Miss Cherry sat in the chair that George had occupied, while Murdoch remained where he was and George perched on the edge of Brackenreid's desk. George had no desire whatsoever to have any interaction with Miss Cherry: he was quite unable to divine his own current opinion of her, given that she had published his most recent column almost as he had written it, and so he hid behind his official duties to take notes while Murdoch peppered her with questions.

"So you say that you had an experience similar to George's at the Hotel Hanlan."

"I certainly did. I received an unsigned, typewritten invitation for tea at the hotel for three o'clock yesterday afternoon…"

"And you went."

"Of course!" She was indignant at the question. "A reporter must be open to any kind of source."

"And you were drugged, just as George was?"

Miss Cherry glanced at George, who sped up his writing to a furious pace to avoid her eye. "I believe I was drugged, but not to the same degree. I drank the tea I was served quite slowly, and it did not agree with me at all. I must have left at least half of it to be poured out. I felt quite nauseated and groggy for some time."

"Did you at any point lose consciousness?"

"I did not. Unlike some people, I am of a very strong constitution." Another pointed look at George. He fumed silently.

"The chloral hydrate administered to Constable Crabtree was in alcohol, greatly increasing its potency," Murdoch said under his breath, and studied her defiant expression. "What did you do when you started feeling unwell?"

"I hopped onto a ferry back to the mainland and returned home, of course. If one is to be ill, it is most comforting to be in one's own bed."

George spoke before he could catch himself. "Miss Cherry, at what time did you travel to the island in the first place?" Quiet, George, you weren't going to talk to her!

Her tone was even. "I received the letter in the eleven o'clock post, and I departed the foot of Yonge Street at ten minutes before noon."

Murdoch nodded. "And what were you doing on the island between twelve and three o'clock?"

She bristled. "Not that it's any of your concern, but I was interviewing other interested parties about what they had seen of the alleged ghost ship. I went to speak to a Mister Durnan at the lighthouse, but he was no help. Dotty old man. On the first mention of the word 'ghost,' all he wanted to tell me about was the one that supposedly haunts his little corner of the world."

Murdoch pursed his lips. "Miss Cherry. It is indeed our concern, given that there have been two cases of attempted murder in remarkably similar circumstances. Now, tell us: did you speak with anyone else?"

She looked at him as if weighing her options. "Perhaps I did." She paused, then asked pointedly, "What can you tell me about the rest of the investigation? My readers will certainly want to know details of the nefarious villains who tried to kill a journalist and a police constable."

The detective regarded her implacably. "Miss Cherry. We will be asking you to file an affidavit on your experience on the island. As you have been informed countless times, should you possess knowledge relevant to a police investigation and choose to withhold it, you will be guilty of a criminal offence.[ii] If you have information, you are morally and legally obliged to share it with us. Now."

George was glad that the detective so rarely became genuinely angry with him. The man could be quite intimidating when he chose.

Miss Cherry's piercing blue eyes flashed at Murdoch, and for a very brief moment she looked conciliatory. "Very well, then. I suppose I'll tell you. I also spoke to a number of guests at the hotel, and to Mister Alton Hogarth, the young man who witnessed the ship in the wee hours three nights ago."

George perked up. He had very much wanted to interview the man, but had refrained from tracking him down because of the edict about jurisdiction. Technically he hadn't violated it by speaking with Mister Durnan about poor Mister Radelmüller, had he?

"And what did you learn from them?" Murdoch asked.

"Of those who had been at the hotel that night, all had been asleep at the time Mister Hogarth reported seeing the ship."

"And why was he up and about?" Murdoch's stare bored into her.

"He had consumed a large quantity of ale, and needed to relieve himself." A faint look of contempt crossed her face.

"And he was the one who reported seeing the ship with the black sails?"

"He most certainly was. He contacted the Telegraph to report the sighting after his reports to Station House Three were met, by his account, with indifference. I can understand their lack of response: I hardly think reports by such a notorious inebriate can be trusted. But my readers were most intrigued."

Murdoch was impassive. "We will be the judge of that, thank you, Miss Cherry." He held a hand toward the door.

Louise Cherry turned to George. "Quite a fortuitous coincidence that the Telegraph would publish a column about ghost ships just as one is reported passing through Toronto Harbour, don't you think so, Geor—Constable Crabtree?"

George swallowed. "I wouldn't know anything about that, Miss Cherry," he said, his voice a little hoarse.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you wouldn't."

"Perhaps Mister Hogarth is an especially suggestible sort." He stood, and motioned toward the door as well. "Good day to you, Miss Cherry."

"Good day, gentlemen." She swept out without a second look.

Murdoch and Brackenreid exchanged glances, while George took a breath to collect himself. The detective finally broke the silence. "Well. Given what Miss Cherry just told us, I would be disinclined to take Mister Hogarth's statement seriously, but for the missing sugar. It is not unheard of for ships moving contraband to sail under cover of darkness."

George rubbed his chin. "Sir, perhaps you could ask Doctor Ogden to interview Mister Hogarth, to assess his state of mind."

"Excellent idea, George. I shall visit her in the morgue right now to ask. Please bring in Mister Hogarth."

"Of course, sir. He does live on the island, so it could be some time before he arrives."

"Crabtree," said Brackenreid. "Talk to the lads at Station House Three about bringing him over here. Best we keep them involved."

"Yes sir." George headed back to his desk, and picked up the telephone.

July 5, Miss Pratt's rooming house, 1:00am

George had been staring at the ceiling for nearly three hours, waiting for sleep. He had offered to spend the night with Nina, but she had sent him home, needing sleep herself after the night at his bedside. For him, insomnia was usually quite rare: he had always prided himself on his ability to nod off within minutes of laying his head on the pillow. He loved his pillow.

Yet this evening, for some reason he could not fathom, slumber was elusive. Counting sheep was useless: woolgathering seemed to be the only option at the moment.

Sheep. Wool. Ha bloody ha. He chuckled hollowly at his own feeble joke.

His thoughts were focused on the afternoon's interview with Mister Alton Hogarth. Constable MacPherson from Station House Three—"Mack" at the pub and "Brother MacPherson" at the Masonic Lodge—was usually an affable chap, but Hogarth had clearly gotten under his skin. George had heard tell that Hogarth was charming, sometimes dangerously so, but the young man chafing against his handcuffs looked not so much charming as insolent and smug.

Only a few short moments later, George could hardly remember the last time he had disliked someone so much on sight. When he was dealing with anyone but men he knew to be rascals and ruffians, he considered himself a friendly, approachable sort who could get on with nearly anyone. He genuinely enjoyed learning about almost every person he met. Mister Hogarth, however, was not one of them.

Though it was only four in the afternoon when he arrived at the station house, Hogarth reeked of alcohol, not to mention expensive pomade and eau de cologne in a scent even more objectionable than that of whatever Higgins had pilfered from the gentlemen's toilet at the Empire Club. Within five minutes of arriving in the station house, the smarmy toff had managed to insult the attire, the grooming, the parentage, the wives, and the character of every man in the room. George wanted to go for his eyes. No wonder his family wants nothing to do with him.

George and Mack installed Hogarth roughly in the interview room, and retreated back outside to watch through the glass as Doctor Ogden interviewed him to determine the likelihood of his actually having seen a ship that inky black night. They and the detective watched as the smug young man lounged back in his chair opposite the doctor, answering each of her questions with only a few syllables and an insouciant smirk punctuated now and then by a gratuitous slur against her womanhood.

By the time the interview was finished, Hogarth had relinquished the information that Doctor Ogden sought, as well as two of his teeth. Doctor Ogden had determined that although she found the young man detestable, he was quite sane, and had very likely seen a ship as he had reported. Detective Murdoch had become so incensed by a particularly obscene remark about Julia that he had burst into the room and punched the young man in the mouth. The bleeding Hogarth—who still managed to maintain his leer—found himself the newest resident of the cells, arrested on charges of obstructing a public or peace officer in the execution of his duty and aggravated assault on Constable MacPherson. A base part of George quietly hoped the Hogarths senior would not bother coming to their recalcitrant son's aid. Young Alton was, not to put too fine a point on it, quite loathsome.

As the night went on, though, George's more benevolent side began to needle at him. He had been known to enjoy acting as a mentor to lads in their late adolescence, most recently young John Brackenreid. Perhaps we were too harsh on Mister Hogarth, his conscience nagged. After all, he is still very young, only just recently legally an adult. Perhaps if I spent some time with him… Doctor Ogden and Detective Murdoch may have just been particularly sensitive for lack of sleep. They were both in most foul a temper this evening even before Mister Hogarth came upon the scene.

At about half past midnight he remembered the words that the chap had spoken about Doctor Ogden, the phrase that had so enraged the detective that he burst into the room and relieved Mister Hogarth of his molars. How could anyone say something so vile? No one speaks about the doctor that way when the detective is around. Why, I was tempted myself to pummel him. He can rot in the cells for all I care. He rolled onto his side, and told his conscience to go pound sand.

Wishing to stop pondering the insufferable young man, he dragged his attention to the good news of the evening. Just after six o'clock, the station house received a telegraph from the constabulary in Niagara-on-the-Lake, reporting that they had apprehended Mister Marshall, the missing waiter who had drugged him, and were returning him under guard to Toronto on the next train. He would be waiting in the cells to greet them in the morning.

George quietly agonised on what he was going to say to the man who could easily have killed him, or even if he would say anything at all. Perhaps the brush with death was what was keeping him awake. The sights and smells and minutiae of other people's deaths had hardly fazed him in years, but he was always deeply unsettled by such a visceral reminder of his own.

July 6, Station House Four interview room, 8:00am

The interview with John Marshall had only just begun when a half-awake Crabtree dragged himself into the station house. Though he looked better rested, Detective Murdoch still wore a sour expression, and Marshall's pose was sullen and defiant. Brackenreid was in his shirtsleeves outside the interview room as Crabtree arrived. "Bugalugs. With me." He opened the door for the constable, and then followed him in.

George looked the suspect up and down. He knew he had seen him out of the corner of his eye for hours that fateful afternoon, but he would not have been able to place him. Had he altered his appearance? Shaved off a moustache, perhaps? Cut his hair? He imagined the man in a waiter's uniform, and the memory came back to him with a jolt.

Murdoch looked up. "Is this the man who drugged you, George?"

"It is indeed, sir."

The expression on John Marshall's face was priceless when he realised that the man he had drugged almost to death was a police constable, standing three feet away from him in full uniform, staring at him with pure fury. Apparently Murdoch had declined to impart this information to him beforehand, anticipating this very moment. All the blood drained out of his face.

Murdoch turned back to the ashen suspect. "Constable Crabtree's testimony plus that of your former employer and other guests at the hotel restaurant will provide plenty of corroboration that you committed at least two, possibly more, serious crimes. And as for physical evidence, traces of chloral hydrate powder were found in your locker and on your apron at the hotel, and you disappeared immediately after you administered the noxious substance and Constable Crabtree nearly died as a result. You are in a great deal of trouble, Mister Marshall. Disabling someone or administering drugs with intent to commit an indictable offence comes with a sentence of life imprisonment and whipping. Although I suppose you're lucky it's not the noose."[iii]

Brackenreid withdrew his infamous black leather glove from his pocket, and slapped it against his hand. "Might go easier on you if you told us who you were working with."

Marshall slumped back in the chair, utterly beaten even before the first strike. "Bastard. He didn't tell me it was a copper! He said it was just some nosey Nellie! I never would have done it if I knew it was a copper!" he burst out.

"Mister Marshall. You are aware that you have just confessed to attempted murder, in front of three representatives of the Toronto Constabulary." Murdoch was stone-faced.

Marshall looked stunned as he realised what he had done. He hunched his shoulders up to his ears and declared uncomfortably, "I've said all I'm going to."

"Have you then. What's the bastard's name, ya big pillock?" Brackenreid began to work his hand into the glove.

"You don't want to disappoint the inspector, I assure you, Mister Marshall." Crabtree's tone was low and ominous.

Brackenreid strode over to the man and loomed over him, his eyes full of menace and more than a hint of violence simmering dangerously close to the surface. "You certainly don't, sunshine."

Marshall's eyes grew huge as he shrank back even further. "All right! All right. Some chap in a fancy suit. Money man for some big business. Wanted anyone enquiring about the black ship out of the way until he could get out of town."

"His name, Mister Marshall." Murdoch's entire being radiated thinly veiled rage. Brackenreid extended a hand toward Marshall's neck.

"L-l-l-Lowman! Bowman!" Brackenreid paused, and regarded the terrified man appraisingly. "Or Bogen. Lauman?" Marshall stammered. "Something like that. I heard it only once. Never told me his Christian name."

Murdoch's tone was flat. "Would you be able to identify him on sight?"

Marshall nodded nervously.

Murdoch opened a manila folder that rested on the table between them. He withdrew a photograph of Michael Logan, the distillery's missing accountant, and slid it toward Marshall. "Is this the man who hired you?"

Marshall clenched his teeth, and nodded again.

"And where is he now?"

"Damned if I know. He just gave me money and the powder and told me what to do. He said give it to anyone who talked to the loony lighthouse chap about the ship. I didn't ask any questions. I swear it!"

"Mister Marshall. You will sign a sworn statement to this effect, admitting your guilt in the drugging of Constable Crabtree and Miss Louise Cherry, and you will testify in court against the man who hired you?"

"Yes," Marshall choked miserably.

Murdoch pushed himself away from the table in disgust. "Very well, then. Constable Crabtree. If you would be so kind as to accompany Mister Marshall back to the cells?"

George started toward Marshall before the inspector chimed in. "I'll do it, Murdoch. Nobody hurts one of my men. Get along with ye, then," he snapped at Marshall as he hefted him roughly by the arm and hauled him out of the room.

"It would a shame if he tripped on the way, wouldn't it," muttered the detective. His expression was hard and unreadable.

"Can't say as I'd mind, sir." George felt a weight lift to see the man go.

Brackenreid's office, 9:00am

"So what have you so far?" Brackenreid studied his aching knuckles. He did not take kindly to assaults on his men, and had ensured that Mister Marshall's first evening in the cells was not at all a comfortable one.

George felt much better than he had the morning before, for several reasons. "Well, sir, as you know, it appears that one Mister Michael Logan embezzled a considerable sum of money from his employer, the Gooderham and Worts Distillery, by convincing the senile Colonel Gooderham that they were branching into the production of rum and needed funds for new boilers, tanks, and sugar."

"Right. And where is this swindler Logan?"

"Well, sir, Mister Logan himself is currently missing." The inspector's eyes narrowed, and Crabtree rushed to continue. "But we have the double sets of ledgers and the statement provided by the wronged Mrs. Logan attesting to her husband's crimes. We have Mister John Marshall, hired by Mister Logan to 'manage' any enquiries"—he grimaced—"into the distillery's finances long enough for Mister Logan himself to disappear once the swindle was revealed. We also have the failure of a very large quantity of raw sugar shipped from Montreal to arrive at Mister Gooderham's distillery. We have the surprisingly plausible claims of the otherwise execrable Mister Hogarth about his sighting of a ghost ship headed west, very likely the vehicle conveying the pilfered sugar to our southern neighbours." George smiled to himself: he was looking forward to sharing what he had learned about the sugar, but he loved to build a little suspense.

"The ship, George. It was never a ghost ship," the detective corrected him.

George shot Murdoch a look of mild exasperation. "Perhaps you would like to continue, then, sir."

Murdoch nodded and leaned forward, missing George's sarcasm entirely. "Why, yes, George, thank you. We suspect that Mister Logan had accomplices at the refinery in Montreal and the docks in Kingston, and along the Welland Canal, as well. He was almost certainly a mere cog in a much larger operation. Perhaps that is also why he is nowhere to be found: he has had assistance in concealing himself."

Brackenreid's brow furrowed. "He's run off with all that money."

"Well, not all of it, sir. The refinery in Montreal did report receiving payment for the sugar. Perhaps Mister Logan saw remitting payment as a way to delay the inevitable revelation of his hoax. After all, it was not his money, and he was anticipating a far larger windfall from smuggling tariffed goods into the United States."

"Wait." Brackenreid held up a hand. "There's something you've not told me. Smuggling? Is that what happened to the sugar? How do you know this?"

George puffed out his chest proudly for a moment before he revealed the answer. "Sir, I made some calls. I spoke with a senior administrator at the United States Customs Service—quite a pleasant chap. He told me he very much enjoys his family's frequent visits to Toronto, and he admits to a great fondness for Canadian whisky…" he trailed off when he saw how the inspector and detective were regarding him.

"The point, George," Murdoch prodded.

"Yes, sir. The United States Customs Service was most grateful to be alerted to the passage through the Welland Canal of a black-hulled schooner packed to the decks with the raw sugar in question, with a set of black sails concealed in a compartment at the stern. They apprehended the vessel just as it was about to deliver the sugar to E. N. Cook and Company, one of Buffalo's most prominent distilleries. The sugar has been impounded and the crew detained."

Brackenreid sat back. "Oh! Well, well, well. So that's what the buggers were doing with all of it. Nice work, Crabtree."

"Thank you, sir." George was grateful for the rare praise. He glanced at Murdoch, who nodded approvingly as well.

"Well done, George." Had he been anywhere else, George might have preened. "I suppose now our next steps are to find Mister Logan, and look into his network?"

"Shaking the network loose is not our job, sunshine. International smuggling is the bailiwick of Sir Wilfrid and his lot," Brackenreid intoned.

"But we can still look for Logan. His crimes were committed right here in our jurisdiction." Murdoch looked hopeful: George knew he hated leaving loose ends.

"I suppose so," said Brackenreid.

Henry knocked at the door, and opened it. "Sirs? We've just received a call. Mister Logan has been found."

The three men exchanged surprised glances. "Now there's a bit of timing. Is he here then, Higgins?" the inspector asked.

"No, sir, he's on his way to the morgue. He was apparently stabbed to death about an hour ago at the Ward Hotel on Ward's Island. By his wife."

"Oh." Brackenreid paused as the news sank in. "Bloody Hell."

City morgue, 4:00pm

George descended the ramp to see Doctor Ogden standing over the fresh corpse on the table, sewing the last few stitches to close its chest. "Good day, Doctor," he greeted her, doffing his helmet. "I've been sent to learn what you've ascertained through the post mortem on Mister Logan. Well, Mister Kimball, or Smitherman, or Gordon, or whoever he was."

"Oh, hello, George! Not a Mister Logan at all, then?" she asked cheerfully as she tied off a knot and clipped the suture. "Had he been using a false name?"

"He surely had, Doctor, and more than one. Jacob Kimball is the second most recent alias we were able to trace; before that he presented himself in Albany as a Joshua Smitherman, and in Worcester, Massachusetts, as an Isaiah Gordon before that. And each of these men worked as a bookkeeper for a large firm, and fled their respective cities just before a significant fraud was uncovered."

"A habitual embezzler, then! How fascinating. I am always intrigued as to why a man so clearly skilled in a particular vocation should wish to engage in its criminal side."

"Well, perhaps he grew tired of living on a working man's wages when he observed the more luxurious circumstances of his superiors," George mused as he watched her move to the basin to wash her hands.

"Perhaps! In any case, I can tell you that Mister Logan, or whoever he was, sustained five stab wounds delivered forcefully to the chest, by what appears to have been a fairly short, serrated blade. The fatal one went straight through the heart. There were some abrasions and bruising about the hands to indicate that he resisted, as well as bruising about the shins indicating that he was likely kicked there multiple times by someone in pointed footwear. The assault and murder appear to have been committed by someone with a very great antipathy toward the man."

"Well, Doctor, from what I understand, it was his wife. Although I suppose now she's his widow."

"His wife! Florence Massey? My goodness. How shocking! I attended dance school with her younger sister Martha. Florence always seemed like such a prim, reserved sort! Their parents considered it such a scandal when she married that accountant from a family no one had heard of," she said as she dried her hands on a towel. "And now he's dead, by her hand. What a dreadful pity. Is she in custody?"

"She is indeed; the detective is interviewing her now. Shall I wait for your report so I can deliver it to him?"

"Thank you, no, George, I shall accompany you back to the station house to inform him myself. I'm quite curious to know what brought Florence to take her husband's life. I should like very much to witness the interview for myself."

Interview room, 4:05pm

Florence Massey Logan sat opposite the detective at the bare table, her bearing erect, even regal. Dressed in simple prison garb, she still managed somehow to cut a remarkably similar figure to that of the posh and stylish matron who had graced the station house only three days before.

"Mrs. Logan," intoned Murdoch. George had always liked watching Detective William Murdoch at work in the interview room. He had borne witness over more than a decade as Murdoch's already formidable skills were honed to an even sharper edge by stand-offs with liars, cheats, hooligans, charlatans, ruffians, louts, miscreants, reprobates, scoundrels, troublemakers, and murderers.

"Mrs. Logan." She regarded the detective calmly. "You were seen by multiple eyewitnesses at the Ward Hotel to murder your husband, Michael Joseph Logan, alias Jacob Kimball, alias Joshua Smitherman, alias Isaiah Gordon, in the dining room of Ward's Hotel on Ward's Island."

"Yes. I was seen to do that," she agreed. "That is because I did do that."

"I'd like to ask you some questions, Mrs. Logan." The look he gave her was not without compassion.

"I believe I should prefer Miss Massey, all things considered," she said archly. "I wish nothing further to do with that man or his name."

"Very well, then, ah… Miss Massey. Might I enquire as to your motive in the death of your husband?"

"Of course. He jilted me, left me penniless, after I had supported him and harboured him for nearly a decade, keeping his secret, paying dearly anyway for my mere association with him. I lost everyone and everything dear to me because of him. My family abandoned me—my father cut off my allowance, though he still maintains one for each of my grown siblings. I have received not a single social invitation in years. My dear friends with whom I used to lunch weekly wish nothing to do with me. My offers of service as a volunteer with the museum and hospital foundations have been rebuffed. Much of Toronto has considered me little more than a joke since I took up with that common, vulgar, thieving man."

"His secret?" Murdoch prompted.

"He was always a swindler. I knew it from the very beginning. When we were merely courting I stumbled across birth certificates for Kimbell and Smitherman and Gordon, each with his date of birth. I'm surprised he never lied about that. I confronted him about the papers, and he admitted it. He seemed contrite. He reassured me that he loved me, that he would work hard to make an honest living and make me proud."

George was fascinated by her indifferent affect as she recounted the story. I believe I should be rather more emotional after the death of someone by my own hand, he mused.

"What did he admit, Miss Massey?"

"He admitted that he had swindled all of his previous employers. His modus operandi was to obtain employment as a bookkeeper, convince the owner of the company to make a major new capital investment, and then disappear with the funds. He told me amusing stories of events when he was living under each alias."

"And you were not bothered by this," Murdoch suggested.

"I was… conflicted. I knew I should be, but I had been a spinster for so long that I found it difficult to care. And he was so romantic!" For a very brief moment, she was starry-eyed with the memory. "Papa had driven off all my other suitors for not being up to his standards, and finally I could stand it no more. I eloped with Michael. I was so very smitten with him."

"You sacrificed everything for him."

Her eyes grew distant. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"And you did not tell us of these aliases at your first interview because…"

"Everyone knew he was below my station. No one knew he was a criminal. I wished to maintain at least a modicum of privacy so that I might continue my efforts to redeem myself with my peers."

"And then when he disappeared, you remembered what he had told you about having embezzled money and vanishing so many other times, and you concluded he was finally doing the same to you."

"Yes." He could hardly hear her, she spoke so softly. "I could not stand it. He had ruined me, utterly, and now he was gone."

"How did you find him?"

"I called all the local hotels and enquired about whether anyone bearing the name of any of his previous aliases was a guest. I suppose he got tired of inventing new names. I found him there as Isaiah Gordon, having dinner in the hotel restaurant."

"Might I ask why you did not call the constabulary when you ascertained his location?"

"I wished to confront him myself. I knew that if the constabulary were involved, I would not have the time or the proximity to properly convey what he had done to me."

"What happened when you challenged him?"

George was riveted. He always appreciated tearful, heartfelt confessions, but this was neither. This confession was almost… clinical. He wondered what Doctor Ogden was making of it.

"He…" She paused. "He pretended not to know me. He told everyone I was hysterical. 'Just look at her,' he shouted. 'This harridan, this shrew, this hateful wench is harassing me and I demand that she be removed at once!'"

"And what did you do in response?"

"I could not bear it. I picked up a steak knife from his table, and I stabbed him. I stabbed him, and I stabbed him, and I stabbed him. I stabbed him in the chest. I hope I pierced his heart. He has destroyed mine." She swallowed. "I care not a whit what happens to me now. I was lost the moment I laid eyes on him. I loved him with all my being, and he betrayed me completely. Do what you will with me. My life is finished." She stared impassively at the detective.

Her demeanour was so detached that George wondered whether he felt worse about her plight than she did. He found it difficult to feel any sorrow about Michael Logan, or whatever his name was—his passing hardly seemed a great loss—but he did feel bad for this woman who had just confessed to murdering him.

Even Murdoch was uncharacteristically gentle. "Thank you, Miss Massey. I believe that will be all for now. Constable Crabtree will accompany you back to the cells, and I shall request your presence again should we need anything further." George thought the detective looked sad as he rose and opened the door.

Murdoch's office, 4:30pm

"I suppose that's that, then, sir." George was pensive.

"I suppose it is, given that we are expressly forbidden to investigate the sugar smuggling ring any further."

"I must confess, sir, it seems to have been a remarkably sophisticated operation. It's a mite frightening that criminals might be so… well, so organised, sir."

"Well, George, you've seen what goes on at the docks. A great deal of coordination is required to smuggle things any great distance."

"I suppose so." George steepled his fingers. "Sir. If I may?"

Murdoch nodded, curious.

"Sir, regarding the questions I was asking Mister Durnan at the lighthouse." Another nod. "I'd like you to know, sir, that I never asked him directly about the ghost ship."

Murdoch glowered.

"Very well, then, sir, the ship. I asked him only about poor Mister Radelmüller's ghost. I, I, I never said a word about Mister Hogarth's reported sighting. Mister Durnan was himself the one who introduced the topic of the spectral ship, and who volunteered gossip about it unbidden."

"George, I hardly think we need dwell…"

"Sir, it matters. You asked me to make no enquiries into the presence of that ship, and I did not, sir. I wanted you to know that. Any information that came to me about it arrived of its own free will." He gave a small half-smile.

The detective sat back a little. "Fair enough. Thank you, George." The two men sat in companionable silence for a moment before Murdoch spoke again. "It would appear, then, that the only remaining concern regarding this case is the matter of Miss Cherry."

George nearly choked. "How do you mean, sir?"

"Well, George, she has been the source of valuable information in a number of cases, including this one. It would likely be of benefit to us to remain on civil terms with her."

"Sir. What are you saying?" George demanded, slightly panicked.

"All I am saying, George, is that it seems prudent not to antagonise her. We seem to have achieved a certain… equilibrium with her for the moment, one that ensures the flow of helpful information to us while also ensuring our ability to manage what details see the light of day."

George scowled: his displeasure at the idea of placating Miss Cherry was clear. "All right, sir, if that is to be the case, so be it, but, sir? I should like to ask if I might respectfully decline to act as any sort of liaison between her and the constabulary."

"Well, all right, George. Should the need arise to contact her, I shall do so myself."

"Thank you, sir, that is much appreciated. As you might guess, I would like as little to do with Miss Cherry as possible. She—she said you were a bore, sir! And Doctor Ogden as well!"

"Thank you, George," said Murdoch, looking uncomfortable.

"Sir. If I might ask. Do you… do you think there's anything sinister going on with the columns?"

"What columns, George?" Murdoch asked blankly.

"The columns in the Telegraph, sir, the ones about supernatural phenomena."

"Oh, right. Of course. What of them?"

"Sir, it's the same thing I mentioned after Sister Anna Maria's death. So far three of these infernal columns have been published, and three people have died."

"George. This is a large city. People die every day."

"I, I, I know, sir! But the timing of these three deaths seems particularly… well, odd given the dates that the Telegraph chose to publish columns directly related to topics raised by their cases. I, I, I mean, sir! Lizard people, and John Joseph Bowman's striking resemblance to one. Horoscopes, and Sister Anna Maria murdered over a torn volume of star charts. And now ghost ships, and the murder of Michael Logan!"

Murdoch regarded him sceptically. "George. I believe you're reaching. I see no way that there can be a connection with the columns' publications and the deaths that followed them. John Joseph Bowman's death wasn't even murder; it was accidental. And there is no such thing as a ghost ship!"

"That's what you think, sir."

"It's what I know, George."

"Very well, then, sir, as we have so many times before, we shall have to agree to disagree." George knew from long experience of similar conversations with the detective that though neither would ever convince the other, no hard feelings would linger between them. He just wished, almost certainly in vain, that William Murdoch might help him make some sort of sense of all this with the columns and the deaths. But he dared not ask, at least not now. He and Nina were about to leave for Paris, and he had no wish to open such a can of worms immediately before their departure. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish, and then I'm off for an evening with Miss Bloom. You may recall that we take our leave of Toronto tomorrow, by ferry to Rochester."

"Of course! You're off to Paris. Well, I hope you have a wonderful trip."

"Thank you, sir. Try not to let the station house burn down in my absence."

Murdoch smiled, and shook George's proffered hand. "I'll do my best, George. Enjoy your time off, and good evening."

[i] Noel Richards, The Lost Treasure of Ontario.

[ii] The Criminal Code of Canada, 1892, section 148.

[iii] The Criminal Code of Canada, 1892, section 244.