A Most Unusual Interest

A Most Unusual Interest Chapter Twenty One (NC-17)
Disclaimers Apply

A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Ubertbeta… *twirly dance * The muses came back! Readers/Reviewers: If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m not sick anymore, but my computer is! I’ll try and update twice a week again, though! And *blush * I’m glad you like it, despite the Mary-Sue ness.

Jack scarcely noticed the throngs of people on the piers, still thrumming with life even as the sun plunged into the sea. The smell of the ships and sweat and sea and fish and everything else faded in comparison to the odor rising from the head, tied neatly in a piece of oilcloth procured from a local merchant with a snarl from Gibbs. The stench was astounding and Jack was thinking seriously of ruining his image and being ill over the railing into the bay. Anna Maria’s ship was just off shore now, moved to make room for others in need of the docks, and the Pearl was still out of commission, but Jack made for his home without breaking stride. He would signal for his fellow captain once aboard. He drove all thoughts of Myrtle from his mind out of necessity. If he thought of her, he would worry. And if he worried, he would make errors. A captain, he reminded himself, cannot afford to make a mistake. It could cost him his life or worse, the life of a crewman.
“Gibbs, take it to my cabin. Liam, get the lantern and call for Captain Escobar on the double!” Jack was barley on board before he started shouting orders. One of the workers who had been repairing his ship hovered anxiously in the forecastle. “What,” Jack asked through clenched teeth, “are you still doing on my ship? Last I heard, you were all done for the day at sunset.” He paused in front of the rat-like man and sniffed, stroking the braids in his beard. “In fact, it was you who informed me of the time.”
“Sir, it’s just…” his eyes darted up to meet Jack’s then dashed away again, cringing before one of the most infamous pirates to sail the Seven Seas. “It’s just I’ve got you a message, sir. From one of the King’s own!”
“The Navy?” Jack barked, making the worker jump. “What the blue blazes does the Navy want?” He bent close to the little man and growled, “And why are they sending you to ask it of me? Are all their own messengers and mates ill?”
“No, sir…it’s just…just… Here!” He shoved a thick piece of paper, folded over and sealed with a spot of red wax, at Jack’s chest. “I’m sorry, sir!” he cried and ran, his steps thudding on the deck and yelping as he ran into then bounced off of one of the crewmembers.
Jack sighed and tucked the missive in his belt, more concerned with the whereabouts of Myrtle than with anything the Navy might have to say. He was done with them, even before the Barbossa incident. He had been done with them since he turned nineteen and was cast aside… He shook himself away from those bitter memories and turned to join Gibbs in his cabin. “Now, Gibbs, first things first. What was it that was so damned important that you had to show me?” He forced geniality into his words and swallowed the worry he found so uncharacteristic but so common of late. Jack dropped onto Captain’s chair and flung his feet up on the roughhewn table. “And hand me my rum.”
Gibbs frowned but did not comment as he passed his captain a dusty bottle of the stuff. Gingerly, he placed the oilcloth-wrapped head on the table and began to pace. “Sir, someone has found somethin’ that might be…a clue, I guess one would call it.”
“How so?” The rum burned sweetly down his throat and warmed his stomach. It was a familiar comfort but he knew it would not be enough that night. Drink as he may, his sleep would be disturbed. “Did some urchin come runnin’ with word that Myrtle be in his master’s house? Did some strumpet offer a sign that our guest took up work as a Fallen Woman? Or better still…did the girl herself come to ye, offer her regrets and decide to set up a life in Zoruba?” Jack snorted. “The clue, as you call it, is most likely false.”
Gibbs sighed and pulled an item from his pocket. Wordlessly, he dropped it onto Jack’s lap and retreated a few steps, his face downcast and markedly sad. “Sorry, sir.”
Jack put the bottle of rum on the table with a dull thud and picked up the scrap of fabric. It was his, or rather had been his. Myrtle had left wearing his fine woven shirt from Spain, a gift, he recalled, from a certain Sister Mary Magdalene, an apt name if there had ever been one for a nun, who was seriously reconsidering her vows since meeting him. The telling detail of the fabric was the fine sparrow embroidered on the cuffs and inside the neck, the Sister’s finest handiwork, a remnant of her days as the youngest daughter of a lesser nobleman. Jack fingered the fabric and frowned, leaning over it so that the beads in his locks clacked with the movement. “This,” he said finally, his finger tracing a large splash of blood, “is not a good clue.” He pushed himself to his feet and crumpled the fabric in his fist, his teeth grinding. “This,” he continued a bit more loudly, “is not even a clue. This,” he was shouting now, his voice rattling the small glass above his chest of goods and the porthole above his bed, “is anything BUT good!”
Gibbs fidgeted nervously. “Some folks…they said they seen a gel runnin’ from the palms on the far side o’ the island…Said she was runnin’ hell bent for leather to the port but…” he sighed. “No one seen her since she reached the shoreline. Some fisherfolk, locals like, said she was runnin’ bout ankle deep. Mebbe…she been thinkin’ to hide her tracks?”
“Where did this fabric come from?” Jack demanded as if he had not heard.
“Why, your shirt, sir…”
“Do NOT be obtuse, Gibbs!” He raised himself on his toes to get in his first mate’s face and growl, “Where was it found?”
“On a gate post. The feller that passes for gov’ner here…one o’ his maids found it on the back gate…” Gibbs shrugged again, trying not to recoil from Jack’s onslaught. “But no one’s seen ‘er…”
“How did you come into possession of this?” Jack pressed, shaking the scrap in Gibbs’ face. “I’m sure the maid did not wander the streets looking for someone who might be interested in such a thing.”
“No, sir,” Gibbs muttered. “We was askin’ ‘round an’ Dawson got the notion to go to the houses in the fancy part o’ town…Mebbe we be getting’ some tucker, like, an’ this maid, she nearly bashes his head in with the washpan but she heard him out…” Gibbs trailed off. “Dawson said she had it tucked into her bosom.” He nodded at the cloth. “Like a hankie.”
Jack had a very clear idea as to how Dawson found the cloth in the maid’s bosom. “Always time for custom,” he swore. “The maid was indeed of the Governor’s house?”
“Aye, he swears to it!”
Jack nodded slowly. He could hear the strident tones of Anna Maria greeting his crew as she boarded and sighed. “Fine and well. Tonight, we find Myrtle. Come Hell or high water, we find her.”