“You invited Sylvia Toft to your book club?”
“Not exactly, but sort of. They really can’t stand each other, Charlie. I didn’t know how to stop it, so I hid under the kitchen table.”
“I find it hard to believe Clover was in on this.”
“No, she wasn’t. I think she might have been under the coffee table.”
“How did it end?”
“With a lot of shouting. One of the Blackwells yelled, Heads will roll, Toft! Heads will roll! And then Sylvia: You may have taken the hill, but we took the valley. And one of the Blackwells shouted, We let you stay in the valley! And Sylvia: Lies! Lies! Then the door slammed… several times. Clover found me ten minutes later. She offered to help clean up.”
“Why didn’t you let her?”
“Well, I didn’t think you would believe me, so I left the evidence.”
CHAPTER 23
1890
Mungo Blackwell looked down upon the valley. When he was young, his father often spoke of the rolling green pastures that fell between the hills of hickories, oaks, and cedars. “It’s waiting for us Mungo. It’s our land. There’s a house… More than enough for us all,” Mumford would say. “We’ll find our way back.”
Mungo knew the tale, how his father had left the country as a young man, using the family trade in hopes of saving his family, while also satisfying his adventurous spirit. Every penny he made he sent back home, but it wasn’t enough, so he’d purchased the land, sending instruction that his family could settle there. The family had made the journey across the sea to the new land as Mumford hoped they would. Eventually he felt it time to reunite with them and began the long journey to his new home, only to learn they had all died, leaving Mumford and Mungo the last of the Blackwells.
But the illness had taken Mumford before he could see the land he’d given to his family, and the modest homestead had fallen into disrepair.
All that remained of the Blackwell estate were four stone walls. It wasn’t what Mungo had in mind, but it would have to do. He would need more stone, but as the soil was rocky he would have to quarry what he needed from the valley.
Mungo would repair the homestead a section at a time; they could live in it while they raised their first-born – Sarra was with child.
The house would be a long house of sorts, in the fashion of his ancestors; he’d separate their dwelling from the barn and build a workshop to make their shoes. In his travels he had seen the architecture of many homes. He did not need a castle or a sprawling palace, but he did not want the ramshackle house of a pauper either. It would be their home, with everything they needed, but above all, he wanted to build for Sarra a reminder of her home far away – an arched doorway.
For four months Mungo hauled stones up the hill, carefully placing each one. On one particular cloudless day as Mungo toted the heavy granite up the hill, his wife called for him.
“Mungo!”
Mungo dropped the stone and raced to his love only to find her surrounded by three men. “Good day, Mr Blackwell.”
Mungo nodded.
“We have an issue, you see. You are building your home on our land – Toft land.”
“I believe you are mistaken.” Mungo crossed his arms across his chest. “This is Blackwell land – belonging to my father, Mumford Blackwell, son of MacDonnell Blackwell.”
“It is you who are mistaken, Blackwell. This land has laid unclaimed for more than forty years. It’s Toft land now.”
Mungo was taken aback. “And how is it you claim it as Toft?”
“Because we took it.”
Sarra placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
Mungo reached in his pocket for his can of beeswax. “This is Blackwell land, Toft – the home of my father. It belongs to me. You are a thief.”
“We will give you three months to gather your belongings and leave, Blackwell. After three months, we will take back our land,” the Toft snarled.
“So be it.” Mungo twisted his mustachio and stroked his red beard.
Three months came and went. Mungo continued to build their home, and Sarra’s tummy grew into a large round ball. As a gift and a place to birth their baby, he hand-carved her a huge four-poster bed of walnut. He placed upon it a featherbed filled with down given to him by the commander of the Serbian army – the prince and military leader had been very pleased with his tall boots, particularly the bit of a lift Mungo had added to the heel. Mungo had a wool canopy and blanket shipped over from his Scottish homeland in Sarra’s favorite color, green. He had asked the weaver to add in a few strands of black to represent his journeys past and white for their days to come. The result was a remarkable plaid that would usher in the new Blackwell.
However, Sarra would not birth her first child in the ornate bed. As Mungo was tending to the sheep on an early October morning before the fog had given way to the sun, his wife screamed.
“Mungo! They’re back!”
“Stay away from the windows!” he yelled as he ran to protect his bride. “I’ll hang him up if they step a foot closer to our land!”
Suddenly, Sarra’s body writhed in agony as an intense pain gripped her. She clutched her rather large front, fell under the threshold of their arched stone doorway, and yelled, “Mungo, the baby!”
“I’ll deliver our child when I return.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I will always protect you, my Sarra. No son of mine will be born to face the tyranny of dishonest men!” He grabbed his sword, his weapon of choice, and ran out to face the enemy.
In the distance, the oldest of the Toft brothers charged at Mungo, sword in hand. “Your house is mine, Blackwell! This is my land!”
“No, you lopsided mongrel! I own this land and built the house with my bare hands.”
“Mungo!” Sarra called, now lying flat on her back with her knees propped. “The baby! It’s coming!”
“Then we will fight for it!” the Toft shouted. He thrust his sword at Mungo, but Mungo calmly slid to his left, avoiding the blade.
“This sword,” Mungo said, holding it in his left hand and twisting the tip of his mustachio with the other, “was given to me by the pirate king of the mid-Atlantic. Never a man lived that faced its blade.”
“Mungoooooo!” Sarra yelled.
“Never a pirate faced me,” the Toft snarled.
The two fought – a parrying of calculated back and forth movements. The swords clashed, and then a strike to Mungo’s left arm. Mungo passed the sword from his left hand to his right and swung the blade at the face of the man as his lazy brothers stood by and watched – a clean cut to the chin.
Sarra called out in such pain it echoed down through the valley below.
Suddenly, the Toft thrust his sword toward Mungo. Mungo stumbled back but, unfazed by the strike to his arm, he spun around, and with a furious wail, he swung his sword at the neck of the thief.
The Toft clutched his neck and fell to his knees.
Mungo knelt at his side. “I will not take your life, but I will take back my land. You may settle your families peacefully in the valley, but know all of this will forever belong to the Blackwells. Mungo stood and offered his hand to the Toft, who took it and then hobbled off with his brothers.
“Mungoooo!” Sarra yelled.
Mungo ran to her, his left harm hanging in pain by his side. But one arm was sufficient for him to deliver his son – the first of seven sons to be born in the house of Blackwell.
CHAPTER 24
Charlie Price passed through the arched stone doorway of the Coraloo Flea market as he did every weekend, openly defying the constable’s advice and Shug’s warning. Even with the most recent sale of the Boy Scout patches – which were going to take them comfortably through Christmas – and the sale of the French horn, which was, to his relief, due to be delivered in the next week, he felt numb to it all. His insides were jittery and his normally compartmentalized thoughts were running amuck. He had stayed up late helping Velveteen pick up the crumbs following he
r book club debacle. Gideon was sorely disappointed, having missed out on a genuine food fight. He asked if they could do it again sometime, to which Velveteen and Charlie, on hands and knees scraping bits and pieces of smashed macaron from the floor, had both replied in unison, “No!”
The storefronts were festooned with glittery garlands and red bows, and a gigantic Christmas tree stood in the middle of the market, to be lit by Shug on Christmas Eve. The Price family had learned of the event at the passing of Granny Blackwell. Apparently, the children had a special performance planned – one Danger claimed was the most important of them all, but he had sworn Gideon to secrecy, saying it would be a surprise for the elder Prices. Traditionally, Granny provided the cookies, but as the cousins and aunts still held strong that their baking capabilities were not up to par, there would be none this year. The aunt who made the ribbon began bottling mulled wine in September for the occasion, and Stephen read passages from A Christmas Carol. It was a night for the Blackwells, but open to anyone that would come – because of the Prices, this was the first year they actually expected anyone from the bottom of the hill to attend.
“Will you go to the lighting?” Velveteen had asked Charlie on their walk home from the vigil.
“Of course, we’ll all go, as a family.”
“What about –”
“I can’t be afraid of him, Velveteen. Coraloo is where we live, and if this is what they do in Coraloo, then it’s what the Prices will do.”
“You know the Tofts have a separate tree lighting in town, don’t you?”
Charlie had laughed. “I guess we will have to go to both. After all, we do live in a Toft house.”
With Velveteen’s party only three weeks away, preparations were in full swing. It had taken her months to pull off the feat in the city; in their new, simplified life, Charlie was excited to see how the Price Christmas party would come together. Velveteen hadn’t mentioned any trips to the city as of late, but he couldn’t put aside his unease. The stories of seeing the acquaintances and medical records – they didn’t add up.
The market shops were busier than usual, flooded with gift buyers searching out that final special item on their list. However, the vendors were fewer and less eager to draw in customers, most of them actually sitting in folding chairs behind their tables chatting with one another. Charlie was about to examine the contents of what appeared to be a turn-of-the-century tin hatbox when he noticed the constable and his two plain-clothed volunteer officers walking briskly toward Stephen’s shop.
As the competition was slim to none today, he headed in their direction, but made a note to come back and attempt to make an offer before he left. A small crowd had formed around the exterior of the bookshop. Charlie scanned the market for Gideon, forgetting for a moment that he was safely in school. He picked up his pace and shouldered his way through the spectators and into the shop. He could see Stephen speaking calmly to the constable and the officers dusting for fingerprints around the counter. Something had been stolen. Charlie craned his neck to get a better look – the glass case with the wooden frame stood open: the Kipling was gone.
Charlie’s heart sank as if his own possession had been taken from him. He moved toward the front. Stephen waved, not looking away from the constable. Charlie returned the greeting. Stephen waved again, this time with an agitated motion that told Charlie to go. He understood; Stephen had a lot to deal with. As Charlie turned to walk back out into the market, he found himself once again facing Shug Blackwell.
“Here’s your man, officers!” Shug held up his arm and pointed down at Charlie. Stephen had been trying to warn him.
“Now wait a minute!” Charlie shouted over the commotion caused by the officers running toward him. The constable and Stephen Blackwell were not far behind.
“What’s going on?” Stephen stepped between Shug and Charlie.
“Stephen, you told me Price had his eye on it, didn’t you?”
“I did, but that was only because –”
“Business has been a little slow for you lately, hasn’t it, Price? That book would help things out. Buy your pretty little wife a new dress?” There was a smirk, a grin hidden behind the bushy red beard.
“Hold on, hold on,” Charlie squared his chest. He had hit Shug before; he wasn’t afraid to do it again.
Stephen stepped between them and held his hands up. “Come on now, Shug. You don’t really believe he –”
“Roy, we have prints!” an officer called from the back.
Shug nudged his way back in front of Charlie. “Are we going to find your prints on that case, Price?”
Stephen threw his hands in the air. “Shug, enough of this.”
“Are we, Price?” Shug pressed.
“Those prints could be anybody’s. A thousand people must have passed through here,” sighed Stephen. Charlie stood stock still.
“He doesn’t deny it.”
Unless Innis had wiped it down, his prints were on the case. “It was weeks ago,” Charlie looked to Stephen, “I… I just wanted a proper look at it. I should have told you.”
“Sounds to me like you should take him in officers. He admits his prints are on the case.”
The officers stepped closer.
“I didn’t take the book!”
The constable placed his hand on Charlie’s back. “Come on Mr Price – let’s go down to the station.”
Charlie jerked away. “No! I’m not going anywhere. Are you really going to arrest me for nothing a second time?” He turned to fight his way through the audience, but his anger got the best of him. “And another thing, did you really think I was a spy for the Chinese? Does that make any sense to anyone?”
“All right, Mr Price, calm down. We just want to ask you a few questions.”
“I won’t calm down! You’ll lock me up for something ridiculous. What is it this time, the Russian mafia? Or better yet – ”
“Charlie,” Stephen tried to calm him, “you need to stop. I know you didn’t steal the Kipling. Answer his questions, and you’ll be home with Velveteen and Gideon before nightfall.”
“Oh! I’m just getting started! What if I’m a hired assassin on the hunt for rogue emissaries from Bermuda?” Charlie shouted as he ducked behind an innocent onlooker and pretended to hold out an imaginary gun. “Or, or what if I’m a ninja! Yes! That’s it! I’m a ninja!” Charlie jumped out and began swinging his arm like a sword at the two officers attempting to corner him.
Charlie slid to the side, escaping their grasp. “Is that all you’ve got? I could do this all day!”
He took off toward the front door, imagining a stealthy somersault past Shug. But two strong hands to the chest stopped him. The constable stood in front of Charlie with arms outstretched. He was much stronger than Charlie would have guessed. Charlie’s heart raced as he attempted to slow his breathing, catching both his breath and his sanity.
“Let’s not go frightening the tourists, Mr Price. We have a few questions to help with the investigation and then you will be on your way.”
Charlie backed away. “I’m not going with you!”
The constable stepped closer. “Mr Price, under the statutes which prohibit obstructing an officer in an investigation you are under arrest.” The officers surrounded Charlie. “You have the right to remain silent.” The constable pulled Charlie’s hands behind his back and placed him in handcuffs. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The curious onlookers parted. Charlie had half a mind to bark at the tourist who said, “I believe he’s gone bonkers!”
Maybe he was going mental. Maybe he did steal the Kipling… no, he had only wanted a peek, and that was weeks ago. Truthfully, he hadn’t even thought about the book since.
Innis Wilkinson pushed her cart of cleaning goods past them – her scissors remained secure around her neck. What makes a person do such a strange thing? He laughed, prompting a warning eye from the constable who held tight to his arm. Five minutes
ago he had attempted to assassinate Shug with his finger gun and nearly chopped off the heads of the officers with his ninja arm sword. Innis Wilkinson’s scissors had nothing on Charlie Price’s rant in the bookstore. I think the Blackwells are rubbing off on me.
On his way out, he caught a glimpse of the tin hatbox, unmoved and unsold. He doubted he would be back the next day to purchase it. Like all of the other unpurchased items dotting the vendors’ tables, there was a time when it represented provision and possibility, a hope for a different life, a simple life, but now, for the first time, he could see it was merely a place to hide from his failure.
“Move along, Mr Price.”
Charlie didn’t argue this time. He didn’t have the fight in him anymore.
“Oh, Charlie!” Velveteen shouted as she pushed through the wooden door of the law enforcement office. She was immediately silenced and asked to have a seat by the front door until they were done processing the prisoner – at the word prisoner she ran to a row of chairs designated “Waiting”, crying uncontrollably. Charlie wanted to run after her, to tell her everything would be okay – he had told her that all too often in the past year. She would know what had happened soon enough. Not much was a secret in Coraloo. He’d been accused of stealing the one thing he had wanted more than anything else; not only that, he had entered into what most likely appeared to be a schizophrenic battle with the two elderly volunteer officers of the Coraloo police department.
Charlie slouched in the same hard metal chair he had sat in the last time he had been there. Nothing had changed. Portraits of the past seven Coraloo constables hung in a row on the wall. Charlie studied the photographs to find the man in front of him. The constable was slightly older than the man in the photograph – gray hairs, wrinkles above his eyebrows, and added weight around the chin. This man had served more years as constable than Gideon had lived.
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 20