Chapter Eight
Finding The Sea Journals
"You know, I never thought I'd ever say this, Captain." Martha shook her head as she washed the breakfast dishes the next morning. "But, for all that you're a ghost, I've never met a man more after my own heart."
"I gather you approve of our little scheme, then?" Daniel smiled, accepting another dish to dry from the housekeeper's wet hands.
"Sure, as a short-term measure. I'm up for anything that keeps those nosy busybodies from pushing their way in here and annoying Mrs Muir. She was looking quite weary yesterday."
"Yes, she was…" Daniel glanced up at the kitchen ceiling from where the faint sound of typing could be heard. Carolyn had woken up in a much better frame of mind and was busy working on their latest manuscript.
"It was a lovely idea, wasn't it?" Martha sighed, as she emptied the sink and wiped her hands on a cloth. "Write down a few of your stories, get them published and make all our lives a little more comfortable."
"That was the intention." Daniel shook his head. "I could not bear to see Mrs Muir struggling to pay the bills because the world she'd worked so hard for was changing around her and she seemed powerless to prevent it. Those paperback novels were a godsend. Or so we thought at the time."
"Don't see why they can't be still." Martha began to put the clean dishes away. "It would have been much easier if we could've told everyone the truth right from the beginning and let them get over it, quickly."
"You were all thinking of me and the unwanted attention such a revelation would bring to this house. We couldn't afford the exposure. There are too many long noses in this town."
"So, this idea of sending the Bangor ladies on a wild goose chase looking for some man who could possibly be writing women's fiction is the next best solution."
"Unless you can think of something else we could do to throw them off the scent." Daniel raised inquiring eyebrows at her.
"Not for our immediate problem," Martha agreed regretfully. "This one we will just have to go through with and hope for the best."
"Excellent…" Daniel reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and held out a sealed envelope. "We can only hope this works long enough to give us the breathing space to figure out a long-term solution."
"We will get together after the ladies have been sent back to Bangor, and we'll thrash out a solution. Surely there has to be one." Martha took the envelope and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
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Martha stood in the middle of Claymore Gregg's old cod liver oil factory, turned community theatre, with a feeling of immense satisfaction. The rental price Claymore was charging them for the place had been steep, but it was worth it. They needed to put on a great meeting and the extra space was required to accommodate the large group of guests from Bangor, who were just arriving and looking around with keen interest.
What Martha and a few like-minded friends had started a few years ago as a small gathering to discuss the new line in women's romance books had blossomed into a force to be reckoned with in the world of literary appreciation. Of course, she was well aware the advent of the mysterious Carol Gregg had propelled the Schooner Bay ladies to the dizzying heights of reflected fame. They guarded their patch jealously.
Speculation had been growing that Miss Gregg might finally be attending this meeting. But nothing had come of such rumours last month. Martha knew better but, of course, she wasn't about to say.
Two of the founding members of their group, Alice Peterson and Eileen Vogel, hurried up to her, both looking around the room with wondering eyes.
"I bet old Elvira Grover's sorry she decided to leave our little group." Alice laughed. "She'll be green with envy when she hears about who we've managed to attract. There's only supposed to be ten ladies from Bangor, but I've counted at least twenty."
"Elvira thought she was too good for us, now she's decided to publish that non-fiction book about Captain Figg." Eileen shrugged. "Her loss. I won't be losing any sleep over her."
"Oh, I do hope Miss Gregg finally shows up today," Alice enthused, clasping her hands together. "Right under the noses of the Bangor lot. Wouldn't that just be the best coup ever!"
"Don't count on it." Martha shook her head. "I think we'd better go and greet our guests and get everyone seated. If Miss Gregg chooses to make herself known to the gathering, then that's her choice." She patted her handbag, where Captain Gregg's letter was hidden and tried not to smile.
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"Welcome, ladies, welcome to Schooner Bay." Martha took to the stage to address the gathering of chattering women. "Before we begin our meeting, I have been asked to read out a letter to you from Carol Gregg." She held up the envelope.
Every voice in the theatre hushed and all eyes turned to her. Martha nodded with satisfaction, doing her best to ignore the sudden presence of Captain Gregg. He materialised in a vacant seat in the front row, sitting back with the obvious intention of thoroughly enjoying himself.
"Go on, read it," he encouraged. "I can't wait to see their reaction."
Martha frowned at him as she opened the envelope. She extracted a single sheet of folded paper. She unfolded it before reading out the contents.
To the ladies of Schooner Bay and Bangor,
Please excuse my ongoing absences from your gatherings, but I have come to value my privacy. It is very important to me that I remain anonymous for reasons that are my own.
I take pleasure in knowing you are enjoying my stories. That is what I intended. After so many years I am finally able to tell my tales in a way that satisfies me.
But I did not begin writing my novels for the sake of fame or fortune. It was simply a way of allowing the world to see how maritime life once was. The people, the sights and sounds of a world now sadly lost to time.
As for me, I was born with saltwater in my veins. I will always have a deep connection to the blue water ocean and all her moods. It is where I go whenever I need to reconnect to that innermost part of myself I show to no one but the gulls and the wind.
Therefore, I do not need to seek the interest or approbation of others. I am content. It is enough.
Thank you for your attention
My regards to all
Carol Gregg
Martha lowered the letter slowly, savouring the moment. "What a wonderful letter…" she commented, looking from face to face.
"I thought it was rather good," Daniel commented, looking around the rest of the room. "It seems to have had the desired effect. Look at them all thinking."
A stunned silence had fallen over the assembled ladies. Finally, Allison Cooke, the leader of the Bangor ladies stood up. "You know…" she said. "If I didn't think it was a totally off-the-wall idea, I could almost swear that letter was written by a man. All that talk of saltwater…"
The assembled women all looked at each other, trying to absorb the outrageous idea that a man could be writing women's romantic fiction. Surely it wasn't possible?
"Isn't that who we've all been looking for through the novels we read? A virile, yet sensitive and romantic man," Martha commented, intentionally adding fuel to the fire of speculation.
"Have we been looking at this mystery author from the wrong angle all the time?" Alice Peterson ventured to ask.
"I don't know…" Mrs Cooke's expression settled into deeply determined. "But I am sure gonna find out. I don't like being sent on a wild goose chase by someone who thinks they can play games with us."
She turned to the group of Bangor ladies gathered around her. "Ladies, I think it's about time we uncovered the truth about Miss Carol Gregg. I say we go forth into Schooner Bay and make our presence felt."
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Claymore was enjoying the warmth of the fall sunshine as he walked back toward his office. It was late in the afternoon and he'd been spending the time profitably, surveying one of his old warehouses he'd decided to tear down and turn into a carpark.
There had been many complaints about the lack of parking for the community theatre next door and he'd finally been prodded into action. Claymore had been weighing up his options, deciding where the best profit would come from.
He was happily humming to himself when he heard a sudden commotion behind him. He turned in time to see Ed Peevey being surrounded by a group of chattering women all trying to get his attention.
"I tell you, it ain't me! I ain't never opened a book in me life, so I'm not gonna write one! There… that's him!" Peevey spluttered, pointing to Claymore. "That's Claymore Gregg! Ask him, maybe he'll know somethin' about it!"
Ed's finger wavered. "Now please, leave me the heck alone!" He turned on his heel and hurried away up the street.
Claymore raised his hat politely as the group of women hurried up to him. "How may I help you ladies?" he asked nervously.
"I'm beginning to think we've been sent on a wild goose chase," the leader of the women complained. "We've just spent the last few hours trying to find anyone who will admit to being Carol Gregg, the author."
Claymore grimaced. "Oh, dear… I'm afraid all I share with that mysterious person is our last name. And as I told the ladies from Beacon Cove, I have no idea about Miss Gregg's identity. Nor do I wish to know. Now if you ladies will excuse me…" He secured his hat on his head once more.
"That's what everyone has told us this afternoon. They have all denied knowing her or being her. I'm beginning to suspect a conspiracy of silence." The group's leader glared at him. "Or a cover-up because you all know that Carol Gregg is actually a man."
"A man?" Claymore stared at her in open-mouthed shock. Then he giggled nervously.
He suspected a devious ghostly hand in this fine mess, but of course, he couldn't say so. "Um, ah, now what on earth has given you that impression?"
"There was a letter of apology from Carol Gregg read out at the literary group meeting we attended at the community theatre," the woman replied. "It seemed a logical conclusion given the very masculine tone of the letter."
"Ah, I see…" Claymore understood more than he dared to admit.
"If you have any information, we're willing to be very generous for anything you can tell us."
Trapped between his avarice and the certain knowledge that the captain would kill him if he admitted the truth, Claymore sniggered nervously. "Oh, ladies, I wish I could help you. I really do. But, sad to say, I cannot. Now if you will excuse me…"
He tapped the brim of his hat before moving on with hurried steps. He wanted to get back to his office and lock himself in before his avarice got the better of him. He consoled himself with the money he was going to make with the theatre carpark development.
"Well, I never…" Behind him, the bossy woman grumbled her displeasure. "Are all the men in this hick town so rude and unhelpful?"
"Maybe they don't know anything…" one of her ladies ventured.
"Oh, they know something, all right. They just won't admit it."
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Eventually, they returned to the theatre, their feet tired and their search fruitless. They had chased down every likely-looking man in Schooner Bay, causing quite a commotion of indignation in their wake.
Mrs Cooke fixed Martha with a fulminating eye. "I have the distinct impression your Miss Gregg has been toying with us the whole afternoon," she huffed. "Sending us all on a wild goose chase looking for a man who doesn't appear to exist. What do you have to say to that?"
Martha regarded her steadily. "I have absolutely nothing to say. I am not in her confidence."
"A man, indeed," Mrs Cooke snorted. "There's not a man alive who could possibly understand what goes on inside a woman's heart and mind."
"Oh, I don't know…" Daniel commented wryly, materialising beside Martha. "I would think of a man and simply remove all ability to reason or take responsibility for one's actions." He smiled. "But then, I'm no longer alive…"
Martha did her best to ignore his comment as she said sweetly, "I don't believe I ever said that Miss Gregg was a man. In your eagerness to be the first to uncover the truth, it was you and your ladies who jumped to all the wrong conclusions over that letter she wrote. You have put the whole town into quite an uproar."
"Well, I still think something around here stinks." Mrs Cooke lofted her chin. "And it's not just the smell of the codfish. Does your precious Carol Gregg think she's too good for us? We were willing to be gracious and admit her into our inner circle."
"Well, I doubt she thinks about you at all." Martha shrugged. She looked toward the theatre doors. "I believe I can hear your bus arriving. It's time for you all to go back to Bangor."
"A wasted afternoon," Mrs Cooke complained. "Come on, ladies. We know when and where we're not welcome." She swept out, followed closely by her entourage.
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That evening the Muir household gathered in the front room. A cheery fire had been lit against the chilly evening and the adults were sampling the delights of the captain's excellent Madeira.
"Well, I think that went rather well. Though I doubt some of the menfolk of Schooner Bay will be quite the same again." Martha chuckled. "Poor Lorrie became the obvious target for a while because he sells the novels. He had to lock himself inside his stock room until they were gone."
"I must admit it was one of your better ideas." Carolyn lifted her glass to salute Daniel, who was standing before the fire.
"Those women from Bangor brought it on themselves. If they hadn't pushed their noses into Schooner Bay's business I wouldn't have been forced to take action to repel them."
"But we will need to be better prepared next time." Carolyn shook her head. "And there will be a next time."
Seated on the couch next to his sister, Jonathan frowned at his mother. "I can't really see your problem, Mom. I know you're thinking of your reputation as a writer. And you're protecting the captain from being discovered. But look at your audience. They don't seem to care about your reputation. So why should you?"
"The boy should become a politician," Daniel remarked, not unkindly. "But it still doesn't solve our fundamental issue of your mother using all the correct naval terminology she should know nothing about and her in-depth knowledge of nineteenth-century seafaring. That can't be explained away so easily."
"Well, we all know that knowledge comes from you." Candy nodded. "For a start, I thought she was using some of those old journals of yours."
She turned to her brother. "You remember, Jonathan. We found all those old books in that old warehouse years ago."
Her brother's forehead creased. "Oh, yeah. That's right. It came on to rain outside so we couldn't stay out and play. We managed to get into that old place and found the books. We read them all in time. There was some pretty saucy stuff." He winked at the Captain.
Daniel straightened abruptly from leaning one arm on the mantelpiece. "Journals? What journals are you talking about, lad?"
"I thought you knew about them…" Jonathan stared at him in perplexity. "We found them in a big old trunk that day. We were poking around in one of Claymore's old warehouses. It was the first winter we were in Schooner Bay. I found a loose board in the side wall and Candy dared me to go inside the spooky old place and take a look around."
He smiled. "I already knew I lived in a haunted house, so some old building wasn't gonna scare me. We went back lots of times, after that, and read them whenever we could."
Candy nodded. "That was a great winter. We played pirates and everything."
"I'm all at sea. Explain what you mean," Daniel commanded.
"Your old naval journals." Jonathan shook his head. "We found them in the back of the warehouse when we were scrounging around for fun stuff to play with. Claymore has all sorts of neat stuff stashed away in there. I doubt even he knows the half of what he's got in that place. It's the big old warehouse next to the community theatre."
"But, on my last voyage, I didn't bring my journals ashore with me…" Daniel shook his head. "My first mate, Ethan Jarvis, held the last of my trunks down at the wharf. He was to ship them up to the house the day after we docked. But that was the night that I…" He stopped, frowning.
"The night you kicked the blasted gas heater on with your blasted foot…" Carolyn supplied softly.
"It seems Jarvis must have turned the trunks over for storage along with the rest of my property from the ship. I never knew."
"So would getting them back solve your problem?" Jonathan wanted to know, turning to his mother. "Surely no one can complain about your using the late captain's journals for your novels. I mean, after all, you would only need Claymore's permission to go into that warehouse since everything that was the Captain's belongs to him, now. I bet they're all still there. You know how Claymore hates to throw anything away. Not if there's a penny in it."
Daniel set his hands on his hips. "My boy, have I ever told you, you are bidding fair to becoming a genius?"
"I can't see any pitfalls in the argument…" Carolyn allowed slowly. "We do need a long-term solution because there will be more people snooping around, like the ladies from Bangor, and we can't keep them at arm's length forever. But it's for Carol Gregg to decide when she will show herself to her readers."
"And everything I have told you is in my journals and a lot more besides that I haven't. Some of it is not suitable for a lady to read. But it would seem to be the perfect solution."
"So, all we have to do now is convince Claymore to hand them over," Martha put in. "He'll want to know what's in it for him. He always does."
"You leave that penny-pinching numbskull to me!" Daniel flared. "I'll make him sorry that he thought to keep my property from me! I wonder what else of mine he's been hiding all these years!"
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"Good evening, Claymore…" Daniel materialised, sitting back in an easy chair across from Claymore's desk.
His great-nephew started badly, jumping up from behind the desk. "You can't blame me! I didn't say anything!" He took an agitated turn around the room. "Those women got entirely the wrong idea! I had nothing, whatsoever, to do with any of it!"
He saluted smartly. "Scout's honour!"
"Calm down, man!" Daniel commanded. "I know you had nothing to do with those Bangor women grilling the men in the town. We were simply trying to buy some time."
"They were like voracious, man-eating sharks…" Claymore took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow as he returned to his desk, still looking upset. "I figured you had to be somewhere behind it and now you're here. I was having a nice cosy evening adding up my takings and looking forward to a lobster dinner down at Norrie's. Thanks to you, it'll all be ruined. You always give me a bout of dyspepsia."
He slumped in his chair. "Why are you here and what do you want?"
"Don't be such a lily-livered ninny. I have simply come to reclaim my rightful property."
"Ha!" Claymore exclaimed, stabbing an accusing finger at him. "You can't lay claim to so much as one red cent! Because you're dead!"
He giggled before baulking at the look in his great-uncle's eyes. "What particular property are you talking about, in particular?"
"I believe you have some sea trunks of mine, that have been lying neglected all these years, in one of your blasted warehouses."
"Which warehouse? I own several. I can't be expected to know what's inside every one of them," Claymore declared testily. "My father's estate occupies a large part of my buildings."
"The one down by the old cod liver oil factory that you had turned into the community theatre."
"Oh, that old dump." Claymore waved a dismissive hand. "It's falling down. I've never been in there. I was getting around to auctioning off the contents and demolishing it next month to make way for a new theatre carpark. The patrons are all moaning they've got nowhere to park. I'll be charging them for the privilege, of course." He gave a nervous giggle.
"I'll say this for you, Claymore, you never change." Daniel got up from his chair to approach him. "Then it seems I'm just in time to prevent you from disposing of what is rightfully mine."
"Nothing is yours. Not anymore. I keep trying to tell you that," Claymore protested. "Every stick, every trunk, every unturned stone belongs to me and there's not a thing you can do about it. Unless you want to pay me what I'm owed for one hundred and fifty years of storage." He held out his hand.
"Are you so sure about that?" Daniel gestured and Claymore was pulled from his chair by his bow tie, rising into the air until his toes barely touched the floor.
"Let me down…" Claymore gasped and struggled but to no avail. His face began to turn a very unpleasant shade of puce. "Can't… breathe…" He clawed at his constricted neck.
"You will give over to me all my property and not interfere in its retrieval. And you will not be paid one single, red cent. Agreed?"
"Agreed… Agreed…" Claymore's body began to sag.
"Very well, then…" Daniel gestured again, and Claymore fell back into his chair, breathing heavily.
He rubbed around his abused neck and coughed roughly. "All you had to do was ask," he protested hoarsely. "I was only trying to protect my investment. The only one around here who looks out for me is me."
"There will be nothing in this transaction for you except my gratitude, you quivering squid with a jellied backbone," Daniel replied hardly. "I don't understand how any of the women could think you were me. Do we have a deal?"
"Deal… deal… deal…" Claymore croaked.
"Excellent. Jonathan will call by in the morning to pick up the keys. See that you don't give him any trouble. We shall be searching that warehouse of yours from end to end. Just to make sure you do not possess anything else that rightly fully belongs to me."
"Possession is still nine-tenths of the law, you know," Claymore grumbled hoarsely, watching his great-uncle warily. You shan't touch a single thing of mine in there."
"I will retrieve only those items that rightly belong to me. They shall be transported up to Gull Cottage and stored in my attic." The Captain smiled thinly. "I will now leave you to enjoy your figures and your lobster dinner." He regarded him closely before vanishing.
"Some days I shouldn't even think about getting out of bed," Claymore commented to the empty office, still massaging his abused throat. "There's always someone who wants their pound of my flesh."
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