The whistle stopped; the fire no longer seemed so noisy. I was just breathing a sigh of relief when the whistle began again, a series of short sharp blasts.
“ … Five … six …” Hank was counting. “Seven … eight … Eight blasts—that’s the south side of town.”
“South! Oh, Hank—the shop!” Viv turned and ran towards the path to the road. Hank followed her.
The firemen seemed to have reached the same conclusion as Noah Peterson. The hook-and ladder began backing slowly while the firemen were still reeling in its hoses. Shouts of encouragement could be heard as they finished their task and leaped aboard. The engine rolled away from the fire and turned towards town. Someone switched on the siren and we could hear its swooping wail as the engine shot out of sight.
As the siren died away, there came another series of small explosions. This time they signalled the slamming of car doors as onlookers deserted the almost-tamed blaze to go in search of the new excitement. Revving engines sprang to life around the lake. Presumably some, like the Singletons, would be going to check on their own interests in town, but others would be mere sightseers.
The remaining firemen battled on stubbornly. It didn’t matter to them that they had lost half their audience; they had to put out the fire and get back to town in case they were needed.
“Mummy.” Timothy danced about restlessly, no longer satisfied with the dying blaze at the far end of the lake. “Mummy, can we go in to town and see the fire? Please?”
“Better not,” I said. “It’s late and we’ve had a busy day. It’s way past your bedtime now.”
“It looks like a big one.” Noah Peterson was frowning towards town where a fresh red glow was colouring the sky. “I’d better collect Pitti-Sing and shut her away, then go and see if I can help. It will be all hands to the pump with the other engines out at the lake.”
“I can help, too, Mum,” Timothy entreated.
“The less people underfoot, the better.” Noah Peterson met my eyes. “I don’t like the looks of this,” he said grimly. “Don’t tell me it’s starting here.”
Chapter 10
The nightmare came back that night. Mercifully I could remember little of it as I woke. Only that, heart-wrenchingly, John had been there again and, again, it had been climaxed by that terrible hollow sound of the coffin lid falling.
I struggled up on one elbow and stared into the darkness. It was not yet dawn; the residual smell of smoke was everywhere.
It came from outside. Of course, it was outside. I could not quite make myself believe it. I got up and went on what was becoming my accustomed patrol.
The tiny night light glowed like a living spark at the electric socket at the end of the hall. Shaking off the disquieting thought, I looked into Timothy’s room: it was dark, silent and peaceful. He was safe.
Tessa’s room: dark, not quite silent. There was an uneasy rumbling somewhere in the darkness. I stepped inside the doorway. The rumbling intensified, two glowing sparks appeared at the foot of the bed. I choked back a cry and rushed forward. The sparks rose to meet me, the rumbling changed tone.
“Prryah?” a small voice inquired.
“Errol!” I went limp with relief. “You rotten beast!” I gathered him into my arms and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind us. “I’m sure you’re not allowed to sleep on the beds when your people are here. You ought to know better.”
“Prryah,” he said again and nuzzled my chin before lapsing into a low contented purr. He stayed in my arms while I completed my rounds, but slipped to the floor as we entered the kitchen and marched up to the refrigerator.
“Mmmrreow!” he said pointedly, staring at the door.
“Oh, all right.” I opened the door and dipped into a bowl of leftovers. “Just don’t expect to make a habit of this,” I warned him.
While he was gulping down his unexpected treat, I went round the ground-floor rooms. All quiet, all well. This lingering uneasiness must be the residue of the nightmare. I had already learned that the depression engendered by such dark half-remembered dreams could cloud the entire day. But it wasn’t daylight yet. Perhaps if I could manage to go back to sleep again, I could ward off the threatened gloom.
When I returned to the kitchen to snap off the light, Errol was licking his whiskers and sitting hopefully by the back door.
I opened the inner door obligingly, then hesitated with my hand on the latch of the screen door, suddenly overwhelmed by an indefinable sense of menace.
The air was heavy and sour with the thin acrid odour of wet ashes. A warm wind rustled dry leaves in a manner calculated to fan any incipient sparks. If a fire started out there in the woods, what chance would a small animal have?
“I don’t think so, Errol.” I let my hand fall from the latch. “I think we’d both better go back to bed.”
Errol seemed to agree. His fur bristled up on end and a low growl rose from his throat. He didn’t like the look or the smell of it out there any better than I did. Then he gave a disdainful twitch of his whiskers and turned back into the kitchen, dismissing any idea of venturing outside.
“Quite right, Errol.” I shut the inner door and bolted it. “Things will look better in the morning.”
The next time I awoke, it was to the sound of suppressed giggles and the warm contented purring of Errol, curled in the curve of my shoulder and neck, his nose almost in my ear.
“Shhh—” Tessa’s voice warned and I heard a rattle of crockery. “Don’t spill anything!”
I could keep my eyes closed no longer and opened them to find Timothy steadily advancing on me balancing a breakfast tray. “Surprise!” he shouted, as he saw that I was awake.
“Darlings—how lovely! What a nice surprise!” I struggled to a sitting position, dislodging Errol. What was he doing there? I thought I had left him downstairs.
“I cooked it myself,” Tessa said proudly. “Timothy just carried it up because I couldn’t manage.”
“You did not!” Timothy placed the tray on my lap where it balanced perilously. “I made the toast—and the tea.”
The toast was charred at the edges; tealeaves floated on top of the cup. “It all looks delicious,” I assured them.
Errol agreed. He had been inspecting the tray with interest; breakfast in bed was something new in his experience, but he approved of it. With a pleased chirrup, he dived on the plate, snatching up a rasher of bacon and leaped off the bed with it.
“Stop him! Stop him!” Tessa shrieked. “Rotten Errol! That wasn’t for you. That was Mummy’s!” She started after him with the obvious intention of reclaiming it for me.
“Let him go, Tessa. I wouldn’t eat it now.”
Errol turned in the doorway, the limp bacon hanging down on either side of his mouth like a walrus moustache and gave one final crow of triumph. We heard him thudding down the stairs.
“Errol is a lot faster than Esmond,” Timothy said judiciously.
“And sneakier. We’ll just have to be more careful with him around. We’re not used to an undisciplined cat.”
“I wanted everything to be nice for you,” Tessa mourned, looking at the greasy trail across the sheet and the tea slopped into the saucer from Errol’s dive across it.
“Never mind, I still have another rasher of bacon and this nice egg.” Secretly, I was not at all displeased. I have never liked breakfast in bed and this would discourage the children from such ill-considered acts of thoughtfulness.
The minor concert was playing outside for several minutes before it occurred to me that it might have anything to do with us. By the time I fought free of the mass of Sunday newspapers and got to the front door, Pixie Toller was standing on the porch about to ring the doorbell.
“There you are,” she said. “I’d about given you up. Celia rang to say she isn’t feeling well and asked if I could deliver the boys to camp today. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No—what’s wrong?” Luke was looking unconcerned in the front seat of the Welcome W
agon. Perhaps it wasn’t serious.
“She thinks she may be coming down with a cold. Doesn’t want to spread her germs around while she’s in the infectious stage. Very public-spirited of her. I wish more people had that attitude.”
“Perhaps I ought to go over—”
“She’ll be all right. If you ask me, it’s just a sore throat from all that smoke last night. The bonfire was practically on their doorstep. It will take days for the house to air out.”
“Oh yes. And what—” I was reminded—“about that fire in town? The Singletons were afraid it might be their antique shop. Was it?”
“No, it was an empty building. An abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. It sure did burn—it was a two-alarm fire. They had to put in an emergency call for a couple of engines from the next town because of the two they had to leave out at the lake. We haven’t had excitement like that for a long time.”
“Oh, I’m glad,” I said. “Not that the building burned, I mean. I’m just glad it wasn’t the Singletons’ shop. They were so worried about it.”
“I should think they would be,” Pixie said. “I’ll bet they’re not carrying half enough insurance. If you ask me, they’re sailing a lot closer to the wind than is safe. Of course, that’s true of a lot of people in this town. Only—” her mouth twisted wryly—“some of us don’t realize it until it’s too late.”
Luke had grown restive; he left the car and bounded up the steps to join us. “Isn’t Tim ready?” he asked.
“I thought he wasn’t starting at camp until tomorrow,” I said. “Today is Sunday.”
“That’s right—it’s Registration Day. He can sign in with the new kids today and then stay on for the day. Nobody cares what happens today.”
“Well, go and find him then and explain.” I didn’t care myself, I discovered. If that was the way things were arranged, we might as well fall into line.
“Why don’t you and Tessa come along?” Pixie invited. “We’ll drop the boys at camp and then we can go in to town and view the ashes of the big blaze and have lunch.”
It sounded like a good idea.
There was a minor traffic jam on the road leading up to Camp Mohigonquin. A very high-class traffic jam. Cadillacs, Jaguars, Rolls-Royces and an astounding variety of custom-built foreign cars, some with chauffeurs at the wheel, were bumper-to-bumper along the road. Engines running, tempers visibly fraying, the occupants exchanged frosty smiles or looked straight ahead pretending the others weren’t there at all.
“Oh—oh,” Pixie said. “I always forget how grim it gets for the Changing of the Guard.”
“What?”
“That’s what we call it hereabouts—with a due respect to you folks. It happens every two weeks. A few of the kids stay at the camp all summer, others are just there for two or four weeks. Their parents or—” her mouth twisted again—“the servants bring them and carry them away again. The camp opened for the summer two weeks ago, the first contingent is leaving today.”
“And the second contingent arriving.” Now that I knew what to look for, I noticed small heads bobbing into sight behind the rolled-up windows of the air-conditioned luxury limousines.
“An awkward time for them to be arriving, isn’t it? Right in the middle of a holiday weekend?”
“Bad timing,” Pixie agreed, “but that’s the way the calendar rolled round this year.” She threaded through a sudden opening in the traffic and both streams parted before her. She had the advantage of not having to worry about explaining dented fenders to an employer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of the kids who have to leave today who set off the bonfire. Didn’t want to miss everything.”
It appeared that Pixie wasn’t the only person in town to harbour that particular suspicion. The Chief of Police and two of his officers—one male and one female—were in heated debate with Greg and Lois.
“Hi, folks!” Dexter came over and lounged against the Welcome Wagon as Pixie stopped.
“Hi, Dexter,” Pixie said. “How’s your alibi? Looks like you guys are the number one suspects.”
“All this fuss over a bonfire—would you believe it?” Dexter rolled his eyes heavenwards. “This would be a good day to rob a bank in town—all the fuzz is out here.”
“All of them?” I looked at the three intent individuals, who just barely outnumbered the camp authorities they were questioning. “You mean that’s all there is?”
“Except for a part-timer on the switchboard back at the station. How many do you want?” Pixie was indignant. “Spare a thought for the poor taxpayers. These are enough—this is the first crime wave since Old Man Peterson went on a toot last Christmas and drove his old Ford through the windows of Gino’s Place and wrecked the lobster tank.”
“Noah Peterson did that?” He was a very surprising man.
“Good heavens no! Not Noah. Old Jonah, his uncle. You won’t meet him—unless you’re here very late in the year—he disappears for the tourist season. Cantankerous old goat can’t stand the summer people—not that he minds renting his place to them. It’s amazing he’s let Noah have it this year. I’ll bet Noah’s paying.”
“Maybe Old Jonah set off the bonfire to try to get us into trouble.” Dexter had his own theory. “It’s just the kind of thing he’d do. He hates Camp Mohigonquin.”
“Yes,” Pixie did not deny the charge. “But he wouldn’t bother to come down off his mountain just to get you in trouble. Unless—” She looked at Dexter sharply and then at Luke. “Are you sure he gave you the old outhouse to put on top?”
“Uh, well …” Dexter squirmed uneasily. “I guess maybe it was Old Noah who said we could have it. But he ought to know.”
“He’ll know when Jonah comes back and finds it gone,” Pixie said. “I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes then.”
“Aw, it’s only an old backhouse,” Dexter protested. “He’s got inside plumbing. Why should he get sentimental about a thing like that? Unless—” His eyes gleamed with sudden excitement. “Maybe he hid his money in it. Maybe he had a cash box built into it somewhere. No burglars would ever think of looking there.”
“If he did, it’s too late to think about it now.” Pixie winked at me. I was relieved to find she didn’t believe it. It sounded all too plausible to me. The whole Peterson family was obviously quite eccentric.
“It’s all gone up in smoke,” Pixie said with relish. “If you think there’s trouble now, just wait until Jonah gets back!”
“Aw—” Dexter’s face cleared. “I’ll be gone by then.”
“I won’t.” Luke looked worried. “He’ll be back when school starts. He’s on the School Board.”
“Oh, Pixie, stop teasing them. There probably wasn’t anything in it at all.”
“Well—” Luke would not be comforted. “Old Man Peterson was awfully fond of it, I don’t know why.” He brightened. “Maybe it isn’t all burned. Maybe we can get it down and put it back where it was.”
“Oh no,” Pixie said firmly. “You’ll do no such thing. You could kill yourself clambering over what’s left of that junk heap. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourselves getting it up there in the first place.”
“My father helped before,” Luke said. “He’d help us again.”
“I don’t want you to have any part of this,” I told Timothy. “One broken arm in the family is enough.”
The discussion with the police seemed to be breaking up in some acrimony. Looking hot and harassed, Greg came over to us while Lois led the police to the cookhouse.
“Trouble?” Pixie asked sympathetically.
“Nothing but.” Greg shook his head. “They want all the kids placed under detention and then they want to interview them one at a time. I had to tell them that half the kids here right now are the new intake and the ones they really wanted to see left early this morning. They didn’t like that.”
“I don’t suppose they would.” Pixie clucked. “Not that interviewing the kids would do them much good. None of thes
e kids ever admit knowing anything.”
“And they may not,” Greg defended. “They may all be perfectly innocent. The ones who are still here. Let’s face it, if a camper set the fire, he’d have been one of the first ones away this morning. Chief Rogers knows it, too, that’s why he’s so mad. He should have been here at the crack of dawn to stop them before they got away.”
“All this fuss about setting off the bonfire early.” I was amazed. “They really don’t have much of a crime problem in this town, do they?”
“It’s not just the bonfire,” Greg said. “The Chief thinks the same person may have been responsible for the blaze in town. He isn’t sure yet whether it was set deliberately or whether it was caused by sparks drifting down from the bonfire. Whichever way, he’s blaming Camp Mohigonquin.”
“It isn’t fair,” Dexter said. “They always pick on us.”
“I wonder why?” Greg did not seem heartened by Dexter’s championship.
“Come on, Luke, Tim—” Dexter opened the door of the Welcome Wagon impatiently. “Let’s get going. There’s a lot of new kids in today—let’s show them the ropes.”
“Just watch it, Dexter.” Greg’s face was grim.
“Huh?” Dexter widened his eyes, looking improbably innocent. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh yes you do. I mean—” Greg spelled it out—“no more initiation rites. We don’t want a repeat of last year.”
“Aw, Greg, that was an accident.”
“You were damned lucky that kid’s parents didn’t decide to sue.”
“Aw, Greg …” Dexter had been backing away, now he turned and disappeared into a clump of pines. Luke and Timothy followed him.
“Will they be all right?” I looked after Timothy anxiously. “What did happen last year?”
“Never mind,” Greg said. “It’s over and it will never happen again I’ll guarantee that. But it was a damned good thing for Dexter that he was here in camp last night and we can prove it.”
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