Captain Corn shook me from my slumbers.

“Sir? Pardon sir,” he said.

I rolled over and opened my eyes using the tall captain’s lantern to get my bearings. Corn, standing at my bunk’s side like the hermit of ancient mythos, was dressed in dark pants and an equally dark and heavy coat. He possessed high-cheek bones, which bore shadows under their ridges, and a mortician’s stare-- elongated and pitiless in its disposition.

Hays’ voice boom from outside my cabin. “Nugent? Are you in here?”

My associate Sheriff John C. Hays stepped next to the captain, the sheriff’s badge gleaming in the lantern light. I groaned, and swung my feet to the floor knowing my vacation was over.

Hays and I were on the Steamer Relief returning to San Francisco from San Diego. It was a business trip that the sheriff had talked me into joining over drinks at Smiley’s one night. I eagerly committed myself to the journey, and chance to escape the crime and brutality San Francisco fostered like weeds.

“Nugent,” Hays said. “There’s been a death.”

“Looks like Cholera,” Corn said to me. “But I want to make to sure. Since we’re steaming into the sheriff’s city by dawn I’ve asked him to investigate the matter. If it is Cholera,” Corn went on with melancholy, “they’ll lay up this ship, and her passengers for certain.”

Groaning at the prospect I stood and readied myself while the others waited outside. I joined them on deck thereafter, and leered at Hays. “I assure you the Herald has no interest in covering this story,” I said.

The sheriff laughed, and padded me on the back. “Why were you asleep at one in the morning?” Hays asked. “We’ll be docked by sunrise, and there’s plenty to do.”

“Including catching Cholera it would appear,” I said.

We followed Captain Corn along the deck. Hays was correct. The ship was full of activity. Lamps were lit in most of the rooms we passed, and a large forward compartment with bar was host to a rowdy group of men heading off for the mines and a few card games. Judging by the whiskey on Hays’ breath I knew what he had been doing.

Corn unlocked the dead man’s cabin and handed me the key at Hays’ insistence for safekeeping. Physically the quarters were much like my own. Square with a small circular window sitting five feet off the floor across from a bunk. To the right was a small nook and closet. Here a man and woman’s clothing hung.

Our victim laid on his stomach amid the disarray of bedding. I stepped forward to inspect him. A pool of vomit swayed on the floor, wobbling with the ship’s movements. The man himself was between thirty and forty years old. He looked strong in build. Black and blue marks peppered the man’s face and arms, and as I drew closer I identified the faint order of almonds. I straightened from my crouch and craned my head up at the captain. “Wasn’t this was one of the newlyweds?” I asked.

The captain nodded. “Aye, a sad business.”

“How did you know?” Hays asked.

“We did see the couple board from the railing at the top deck when we were docked in Monterey,” I said, remembering too that the sheriff had been partaking in the bar’s refreshments since we left the southern reaches of the state. “Moreover,” I pointed to the clothing in the nook. “She was the only woman we saw board. Or onboard for that matter, so I assumed they shared the room.”

“Oh, yes. I remember,” Hays said. “He was trying to carry her over the threshold and kept setting her down. Poor sod, he was weak even then.”

“I had the wife taken to my cabin,” Corn said. “She discovered him like this.”

“What time was that?” Hays asked.

“I’d assume a little over a half hour ago. That’s when she came and got me,” Corn said.

“Where was she while this was happening?” I asked.

“You’d have to ask the lady that, sir.” Captain Corn looked from Hays to me. “I went to get the sheriff here in the forward compartment.”

“Is anyone else sick?” Hays asked.

The captain grimaced. “I have to check on that?” Corn confessed. “What should I look for?”

“Anyone vomiting, unable to move, stomach pains, bowel problems,” I said.

“I hope they’re not just sea sick?” Corn said..

I gazed at the body. “It would appear they wouldn’t be.”

Captain Corn left us alone.

“Cholera,” Hays said. “Nasty business.”

“Is there a doctor onboard?” I asked. “We need a medical opinion.”

“We could use Doctor Jones,” Hays said, referring to the sheriff department’s other unofficial deputy; other than myself.

“Well, we’ll see him tomorrow,” I said.

“Not if we’re not allowed off this boat,” Hays answered.

“Let’s get a doctor,” we said together. Our hasty search turned up a dentist from Charlestown who was on his way to the mines. Sam Peets. He wasn’t very interested in seeing the victim, but Hays had a way with motivating people. Peets confirmed that the death could have indeed stemmed from cholera, but it was unusual that no other cases had been reported aboard ship. And the bruises didn’t fit.

“My experience is limited with cholera,” he said. “It was in the plains’ territories last I heard.”

We thanked him, and left to talk to the wife. Hays locked the cabin.

The captain’s quarters were on the top deck near the bridge for obvious reasons. The door was open and Hays and I made our introductions to the grief stricken woman. Her name was Ruth Cheevers; her dead husband’s name was Gilbert.

Her sobbing was endless, though, and that made questioning her troublesome.

“Mrs. Cheevers,” Hays began. “Where were you when your husband-when your husband was …” Hays looked at me, the writer, for help.

“Had his episode,” I finished, putting it as gently as I could muster. But to no avail. Mrs. Cheevers broke out crying, unable to answer.

“She was with me,” said a voice from behind us.

Hays and I turned to a man behind us in the doorway

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Robert Budds,” he said. “Is she okay?”

“Yes, for now,” I said. “Just had a terrible shock.”

“Her husband died,” Hays announced, his words sending Mrs. Cheevers collapsing over the captain’s bed in tears. Budds motioned us out to the deck, and closed the door behind us.

“I was Mr. Cheevers business partner,” he volunteered.

“You went along on their honeymoon?” Hays asked.

“We had business to take care of in the south. I tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible. But Gilbert had to go get married, so our business became complicated.”

“What business?” Hays asked.

“Mining, of course. We struck a very substantial vein a month ago. We were putting the legal formalities of our partnership behind us, and speaking to an engineer about hydro mining.”

“So you came into a great deal of money,” Hays said.

“How long did you know Mr. Cheevers?” I asked as Budds winced at the sheriff’s statement.

“Three years,” he said.

“When did he meet his wife?” Hays asked.

“They had known one another for a long time to hear Gilbert tell it.” Budds’ easy demeanor vanished and his stare hardened on us. “Before the vein, if that’s what you’re driving at. Besides as his partner I would receive his interest in the business.”

“Now Mr. Budds,” Hays said. “No one is accusing anyone here.” Budds nodded to that, when the sheriff asked him. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Cheevers alive?”

“What? Is that an accusation?” he complained, but the sheriff soothed him by gripping both shoulders lightly.

“It’s a routine question,” Hays answered. “That’s all. We’ll need the information for the inquiry.”

Budds sighed instead of seething. “I saw him hours ago,” he said. “We were all talking to the banker. Mr. O’Malley at dinner. It must have been eight o’clock.”

“O’Malley,” I said. “Salt of the earth, no doubt.”

“No, he’s from Page and Baker,” Mr. Budds said. “We quarreled as you’ll no doubt discover. Gilbert wanted to keep the money in a vault. I wanted to invest it in the banking business, and make even more.”

“You can invest it how you like now,” I said.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Budds agreed. “Our contract was specific about the business.”

“So, you do get the entire claim then,” Hays asked.

Budds sighed, and nodded his head. “But you’re twisting my words.”

The captain came running up then. “Sheriff,” he said. “There’s been another death.” Corn didn’t wait for us to follow he just hurried off. Budds came with us as we followed the captain to a cabin near the stern. The scene was the same as Cheevers’ cabin, more vomit, an unkempt bed, small black and blue marks against the skin.

“They’ll burn my ship,” Corn said with a cloth raised to his mouth. “We’ll never be allowed to dock.”

“I’ll see about that,” Hays said. “I know the Harbormaster.”

“A ship with cholera will probably be quarantined,” I said. “But they won’t burn you.”

“I need to alert all the passengers,” Corn said. Then after a moment of thought, he added. “Everyone will gather in the forward compartment in a half hour. If there are more sick people we’ll separate them from the rest of us.” And with that the captain left to instruct his crew; after removing a second key from his chain and handing it to me.

I turned back to the body, and sniffed the faint smell of almonds. “It would appear your private dinner was lethal for two of your diners,” I said. “Perhaps it was something in the food and not cholera after all.”

“You mean I might have been poisoned?” Budds said reaching up and grabbing his neck.

“What did you have for dinner?” I asked.

Budds rattled off a list. “Mushroom soup, a spicy chicken dish, and wine.”

“Mushrooms can be very poisonous,” Hays stated.

“Did Mrs. Cheevers eat with you too?” I asked.

“Why yes,” Budds said. As one mind we hurried back to the captain’s cabin after locking up the second room to find Mrs. Cheevers sitting on the edge of the bed. Alive.

As we entered she said. “Why must I be love’s fool?” A softer round of crying followed the bitter words.

“Mrs. Cheevers,” Hays began. “What did you have dinner tonight?”

“What?” The woman’s tears evaporated and she stood. “You want to know what I had for dinner? My husband is dead!” She picked up a book on a nearby table and threw it at Hays. The sheriff ducked and the book smacked against the wall.

“Mrs. Cheevers, “I said. “There’s a chance your husband was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” she said.

“Ruth,” Budds said as he strained to bend over and pick up the book. “Food poisoning. Something in our dinner tonight may have killed two people.”

“Someone else died?” She asked.

“Tragically, yes,” Hays said.

“Mr. O’Malley,” Budds said.

Mrs. Cheevers grabbed her throat, and sat on the edge of the captain’s bunk. “Oh, my,” she said.

“Are you able to come with us,” Hays said then. “The captain wants to make a few announcements in the forward compartment.”

Dashing a hanky to her eyes she agreed to come with us.

Hays took her arm. “If at any point you don’t feel well, just tell one of us and we’ll escort you back to the captain’s cabin,” the chivalrous sheriff said.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re most kind.”

The four of us walked to the compartment. The crew had rounded up most of the passengers and available crew, so there was standing room only. A group of would be prospectors sat around the bar boasting about what unfound wealth they would find, while next to them a peddler was trying to convince a returning miner he needed new picks and shovels. Hays found Mrs. Cheevers a seat on a stool.

The poker players never looked up from their hands even as Captain Corn strode to the center of the room for his announcement. Hays suddenly stepped forward, though, and interrupted him.

“Captain Corn, we’ve discovered another possible culprit. Food poisoning,” Hays said. “Now if anyone is sick please come forward now. There are hospitals in San Francisco that can help you.”

Corn thanked the lawman, then turned to dismiss the group, when a drunk stood and said to the widow. “Sing us a song Missy!”

Cheevers jumped to her feet and covered her mouth, as the man was convinced to sit down and shut up by Corn and Sheriff Hays.

“But I heard her sing at the Jenny Lind once,” he protested meekly as the captain and lawman forced him down into his chair.

The grieving widow left then, with Budds at her side. I followed, and watched him walk her back to the captain’s cabin. Still crying she hugged him and told him goodnight. They parted.

I intercepted him on his way back up the deck.

“I hate being followed, Mr. Nugent,” he said.

“She’s quite a woman,” I said.

“Yes, yes she is,” he answered.

“What about you?” I asked. “Are you going to settle down?”

Budds smiled and said. “After seeing what it did for my partner, I think not.” He inched his way around me and headed off to his cabin. Minutes later I was back at Hays’ side with an idea. Several things didn’t sit right with me, and we needed Doctor Jones to help sort them out. Well, him and some time.

***

The Steamer docked at Law’s Wharf. I stood on the top deck by the bridge watching the other passengers crowding around the gangplank, unable to leave. Rumors of Cholera, not food poisoning, had festered in the hours before we steamed past Seals Rock. Everyone wanted off, and the sailors were pushing and shoving people back from the rails.

I had arranged with Hays, who spoke to the harbormaster, to block their departure. Hays had the doctor sent for and within an hour of our docking he was there along with Quinn the undertaker. If any man possessed a sixth sense it was Archibald Quinn, or maybe he just made a point of following the sheriff around. He and Jones were allowed to board through the throng of disgruntled and nervous passengers.

I met Jones and brought him to O’Malley’s room where we began our investigation. EP Jones took the next twenty minutes to put a name to the obscure fact that had been haunting me since seeing Cheever’s body. That almond smell.

“Cyanide,” Jones said. “Probably derived from an apple or something. This one usually kills cattle though.”

“That’s where I thought I had smelled it. Back in Galloway,” I said. “In the country.”

“Nasty bit of poison,” Jones said. “See these markings? They’re bruises from the convulsions the victim went through. Horrible,” he said. “Victim would have died in about ten minutes.”

That took a moment to sink in. The poison was administrated after the meals.

I nodded and guided Jones down to Cheever’s room where Quinn was busy preparing the body. He was having a tough go at fitting one of the decease’s suits on.

“It doesn’t appear to fit,” he said. “He’s too big?” Breathing hard, Quinn looked at me and then the clothes left by Mrs. Cheevers. He walked to the nook and started to browse through the selection. “None of these look right,” he said. “I’m not a tailor, but I’d say none of these belong to that man.”

My knees buckled. I left Jones and Quinn to sort out their own questions and ran to find Hays. The sheriff was on the bridge with Corn, and Deputy Caperton who had come aboard at some point. The group was conversing with a sailor when I came upon them.

The sheriff turned to Deputy Caperton, a stocky, bald man and said. “Have a wagon brought up. We’ll try and get her to Jackson Street and the French hospital there.”

“Hays!” I said. “Hays!” I took a second to catch my breath. “We’ve got find … Have to find …”

But the group of men started to disperse before I could finish. “What’s wrong?” I finally managed to blurt out.

“Mrs. Cheevers collapsed,” Captain Corn said. “We’re going to get her to the hospital before she joins her husband in Neptune’s Locker.”

I looked ahead to where the sailor and sheriff were descending the stairs to the next deck. I ran after him, but barely caught up until he was at the door to the card room.

“Hays!” I said as he opened the door. “Cheevers and Budds murdered?” The words choked in throat as I glanced beyond the threshold. Budds and another passenger were standing over an empty card table where Mrs. Cheevers had been laid. Cheevers looked pale-white. Budds stood with his arms crossed. The other passenger moved slowly away from the table. “Hays,” I said calmly. “I’ve got to?”

The sheriff cut me off. “There’s no time Nugent. We’ve got to get this woman to the hospital.”

“But they murdered O’Malley and Cheevers,” I said.

Everyone froze.

“What is this about?” Budds asked pointing at the woman. “Mrs. Cheevers may die here.”

EP Jones entered the room then, having heard about the emergency, and quickly crossed to the ill woman to look her over.

“Murder?” Corn said. “I thought it was food poisoning.” He cast a hard eye at Hays.

“It was Cyanide,” Jones said.

“Is this where she collapsed?” I asked, coming to stand next to the doctor.

“Yes,” Budds answered.

“Look,” I said to Jones. “No bruises, no vomit.”

“She may have just fainted,” Jones said.

“Or she might just be faking it,” I shouted. “Acting like the actress she was at the Jenny Lind to get off this boat.”

No one moved, or said anything for several moments as all eyes fell on Robert Budds. Of a sudden he made a dash for the door, but the ever-resourceful Hays blocked his path.

“This man murdered his partner with cyanide,” I said.

“That’s a lie!” Budds shouted.

“He murdered his partner, Robert Budds,” I continued.

“What?” Corn asked. “This is Robert Budds.”

“No, no it isn’t,” I said.

“This is ridiculous,” Budds said.

“You forgot the clothes,” I said. “Perhaps you didn’t have time, or maybe you forgot, but the wardrobe in Mr. Cheevers compartment didn’t fit him.”

Budds struggled in Hays’ grip. “Let me go. This is slander, a lie.”

Jones meanwhile was examining the widow, he folded his arms as he looked down at her. “Miss, I can smell the powder makeup. You’re not ill. I’m a doctor.”

Mrs. Cheevers sat up and started sobbing. “He made me do it. He said it would be simple. All I’d have to do is marry him, and he’d do the rest.”

“So, if this isn’t Robert Budds?” Hays asked.

“That’s right. This man is Gilbert Cheevers,” I announced.

Corn was gaped jawed.

“He must have planned to assume his identity,” I said.

“But why involve the female?” Corn asked.

“An actress to be paid off later,” I said. “Besides who better to confirm the identity of the victim than the grieving widow. Cheevers would take over Budds identity and get the entire claim. And she would have been paid off and back singing songs in the city’s dives.”

Mrs. Cheevers took exception to that with a huff and stomp of her boot once she stood.

“So last night’s outburst convinced you?” Corn asked.

“That and her quoting Shakespeare, and the overacting in the captain’s cabin. Plus Mr. Cheevers here, the real one, straining to pick up that book she threw at Hays, and the Mr. Cheevers we saw boarding, didn’t match the strong man found dead in his cabin.”

“All of this for a gold stake,” Hays said pulling his pistol, and ordering a sailor to help him take them down to the wagon Deputy Caperton had brought around.

Gilbert Cheevers looked down at his chest and shook his head.

“And Mrs. Cheevers,” I said. “You’ll be happy to know that the jail is in the basement of the Jenny Lind Theater for your return engagement”

“I always did like the acoustics there,” she said, as a sailor and Sheriff Hays led the couple away.

The End