your purse is stolen, you shall still have some money.”
The pieces to the scarab are evidence I can’t hide so I do the next best thing. I toss them out my porthole.
With that resolved, I should be able to sleep, but it isn’t possible. Thoughts are pecking at my head with the beat of a woodpecker. Instead, I throw on my ulster and head for my hearty stern-to-bow walk on the deck in the hopes of burning off nagging thoughts.
Raymond, the steward, is lowering luggage down the side of the ship in a net as I come out on deck. I’m sure the trunks are the ones I saw in Mr. Cleveland’s stateroom.
A shadow falls over me as a man comes up to the railing and stands beside me.
“I couldn’t sleep, either,” Mr. Selous says.
He appears a bit hesitant at having approached me. Perhaps he hadn’t realized it was me until it was too late to politely flee. Or is he implying that I’m the cause of his lack of sleep?
“Mr. Cleveland’s luggage going ashore.” I nod down at the meshed bundle being lowered.
“Quite,” he says, using that uniquely British listening response.
“I suppose Mr. Cleveland is anxiously waiting on the beach for the boat to bring his luggage to shore.” I facetiously stare at the distant beach that is too far and too dark to see anything on. “Can you see him?”
Mr. Selous makes a guttural sound that conveys he is sorry he attempted to be polite and now is quite done with my intrigues. He turns to leave as a shout comes from below.
A steamer trunk has slipped out from the meshed bundle, striking the side of the boat waiting for it. The trunk snaps open as it hits the boat and falls into the water, opening for a second before a boatman grabs it.
“It’s empty,” I whisper.
“What?” Selous turns back and peers over the side. “It’s too dark to see—”
“I saw when it hit. It’s empty.”
From his expression I think he’s trying to give me the benefit of the doubt but is uncertain as to whether I deserve it. He starts to say something, then appears to shrug it off and pushes away from the railing.
“Good night, Miss Bly. We should both get some sleep and rise early, for tomorrow we pass through the greatest man-made waterway in the world.”
I stay at the railing for a moment, staring down where the luggage is being unloaded onto the boat. The trunk is empty; a fact that brings more woodpeckers pecking in my head.
When I turn to leave I make eye contact with the steward.
I give him a frown that lets him know that I am no fool, that I know there are shenanigans afoot, and get back an unexpected dark look.
Learn not to signal your punches, I tell myself on my way down dim stairwells and corridors to my cabin.
A dark figure appears ahead of me at the far end of a corridor before disappearing into a stateroom—the woman in black who I’ve glimpsed on deck during my walks. I’ve taken a fancy to the notion that the mysterious woman who wanders the decks at night is none other than Sarah Winchester, heir to the Winchester Repeating Arms Company fortune.
The name she boarded under was “Sarah Jones,” and the widow Winchester is known to travel incognito in her own Pullman car with the shades down and to use a false name when staying in a hotel.
I haven’t shared my theory about the woman with anyone else because I hope there’ll be a story behind it. It wouldn’t be the first strange tale told about the woman.
Mrs. Winchester fell into deep depression after the untimely deaths of first her daughter and then her husband, and came to believe that she is haunted by the ghosts of the thousands of people killed by the famous Winchester repeating rifles that helped win the Civil War and massacred much of the nation’s Indians.
That she has only worn black since the death of her loved ones is just one of the more mundane rumors about her strange behavior; another is that she is using her vast fortune to build a house with an endless number of rooms because a
The pieces to the scarab are evidence I can’t hide so I do the next best thing. I toss them out my porthole.
With that resolved, I should be able to sleep, but it isn’t possible. Thoughts are pecking at my head with the beat of a woodpecker. Instead, I throw on my ulster and head for my hearty stern-to-bow walk on the deck in the hopes of burning off nagging thoughts.
Raymond, the steward, is lowering luggage down the side of the ship in a net as I come out on deck. I’m sure the trunks are the ones I saw in Mr. Cleveland’s stateroom.
A shadow falls over me as a man comes up to the railing and stands beside me.
“I couldn’t sleep, either,” Mr. Selous says.
He appears a bit hesitant at having approached me. Perhaps he hadn’t realized it was me until it was too late to politely flee. Or is he implying that I’m the cause of his lack of sleep?
“Mr. Cleveland’s luggage going ashore.” I nod down at the meshed bundle being lowered.
“Quite,” he says, using that uniquely British listening response.
“I suppose Mr. Cleveland is anxiously waiting on the beach for the boat to bring his luggage to shore.” I facetiously stare at the distant beach that is too far and too dark to see anything on. “Can you see him?”
Mr. Selous makes a guttural sound that conveys he is sorry he attempted to be polite and now is quite done with my intrigues. He turns to leave as a shout comes from below.
A steamer trunk has slipped out from the meshed bundle, striking the side of the boat waiting for it. The trunk snaps open as it hits the boat and falls into the water, opening for a second before a boatman grabs it.
“It’s empty,” I whisper.
“What?” Selous turns back and peers over the side. “It’s too dark to see—”
“I saw when it hit. It’s empty.”
From his expression I think he’s trying to give me the benefit of the doubt but is uncertain as to whether I deserve it. He starts to say something, then appears to shrug it off and pushes away from the railing.
“Good night, Miss Bly. We should both get some sleep and rise early, for tomorrow we pass through the greatest man-made waterway in the world.”
I stay at the railing for a moment, staring down where the luggage is being unloaded onto the boat. The trunk is empty; a fact that brings more woodpeckers pecking in my head.
When I turn to leave I make eye contact with the steward.
I give him a frown that lets him know that I am no fool, that I know there are shenanigans afoot, and get back an unexpected dark look.
Learn not to signal your punches, I tell myself on my way down dim stairwells and corridors to my cabin.
A dark figure appears ahead of me at the far end of a corridor before disappearing into a stateroom—the woman in black who I’ve glimpsed on deck during my walks. I’ve taken a fancy to the notion that the mysterious woman who wanders the decks at night is none other than Sarah Winchester, heir to the Winchester Repeating Arms Company fortune.
The name she boarded under was “Sarah Jones,” and the widow Winchester is known to travel incognito in her own Pullman car with the shades down and to use a false name when staying in a hotel.
I haven’t shared my theory about the woman with anyone else because I hope there’ll be a story behind it. It wouldn’t be the first strange tale told about the woman.
Mrs. Winchester fell into deep depression after the untimely deaths of first her daughter and then her husband, and came to believe that she is haunted by the ghosts of the thousands of people killed by the famous Winchester repeating rifles that helped win the Civil War and massacred much of the nation’s Indians.
That she has only worn black since the death of her loved ones is just one of the more mundane rumors about her strange behavior; another is that she is using her vast fortune to build a house with an endless number of rooms because a
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