by Matt Ruff
The manor, built of pale gray stone, consisted of a central flat-topped structure three stories high, flanked by two two-story wings under roofs of angled slate. Most of the windows in the wings were dark, but those in the center structure were alight, and Atticus glimpsed a figure on the third floor looking out.
George pulled up to the manor’s front entrance. To their left on the grassy ellipse encircled by the drive, bracketed by a pair of iron benches, was an icon from Horace’s maps: a sundial atop a pedestal. They spared it a brief glance, but their attention was drawn inevitably to the silver car parked farther along the drive in front of the west wing. Dew beaded its hood and the opaque curve of its windshield.
“Well,” Atticus said. “I guess we’d better knock and see what’s for breakfast.” He put the revolver in the Packard’s glove compartment and got out.
The space above the manor’s double doors was decorated, in silver, with a half sun peeking over a horizon. Smaller half suns were fixed to the doors themselves, serving as back plates for the door knockers. Atticus mounted the front steps and reached for the knocker on the right, but before he could grab hold of it the door swung inward.
A ginger-haired man in a butler’s uniform appeared on the threshold. He was extraordinarily pale—practically an albino—but his gaze was unflinching, and the smile he gave Atticus was immediate and unforced.
“Mr. Turner, I presume,” the man said. “Welcome to the Ardham lodge, sir.”
“My name is William,” the man told them. “I was asked to look out for you, Mr. Turner, and see that you and any companions you might have are made comfortable.” He turned to George. “You’d be Mr. Berry, perhaps? The elder Mr. Turner’s half-brother?”
“Yeah, I’m Montrose’s brother,” George said.
William nodded. “Mr. Turner thought you might come as well. And you, Miss . . . ?”
“Dandridge,” Letitia said.
“She’s a friend of the family,” Atticus said. “A good friend.”
“A welcome guest, then,” William assured him.
“And who is it we’re guests of, exactly?”
“Mr. Samuel Braithwhite.” William spread his hands in a gesture that encompassed more than just the building in whose doorway he stood. “This is Mr. Braithwhite’s vacation home.”
“Mr. Braithwhite,” Atticus said slowly, as if testing the feel of the name on his tongue. “And would that”—he pointed at the silver car—“happen to belong to Mr. Braithwhite as well?”
“The Daimler? Yes, sir. A custom model, specially commissioned by Mr. Braithwhite. It’s a fierce machine, isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Atticus. Then: “I appreciate you welcoming us, William, but I’m anxious to see my father. Can you take us to him?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid he’s not here. Mr. Turner and Mr. Braithwhite drove to Boston yesterday afternoon to meet with Mr. Braithwhite’s lawyer.”
“They drove to Boston? I thought you said that was Mr. Braithwhite’s car.”
“Mr. Braithwhite has many cars, sir,” William replied. “Now, if you’d like to come inside, I can show you to the rooms where you’ll be staying. Don’t worry about your luggage, I’ll have it brought up.”
But Atticus, thinking of the sheriff behind them in the woods—or maybe back in Bideford by now, rounding up a lynch mob—made no move to enter.
“Is something wrong, sir?” William asked. Then he noticed the broken windows on the Packard. “Oh my . . . Did you run into some sort of trouble on the road?”
George laughed. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Bideford,” William said. It wasn’t a question. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Turner . . . Were any of you injured?”
“Not yet,” Atticus said.
“Well, you needn’t concern yourselves further. You’re perfectly safe here.”
Atticus pictured the patrol car blazing in the night. “I wouldn’t be too quick to promise that.”
“Oh no, Mr. Turner,” William corrected him. “I do promise it. As Mr. Braithwhite’s guests, you are under Mr. Braithwhite’s protection. As long as you remain in Ardham, you needn’t worry about anyone from Bideford. The same guarantee of protection extends to your father, of course, while he’s traveling with Mr. Braithwhite . . . Now please, come inside.”
The entrance foyer of the lodge resembled the lobby of a rustic hotel unlikely to ever be listed in The Safe Negro Travel Guide. The dark-paneled walls were hung with dramatic nature scenes in which white people hunted, rode horses, or simply stood around looking awed by the landscape.
Corridors led off into the wings, and at the back of the foyer double doors opened onto a dining hall. To the left of these doors, a cubbyhole in the wall held ranks of keys on hooks; William stood before it tapping a finger against his chin.
While William debated room assignments, Atticus went to look at a painting hanging on the other side of the dining hall entrance. It was a portrait of a white man in robes, standing in an alchemist’s laboratory. The man gripped a wooden staff with his right hand, and prominent on his right index finger was a silver signet ring engraved with a half-sun symbol. The man’s left arm, outstretched, gestured towards a window with a view of a crowded harbor. The sky above the water was starry night, but there was a pink glow on the horizon.
“Titus Braithwhite,” Atticus said, reading the brass tag on the frame.
“Ardham’s founder,” said William. Keys in hand, he joined Atticus in front of the portrait. “The Braithwhites made their fortune in shipping, but Titus Braithwhite had a keen interest in natural philosophy—science. Some of his more esoteric studies made his Boston neighbors uncomfortable, so he established Ardham and built the lodge as a retreat where he and his fellow philosophers could conduct their experiments in private.”
“Seems like a strange choice of location,” Atticus said. “Given how the people of Bideford felt about witches.”
William chuckled politely. “Titus Braithwhite wasn’t a witch, Mr. Turner.”
“You don’t need to be a witch to hang as one, though, do you?”
“No, that’s true, sir. But Titus Braithwhite had an understanding with the community leaders in Bideford. Through his wealth and his political connections, he did certain favors for them, and in exchange they helped preserve his privacy. Kept away the curious. I suppose you could say he put their prejudices to good use.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Atticus said. “I’ve never experienced prejudice as a positive thing.”
“Of course, sir . . . Perhaps it was wrong of him,” William conceded. “And perhaps he was punished for it. In 1795, there was a terrible fire here. The lodge was destroyed and Titus Braithwhite perished along with his associates and most of his family. The current Mr. Braithwhite is descended from a cousin who was living in Plymouth at the time of the tragedy.”
“What does the current Mr. Braithwhite do? Is he still in shipping?”
“His interests are quite diversified.”
“And what’s his interest in me and my family, William? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I don’t know, sir. And it wouldn’t be my place to say, in any event. I keep Mr. Braithwhite’s house, not his business.”
“You sure?” Atticus nodded towards the portrait. “You seem to know a lot about the family business.”
“Just the history, Mr. Turner. Think of me as a tour guide—a humble one. May I show you to your rooms now?”
Stairs to the second floor were located just inside the west-wing corridor. A window on the half landing let in light from outdoors, but as in the foyer there were also electric wall sconces and ceiling lamps.
“How is it you have power out here?” Atticus asked.
“There’s a generator shed out back, behind the car garage,” William said. “When Mr. Braithwhite had the lodge rebuilt in the 1920s, he added a number of modern improvements. You’ll have the full range of creature comforts during your stay, includi
ng hot running water.”
At the top of the stairs they turned right. The center section of the lodge on this floor contained a gaming lounge, a library, and a smoking room. William gave them a brief tour of the amenities, stressing that they were welcome to use any and all of them—the one exception being that the smoking room was traditionally for men only.
“So much for no positive prejudice,” Letitia muttered.
“What’s on the third floor?” Atticus asked.
“That would be Mr. Braithwhite’s private suite,” William said. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to show it to you once he returns. In the meantime,” he continued, leading them onward, “I’ll be putting you in the east wing. It’s quieter than the west wing, and you’ll have it all to yourselves, so Mr. Braithwhite’s other guests shouldn’t disturb you.”
“You have other people staying here?”
“Not yet, sir. But Mr. Braithwhite has called a gathering of the other lodge members. I expect them to begin arriving shortly.”
“You expect them,” Atticus said, “but you don’t actually know what the gathering is about.”
“You catch on quickly, Mr. Turner.”
William led them down the east-wing corridor, stopping at the third door on the right. “This will be your room, Mr. Turner,” he said, fitting a key in the lock. “It forms a double suite with the one next door, where we’ll put Mr. Berry.”
As he came through the door, Atticus’s eye went first to the kingsize bed, its massive headboard carved with yet another scene of white people doing things outdoors. Against the right-hand wall was a wardrobe, itself large enough to have contained a fold-down bed. The left side of the room was arranged as a sitting area, with wingback chairs, a fireplace, a minibar in a glass cabinet, and a writing desk that faced a wide and many-paned window.
“Cozy,” Atticus said. Coming farther into the room and turning around, he discovered the bookcases that lined the walls beside the doorway.
William walked around the bed to another door, next to the wardrobe. “Your bathroom is in here, Mr. Turner. There’s a full selection of toiletries, but should you need anything you don’t see, please don’t hesitate to ask. Also, I don’t know what clothes you’ve brought, but if you’d like to dress for dinner, you’ll find some spare suits in here.” He indicated the wardrobe. “Dinner is served in the downstairs hall at eight p.m.,” he continued, coming back around to the sitting area. “Lunch is at one, and breakfast is available from six to nine. But you can also have food brought to your room at any time, day or night.” He touched the handset of an antique phone on the writing desk. “Just dial zero and you’ll be connected with a member of the staff.”
“What if I want to make an outgoing call?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid it’s an internal line only. Mr. Braithwhite had hoped to have real phone service at the lodge, but it proved impossible, for bureaucratic as well as technical reasons. Unfortunately, his relationship with the rest of Devon County isn’t nearly as cordial as the original Mr. Braithwhite’s.”
“I sympathize,” Atticus said. He paused to look out the window. “Speaking of community relations, who are those people living down in the cottages?”
“Simple folk,” William replied.
“Simple? You mean like Amish?”
“After a fashion. The Ardhamites’ sect is a good deal older than the Mennonites’, however.”
“And they live here year-round?”
“Yes, sir. Ardham is their refuge from the world. In lieu of rent, they provide services and upkeep for the lodge. Most of the food you’ll be eating here comes from the village.”
“So they keep Mr. Braithwhite fed, and in return he keeps them safe?”
“Exactly, sir.”
“What about electricity and hot running water?” Atticus said. “They get those too?”
“As I say, they’re simple folk. They aren’t interested in such things.” William turned to George. “Mr. Berry. Your room is right through here. Let me show you.”
After William and George had gone through the connecting door, Letitia said: “Come take a look at this.”
Atticus joined her by one of the bookcases. “What is it?”
“Just look.”
“Huh,” said Atticus. “Mr. Burroughs . . .” The top shelf was filled with Tarzan novels, and the one below it had the complete run of John Carter books along with Carson Napier of Venus and the Pellucidar series. The other shelves held more authors and titles he knew, some seeming wildly out of place in these surroundings.
“They got all your favorites, huh?” Letitia said.
“A lot of them, yeah. And a lot of books I always meant to read . . .”
“Don’t get comfortable,” Letitia suggested.
“I’m way ahead of you,” Atticus said, crouching down. The lowest shelf was Lovecraft Country: Algernon Blackwood, Robert Bloch, August Derleth, William Hope Hodgson, Frank Belknap Long, Clark Ashton Smith, and the man himself. Finger-walking over the book spines, Atticus stopped at a red leather-bound volume that stuck out conspicuously from between The House on the Borderlands and Beyond the Wall of Sleep.
The cover of the red book was embossed with the half-sun symbol and the words BY-LAWS AND PRECEPTS OF THE ADAMITE ORDER OF THE ANCIENT DAWN. Atticus showed it to Letitia and then, hearing William and George returning, slipped it back into the shelf and stood up.
“Miss Dandridge,” William said. “Your room is across the hall. If you’ll follow me . . .”
They went out.
Atticus looked at George. “You have your own library too?” he asked.
“Yeah,” George said. “I get my meals brought up, I could stay in there for a month and not mind.”
Atticus nodded. “I wonder if that’s the idea. Nice of him to give us our own wing, isn’t it?”
“Very . . . You see any other stairs besides the ones we came up?”
“No. Not in this hallway.”
“Let’s hope they don’t have another fire,” George said.
Across the hall, Letitia let out a shriek. Atticus and George bolted towards the sound.
They found Letitia and William in the suite’s bathroom. Letitia was standing with her hands clasped in front of her at the edge of what Atticus thought, at first glance, was a hole in the floor: a sunken tub, done all in black marble, large enough that the four of them could have sat in it without touching.
“Would you look at that,” George said over Atticus’s shoulder. “’Titia’s got her own pool.”
A few moments later, in the hall: “I’ll have your luggage brought up now, Mr. Turner. I don’t know if our mechanic will be able to do anything about the broken windows on your car, but I’ll see that it’s parked out of the weather.”
“Thank you,” Atticus said. “William?”
“Yes, sir?”
“When did Mr. Braithwhite say he and my father would be back from Boston?”
“He wasn’t sure. Perhaps this evening, though it could be as late as tomorrow.” Smiling: “But I’m sure we can keep you occupied in the meantime. In addition to the diversions you’ve already seen, there are music and exercise rooms on the ground floor, and some other entertainments I can show you. Of course you’re welcome to go for a walk around the grounds or down in the village. Or if you’d like to go farther afield—into the Wood, or up into the hills—I can arrange a guide so you don’t lose your way.”
“No, that’s OK, I don’t think we’ll wander too far.”
“Very good, sir. Then if there’s nothing else at the moment—”
“Just one thing,” Atticus said.
“Yes, sir?”
“When my father was here, which of these rooms did you put him in?”
The briefest hesitation. “That one, sir.” William pointed to a door to the right of Letitia’s room.
Atticus tried the knob. “Locked.”
“Of course, sir. I could get the key from downstairs, if you’d lik
e. But there’s nothing to see. Your father took all his effects with him to Boston, and the room’s been cleaned.” A pause. “Would you like me to get the key, Mr. Turner?”
“No, that’s all right,” Atticus said. Turning from the door, he matched William’s smile with his own. “I trust you.”
Atticus and George sat out front of the lodge on one of the benches, watching a peacock strut around the base of the sundial.
“Titus Braithwhite,” George said, after a long silence. “That name mean something to you? You had a look on your face when you were staring at his picture.”
“Did I?” said Atticus. He leaned back against the bench. “Titus Braithwhite owned my mother’s great-great-great-grandmother.”
“I thought Dora didn’t know where her people came from.”
“She didn’t know much. Just that her great-ancestor was a woman named Hannah who belonged to Titus Braithwhite, a slave trader from Boston. Hannah was a maid at Braithwhite’s country estate until the night she ran away.”
“Through those woods? Brave woman.”
“Brave, yeah, but also scared out of her mind,” Atticus said. “There was some kind of calamity at the house and Hannah barely escaped with her life.”
“The fire?” George said.
“Probably. Although it was part of the story Mom told me that Hannah would never tell anyone exactly what happened, only that it was something so terrible she had to run . . . Anyway, she got away, and made a new life for herself as a free woman, but she went the rest of her days in fear that Braithwhite or his family would track her down.”
George tried to put the next question delicately: “When she ran,” he said, “was she with child?”
“I asked Mom that, one time. She said I was missing the point of the story.”
“Which was?”
“Don’t look back. And never trust anyone named Braithwhite.”
“I take it she didn’t tell Montrose.”
“No, and she made me promise not to tell him either. But I guess he finally found a clue somewhere. Or maybe one found him.”