The House at Hull

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter 4

  I called Billy the next morning. I told him about our meeting with Todd, and the eavesdropping fiancée. He just listened for a moment.

  “I told you we did talk to her. Nice kid, pretty, smart, good family. I doubt that there’s anything there, but let Eleisha do some of her computer magic. I got a guy here who is awfully damned good, but we break a lot of laws when we start rooting around in people’s private affairs. Good way to get a decent case thrown out of court. Better for us to stick to the tried, true and honorable methods of crime detection.”

  There was an underlying tone of sarcasm in his voice and maybe a bit of disgust, but I ignored it.

  “We want to go out to the house at Hull, look around, maybe even spend the night.”

  “I can arrange it,” he said, “but you guys need to be less than conspicuous. A lot of people are still in the neighborhood . . . won’t go home until the weather turns. Some retired folks, not much to do but watch the neighbors. Rich, the guy across the street, is friendly and helpful. He had apparently known the Bridgetons for years, watched the kids grow up and followed Oscar’s rise to success and piles of the green stuff. He genuinely liked the whole family. Kids called him Uncle Rich. I’ll contact him, give him a cover story to spread in case any of the locals get too curious. It’ll work, Spook, and then you and Eleisha can do that voodoo that you do so well.”

  I manufactured a chuckle, but it was half-hearted at best.

  “Unless I hear different, we’ll plan to leave on the late ferry to Hull.”

  We did. I packed a sea bag with the few essentials we’d need for a couple of days at the last place the Bridgeton family had been seen. The ferry at Long Wharf was on time. There was an interesting assortment of passengers, men and women returning from a day’s work in Boston, some school kids a little late from the classrooms of the expensive private schools that dotted the city, and miscellaneous tourists toting bags with assorted stuff they really didn’t need. We left George’s Island to starboard in the narrows and made the turn toward Hull Gut. In thirty minutes we were at the ferry dock only about a half a mile from the house on Channel St. There were no cabs, but we didn’t need one for the short walk.

  We found the address. The house was 120 years old and it looked every bit of it. The blue paint on the shingles was striped in gray where the northeast winds had whipped and stirred it with steely sands. A gray-haired gentleman sat on the porch across from the house. He clutched a cold can of something alcoholic and waved to us.

  “I’m Rich,” he said, “Detective Frye called and asked me to give you the key. I don’t expect you to tell me exactly why you’re here. I just hope it will help. The Bridgetons are damned fine people, been my neighbors for over twenty years. If anyone has hurt them, I hope they rot in hell. Anything I can do, let me know. By the way, if you want a cold beer, try Joe’s. It’s just across the street. And Lobster Express delivers.”

  He handed me a tarnished skeleton key secured to a floating fob that said Hull Yacht Club. I thanked him and we made our way up the steps of the weathered porch. I have to admit I was surprised. These people had money, but you’d never know it by looking at this house. Every doorframe listed in a different direction and the ancient heart pine floors creaked with every step. Rich had already opened the windows and a northwest breeze flooded the house with fresh, salty air. The furniture was a collection of discards and antiques, probably gathered from yard sales and throw-a-ways, discolored, scarred, dinged, but functional, and even comfortable. I knew almost instantly that this house had tales to tell. I just hoped it would tell them to us.

  The kitchen floor was covered in faded linoleum, peeling at the corners. It did have the obligatory microwave, and the fridge was bare, but clean. There was a fireplace in the living room, but Rich had told us it wasn’t working. No air conditioning, but there were ceiling fans in every room, the blades shedding light dust as we turned on each one. The upstairs consisted of five bedrooms and a single small bath. The fixtures were pitted in dark specks, but again, everything worked.

  Eleisha and I had already decided to stay in separate bedrooms. The two of us needed to cover the house as best we could. Sometimes the vibes are focused in one place. With us at different ends of the house, one of us might be more likely to pick up something. I had chosen the bedroom that directly faced the water. It was the largest and I guess you could call it the master, but nothing more than a faded bureau on the left wall and a dressing table shoved up into the corner, its mirror cracked and shedding its silver lining. Eleisha was at the northwest end of the hall. We unpacked our meager belongings and met downstairs for a drink for me, mineral water for her, and to trade observations. Rich had mentioned that Lobster Express, a locals’ favorite on Nantasket Beach, would deliver. We found an old menu. Eleisha ordered fish tacos. Lobster pizza for me. Hey, it wasn’t DiGiorno’s, but I was in the mood to experiment.

  The porch faced dead north. It ran the length of the house, probably fifty feet from the water. There was a three-foot thick sea wall with boulders at its base. Several small jetties poked out into the blue basin. To the right was Little Brewster Island, the home of the Boston Light, the oldest continually operating lighthouse on the East Coast. To our left was the city of Boston, the setting sun bathing the skyscrapers in its golden majesty. The various islands that dot Boston Harbor poked their landscapes up from the brine, not to be ignored. The snowy clouds frolicked, then waltzed, in the northwest breeze. The entire scene was something from a fairy tale, a magnificent panorama that couldn’t be captured by a camera or even at the hands of a Winslow Homer or a Renoir. We sat in a rusty swing and let the breeze and the colors bathe us until we’d been blessed by its baptismal.

  Lobster Express was on time and delicious. We sat at the tired table in the kitchen. I drank some more Gallo and Eleisha sipped at the crystal water. We were wordless. It had been a full day and we were both exhausted. After a quick clean-up, each of us retired to our appointed stations. The sound of the benign swells washing the rocky beach was sweet in my ears. I was asleep when my head hit the pillow.

  I had no sense of time. The breeze ruffled the curtains and the quilt felt like a warm cocoon. The timbers squeaked and groaned with a rhythm in natural concert. It seemed as if the old house was speaking a language all its own. That’s when I heard something above the soft din. It was a voice, gravelly and full of a wisdom that only comes with experience and sorrow. I turned on my back and sat up on the mattress.

  He stood there at the foot of the bed, a threadbare navy-blue uniform embellished with a host of shiny medals on his chest. His eyes were flecked with flashes of silver and gold like the plankton in the bow wake of a boat on a moonlit night. He wore a seaman’s cap with a small brim, gold braid surrounding the crown. His stern features were carved into a face nearly covered by a salt and pepper beard that sprouted and seemed to grow as I watched. He was there, but the curtains seemed to ruffle behind him, or even through him. I didn’t recognize him, but he seemed to know me . . . and perhaps even why I was there. He mumbled something gruffly. I couldn’t make out the words. Then he raised his left arm, twisted his body slightly, and extended a bony finger to the northeast. I’m not sure why, but I nodded. Then he was gone.

  The breeze had suddenly become cold and I lay there shivering. I pulled the light blanket up to my neck. Now I was awake, or at least I thought I was. I didn’t know who he was, what to call it, or what it meant. But reality or illusion, he had stood at the foot of my bed and tried to tell me something.

  I thought about waking Eleisha, but for what? It would wait until morning.

  We sat at the table drinking strong black coffee. No Hebrew Nationals. I had to make do with a couple of toasted bagels and cream cheese. Eleisha had brought a bag of small peeled carrots.

  “Okay,” Eleisha said, “you’re doing your thing. You’ve been contacted, but where do we go from here? So he pointed at something, but what the hell is it? Th
ere are three islands roughly in that direction, the Brewsters. Boston Light is on one of them. It is owned and manned by the Coast Guard. There’s someone at the lighthouse twenty-four hours a day. Middle Brewster and Outward Brewster are mostly uninhabited, no way to get there except by boat. The guides say the shores are too rough and rocky for anyone to land on them. I would guess that includes us and most of the other people in the known universe.”

  “I know it doesn’t make much sense, but there must be something out there. I’m thinking we need to explore a bit, find out more about the background and the history of Hull. It may give us some insight, anything that could lead us to a hunch. I think we ought to stay one more night. Maybe the old boy will return.”

  “Well, I’m with you, chief. Actually, I slept like a brick last night. I could use the rest. So I guess we have a plan, Kimosabe.”

  I nodded, pointed a finger pistol at her, squeezed the imaginary trigger, and finished my bagel. After breakfast, we decided to wander. It was warm, but a northwest breeze cooled us as we walked down to Pemberton Point. In the forties and fifties, there had been a fabulous resort that was regularly visited by the upper crust of New England. The rumor was that Joe Kennedy had romanced Greer Garson there. Other members of the Yankee royalty had frequented that, and similar playgrounds for the wealthy and privileged near Nantasket Beach. Now the Hull High School took up the land that undoubtedly held many secrets. The view at the point was magnificent. The city of Boston and the Boston Light was in full display, light swells shimmering in the finery of the early sun. Gulls croaked and small skiffs, sailboats, and massive sportfish transited the narrow channel of water known as Hull Gut.

  We turned and headed back to what could barely be called a village. We passed Joe’s Nautical Bar. It was closed, but I made a note to visit later on that evening. On the north side of the road we saw a sign announcing a museum. The Hull Life Saving Station was emblazoned in large golden letters on a neat slab of board. We decided to give it a try.

  We were met at the door by DJ, a seventeen year old senior at Hull High. He wore plaid shorts and a T-shirt featuring some rock band I’d never heard of. It hung on him like a tent. He peered at us through thick Buddy Holly eyeglasses and smiled. We paid the admission and began our tour. DJ was a walking encyclopedia of knowledge of the community and its history. There were grainy old black and white photographs of buildings and shipwrecks from the late eighteen hundreds. Some of the local artists had painted images of the colorful pageant that the past enfolded. A replica of the Fresnel lens that topped the Boston Light was on display. There were other artifacts scattered about. Each had a small typed card explaining their uses and background.

  We listened and enjoyed. Then we stepped into the main room. A large rowboat greeted us. It was probably thirty feet long and perhaps six feet abeam. I studied the heavy planks and marveled at the beefy construction. At the end of the room, he stared at me from a large fading photograph, yellow at the edges, but still clear and commanding. The bushy salt and pepper beard, the seaman’s hat, the uniform adorned with medals. I knew him. He was Joshua James.

  He and his volunteers at the Point Allerton Life Saving Station had rescued well over six hundred men and women, mostly mariners whose ships had foundered on the unforgiving shores, victims of the howling nor’easters that pounded the rocky beaches. At the age of eleven, he had witnessed the vicious wrath of a major storm, and experienced the deaths of his mother and baby sister in the wreck of the schooner Hepzibah on Harding’s Ledge near the entrance to Boston Harbor. It was an image of horror etched indelibly on his brain and burned into his consciousness.

  At fifteen he participated in his first rescue at sea. The reports of his bravery and daring spanned over sixty years. His legend inspired the formation of the modern Coast Guard. James died in 1902 at the age of seventy-five, stepping onto the beach after completing a training mission with his men, then succumbing to heart failure. In 2015 the Coast Guard had commissioned the 418 foot cutter, the James, in his honor. This was the giant who had stood at my bed the night before and pointed towards the Brewster Islands.