Darkest Journey (Krewe of Hunters #20)(76)

But she never dialed, because suddenly she heard the strange brushing sound again, this time against her cabin door. For a few seconds fear, primal and paralyzing, ripped through her.

Pulling herself together, she moved carefully to the door to look out the peephole.

And then she saw him.

He hadn’t knocked because he couldn’t knock. And he couldn’t knock because he was a ghost.

It was the doctor from the dining room.

Charlie was sure she didn’t really need to open the door for him, but she opened it anyway. He was from a long-ago era. In his day, a man would never enter a lady’s cabin without an invitation. Actually, given that she was there alone, he was probably uncomfortable about entering at all.

And yet...

He’d been around for generations. He must have seen about everything by now.

None of that mattered, of course. What mattered was what he could tell her.

She quickly opened the door. “Come in, please,” she said.

He entered, and she swiftly closed and locked the door, then indicated the chair at the dressing table. “Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you, miss,” he said politely.

“I’ve seen you every night,” she told him, taking a seat herself. “I was hoping you would speak with me.”

“Yes,” he said softly, a slight crackle in his voice.

He was so quiet that she was certain no one else would be able to hear him, even if they were standing outside in the hall with their ear against the door.

“Two men were murdered,” she said. “I believe it either had something to do with the recent reenactment here or that the killer was aboard that day and maybe even learned something that made him realize murder was his only option.”

“They were good men,” the doctor said somberly. “Very good men. I watched the reenactment, and I particularly watched them. I was proud of the job they did. That was an important day but also a hard one.” He appeared to wince. “Apologies for not introducing myself sooner. I’m Captain Ellsworth Derue, miss. United States Medical Corps. I was aboard when the Johnny Rebs held the boat. They were decent to me and gave me what they had to treat the men. I was proud of the reenactment because it told the story well, and because all those involved that day were good men, didn’t matter what color they wore—or what color they were.”

Charlie wasn’t sure how to reply. “I’m glad,” she said softly. “And also so sorry for all those who died in the war and on this ship.”

“You have to understand, we all—whichever side we fought on—thought we were patriots.”

“I do understand,” Charlie said. “My father—”

“Your father is Jonathan Moreau. We’ve watched him many times, with a great deal of pride,” Captain Derue said.

Charlie smiled. “Thank you.”

“But I regret to tell you, he is somehow involved in this,” Captain Derue said gravely.

Charlie froze. No. She didn’t care who tried to tell her that her father was involved, they were wrong. She knew him. He was not a murderer.

“He didn’t kill anyone,” she said at last, her voice brittle.

“No, he is no killer. But he was here on the Journey, and they were talking about him...the soon-to-be-dead men, Corley and Hickory. They were trying to figure something out. They kept saying, ‘Jonathan will know.’ They planned to meet with him and ask for his help.”

“Do you think he’s even aware of what he knows?” Charlie asked. “Of how dangerous it seems to be?”

“That I don’t know. But he needs to be careful. Others were nearby when the two men were speaking and might have overheard. Later your father talked with Albion Corley up on the Sun Deck, and not long afterward the small blonde woman showed up and had an argument with Professor Corley. There were others from the reenactment nearby, as well.”

“Who? Do you know who?” she asked urgently.

He shook his head. “I know your father because he is always on the ship. I knew Mr. Hickory and Mr. Corley because I was there when they argued, and your father spoke their names when he stepped in. I don’t know the names of any of the others. One couple talked about taking care of their children. Does that help you identify them?”

“So they were a couple in real life?” Charlie asked, then winced inwardly at the insensitivity of the term.

He nodded. “She was about five-and-a-half feet and blonde, and her husband was over six feet tall and weighed at least two hundred pounds.”

She gasped. He’d just described Nancy and Todd Camp.

Charlie reached out—she still hadn’t gotten the hang of not doing so—and her hand passed through the tenuous image of his, and yet she was certain that he’d felt the warmth and appreciation in her touch.

“Thank you. I need to talk to my father. If he hasn’t realized what he knows, maybe I can help him figure it out.”

“Be careful. I fear for him, just as I fear for you.”

She smiled. “I’m safe. I have three government agents looking after me—and I think I have you and the others, as well.”

He nodded gravely.

“I wish there was a way to thank you,” she said.

He smiled. “Sing ‘Lorelei,’” he told her. “And that duet mixing ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’ with ‘Dixie.’ Please. For all the friends I lost, North and South. For those, like me, who died of disease, praying for the war to end.”