CHAPTER EIGHT

Ginger was morbidly fascinated by the corpse laid out on the makeshift table that had been brought into the cold pantry by two strong sailors.

The ship’s physician, “Ol’ Doc Johnson,” was a man nearing his seventies with wisps of grey hair around his ears and sloping shoulders. He seemed flustered by the dramatic events.

“We’ve never had a murder onboard the Rosa before.” A gnarled hand shook as he rubbed white whiskers on his chin. “Mainly headaches and colds and, of course, seasickness. Oh, there was that one bout of influenza, mind you, a particularly nasty business, but never a murder, no, never.”

“It’s kind of you to allow me to assist with the examination,” Haley said. “It will help me as I further my studies.” The old doc nodded, his face flushing crimson with apparent relief.

Ginger briefly considered returning to her room to retrieve a shawl in deference to the cold of the pantry, but the adrenaline burst she experienced as a result of this shocking event kept her sufficiently warm.

Introduction to medical jurisprudence was a subject of study for Ginger when she attended college. But that was over a decade ago and the field had certainly developed since. Once again, she found herself envying Haley, but resigned to her lot in life, finding some comfort in the idea that she could learn vicariously through her friend.

The cold pantry now virtually reeked of brine and something worse. Ginger held a cotton handkerchief to her nose. Chief Officer MacIntosh was informed of the captain’s death and oversaw the undignified process of removing Captain Walsh’s folded-up body, stiff with rigor mortis, from the barrel. The procedure took three seamen, a crowbar, and a mop.

Now the captain’s body was curled up like an oversized fetus under a crisp sheet. His once-handsome face was bloated and a ghastly white, his lips a dreadful shade of blue.

Haley examined the corpse with professional efficiency, checking the fingernails, scalp, and skin surface for bruising.

“Well?” Ginger inquired.

Chief Inspector Reed cleared his throat as if to remind her who was in charge.

“There are two contusions on the back of his skull, a small one and a deeper one,” Haley said. “However, the fluid released from his lungs smells strongly of brine, suggesting the cause of death as drowning rather than blunt force trauma, but an official autopsy would confirm.”

“You mean to say the chap might’ve been alive when he was inserted into the pickle barrel?” Chief Inspector Reed asked.

Haley nodded. “It’s possible, but with the head injury this severe, it’s very likely he was unconscious. Also there are no splinters or wood fibres under his fingernails to indicate that he struggled inside of it.”

“How long has he been dead?” Ginger asked, and again the chief inspector’s handsome hazel eyes flashed with annoyance.

“Well, we know he was alive at dinner last night,” Haley said. “According to the captain’s watch, he was placed in the barrel at 2:34 a.m. But that doesn’t tell me when the head trauma occurred. Lividity is apparent and starts at his waist.” Haley folded the sheet down to the area where the deep purple of collected blood began. “This indicates he’s been dead for at least six hours.”

Ginger gave Chief Inspector Reed a pointed look as if to say, I told you she was good, then added, “I’d try to find out who saw him last and at what time.”

As if he didn’t appreciate being told how to do his job, the chief inspector’s expression darkened with slight indignation. “Thank you, ladies for your help thus far. I’ve sent a telegram to Scotland Yard, and this case is now officially under my jurisdiction. I'm asking you to please leave the investigation to me from here on in.”

“Of course,” Ginger said. She smiled demurely at Chief Inspector Reed as he watched them leave. Once up the stairwell and out of earshot, she said, “We need to talk to Mrs. Walsh and Miss Guilford. The wife first, I think.”

Haley stared firmly at Ginger. “Did you not just hear what the chief inspector said?”

“I did. He said not to officially investigate. Besides, I merely want to offer my condolences. Maybe we should bring a gift?”

“I don’t believe there’s a gift shop onboard.”

“True. However, I do have a couple of bottles of Boston’s best bootlegged brandy. I could offer her one.”

Haley arched an eyebrow. “A whole bottle?”

“So right. She’ll have glasses in her room as we do. We’ll offer her a drink.”