"City man," growled Leo contemptuously, "but nice enough."
"Concussion?" asked Andrew.
"Very mild. Mainly shock and liquor," said Miss L'Hommedieu disapprovingly. "We were advised to remove him from the Persian rug because he may vomit later."
"But not necessarily," put in Gussie.
"He's to be kept very quiet," added Tarragon, "while he— as the doctor put it—'sleeps it off.' "
Leo gave Gussie a grin. "And Gussie has just the antidote for him when he wakes up and can keep it down."
"Yes I remember," Andrew said wryly. "Dump night."
"The doctor thought it a miracle the man being alive, too."
"Which means," said Miss L’Hommedieu, nodding, "that he has been preserved for mysterious and important reasons."
"Like more burglaries?" quipped Andrew, but was quelled by Miss L’Hommedieu's reproachful glance.
Tarragon had made their dinner, "because Gussie's tired from her trip this morning," she said, tactfully avoiding the word depressed. It was a vegetable stew in which Andrew counted potato, onions, kale, green beans, parsley, and spinach, with a touch of garlic—all grown in their garden, which impressed him, and dessert was a custard. A virtual banquet, thought Andrew. Once they had finished, they hurried out to the porch to inspect the metal detector that leaned against Miss L'Hommedieu's chair. They would take turns, said Leo, looking it over, but he would go first because he had the most muscle—and looking at his broad shoulders Andrew thought that yes he did. Tarragon brought sticks from the woodpile, Gussie contributed string, and Andrew helped them to stake out the lines down which they should move, while Leo, given this new toy, began at once on the farthest end. He moved slowly, like a farmer sowing seed, the handle gripped firmly with both hands, and Andrew realized that what he had contributed today was not only a metal detector, but hope. He was sure of this when Gussie excused herself and without explanation headed into the woods, to her emerald-green mossy retreat, but she returned in time to watch the sun set.
"And now Miss L’Hommedieu’s story," announced Tarragon. "Can't miss hearing that."
Twilight had faded into darkness; it was a comforting return to normalcy to gather around the kitchen table and be entertained by Miss L’Hommedieu. Two candles had been lit; a soft warm breeze reached them through the opened windows, bringing with it the scent of warm earth and the sound of crickets. The light of the candle turned Tarragon's eyes a brilliant sapphire and rested kindly on the rough, craggy features of Leo's face. As for Miss L'Hommedieu, in flowing chiffon tonight, Andrew thought that she looked exactly like an ancient priestess.
From the folds of chiffon she brought out a sheet of paper, and clearing her throat began to read: " 'There is no way of knowing how or why, but, somewhere in the hills, a young girl wanders wild and free in the land she loved as a child. Miracles, like people,' " she read, " 'can never be dissected or analyzed or captured in a bottle, and if it was true that she was a ghost—that she'd been killed by a jealous lover—she was nevertheless seen on moonlit nights as clearly as if she was flesh and blood.' '
She stopped, and there was silence. It occurred to Andrew for the first time that each fragment, each vignette that she wrote was bestowed upon them like a gift that each of them could finish in their own way. For Andrew her story brought back to him the ghostly mist that he'd watched creep over the pond the evening before, and in the flickering light of the candles he could believe in that ghost, wandering free and wild among the hills.
Until, with a wry smile, he recalled that a very un-ghostlike burglar lay drunk in their parlor, safely removed from the Persian rug lest he vomit, and this brought him back to the moment.
Friday
10
Thou pretty herb of Venus' tree,
Thy true name it is Yarrow;
Now who my bosom friend must be,
Pray tell thou me to-morrow. —Halliwell, Popular Rhymes
Andrew, waking early, hurried to dress so that he could continue the search of the field for his great-aunt's money. Like hunting pirate treasure, he thought whimsically. It was just six o'clock when he tiptoed up the hall to the rarely used front staircase and descended to quietly open one of the sliding doors to the parlor and see how their burglar had fared during the night. He was surprised to see that Leo was fast asleep on the sofa while their mystery man, still on the floor, snored loudly. Closing the door, Andrew walked down the hall into the kitchen and found Artemus seated at the table with a thermos in front of him, his mail jeep visible beyond the open door.
He nodded companionably at Andrew. "Brought coffee with me, not being herbal. Care for a cup?"
"I'd love some," Andrew said fervently. But you're certainly early!"
Artemus poured his thick, fragrant, steaming brew into a china cup and handed it to him. "I'll be waking up the chap in the parlor shortly, I'm here to tape-record a statement from him before I go to work. If he talks, and says what I hope he'll say, there'll be some arrests by the state police today. After that your overnight guest will be tucked away in jail as a witness." With a nod toward the open door he added, "Gussie let me in. She's doing whatever witches do in the woods."
Curious, Andrew said, "You really believe, then, that she's a witch?"
Artemus considered this seriously. "One has to admit she knows things."
"Like what?" asked Andrew, sipping coffee he'd not tasted for five days.
Artemus chuckled. "You've seen her sunflowers. And even in a drought it's spooky how her vegetables thrive. She certainly saved Mr. Branowski when he had pneumonia and the Pittsville doctor said he was a goner. It's a strange power she seems to have."
"You do think she's a witch, then?"
"I look at it this way," Artemus said thoughtfully. "I'm not good with words, but she has—well, I'd call it an uncanny connection—a kinship—with Nature. That's as far as I'd go, but your great-aunt Miss Thale said Gussie comes from a long line of such people—probably burned at the stake in the old days—so she's inherited whatever it is." He frowned. "Which is why I hate like hell this news about losing the house, woods, and pond to Swiss chalets. I think Miss Gussie Pease would just fade away."
"I think so, too," said Andrew.
Artemus put down his cup of coffee and brought out a thick notebook, a pen, and his tape recorder. "Time to get to work. Strictly private, Leo'll have to leave the parlor; he stayed the night there."
Artemus disappeared, and Leo appeared and volunteered to make breakfast while Andrew advanced their work on the field with the metal detector. When he came in again, Gussie had returned from the woods, breakfast was waiting and Miss L'Hommedieu was making a stately entrance, followed by Tarragon.
"Half the field's been gone over now—nothing yet," he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Going to be another hot day."
"We could finish the field by noon, couldn't we?" asked Tarragon. "If we still find nothing we can start on the front, and then around the side porch, and—" She made a face at what she was saying and retrenched. "We're sure to find it, and I insist on detecting next, before I go look for Mr. Branowski again."
"No clues yesterday?" asked Andrew.
She shook her head. "Nobody's even seen him."
They looked up as Artemus walked into the kitchen carrying his tape recorder and looking pleased. "He's talked," he told them. "Name's Albert Griggs, left New York City six weeks ago and ended up jobless in Pittsville."
Startled, Andrew said, "But you thought a gang?"
He nodded. "Oh yes, Cal Merkle's gang of young hoodlums. Break-ins usually, small stuff. Seems they got ambitious and planned that bank robbery, and damn it, lucked into nearly a million . . . Didn't think Cal had the brains for it. Apparently he met Griggs in a bar in Pittsville, and Griggs must have looked a godsend to him. A new face from out of town, owned a suit and broke, ver)' broke. Took him on as driver and bagman."
"Bagman?" echoed Gussie.
"Bagman. And the bank where Grigg
s rented the safe-deposit box was the Connecticut Savings and Loan." With a glance at his watch Artemus said, "Post office opens in three minutes, got to go." With a nod he left, and they listened to the sound of his jeep as it backed out of the driveway and drove away.
Gussie said firmly, "If the man's awake, take him that glass of juice, Leo, and Andrew, cut a slice of bread for him, too, will you?"
Andrew followed Leo into the parlor, bearing his slice of bread on a plate. Mr. Griggs was still lying on the floor, his eyes closed following his ordeal with Artemus, but he looked more exhausted than asleep. Leo stood over him, glass in hand, and said gruffly, "Got something to make you feel better, but you'll have to sit up."
The man stirred and opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling, then lowered his gaze to Andrew's face and shifted his glance to Leo.
Abruptly his eyes widened, and he said wonderingly, "Leo?"
There was a moment of shocked silence before an astonished Andrew said, "He knows you?"
"Never saw him before in my life," Leo told him indignantly.
Griggs looked around the room with curiosity. "But where— where am I?"
Andrew said sternly; "You're in the house you burgled two nights ago, leaving my room in a god-awful mess."
"But"—his gaze returned to Leo—"still here?" He struggled to sit up and at once gasped, "My head!" and clutched it with both hands.
Educated by Hobe Elkins's blackberry brandy, and knowing exactly how he must feel, Andrew said, "Give him the hellish brew, Leo."
Handing him the glass, Griggs took a sip, his eyes still on Leo, puzzled. He shuddered as Gussie's antidote hit him, gagged, gasped, and then emptied the glass, but when he handed it back to Leo, the color was already returning to his strained white face.
The door slid open and Miss L’Hommedieu swept into the room to assess the situation, and standing next to Leo looked down at the man with interest.
Griggs said incredulously, "You too?"
"What's this all about?" demanded Leo. "He thinks he knows me—and now you?"
"He appears too sober to be hallucinating," said Miss L’Hommedieu and leaned over to study his face with scholarly interest. "His hair is obviously dyed black—and very badly. I have often suspected that a beard can hide a weak chin," she added calmly. "If you picture him with a beard and a mustache, Leo—a very sweeping mustache—and the nose not broken ... Look at his eyes, Leo, and those eyebrows and cheekbones."
Leo stared at the man, scowling, and abruptly said, "My God, not Hamlet?"
Mr. Griggs groaned. " A man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratched—' "
"Taming of the Shrew," said Miss L'Hommedieu, nodding. "Definitely Hamlet," and added gently, "Welcome to Thale's Folly, Hamlet."
Andrew decided they had both gone a little mad until he saw the tears running down the man's cheeks. "I left New York—desperate to find you," he gasped. "I hoped—so hoped— but there was no lawn and no croquet set, the grass so high, paint peeling off the house—I thought it empty, and—" His voice broke in a sob and he scrubbed at his tears with dirty hands. "I've found you—after all?" he said, and hiccupped.
"Miss Thale is dead," Miss L'Hommedieu told him in a kind voice, "but Gussie is still here, and Leo, and Tarragon."
"Little Tarragon," he repeated. "Oh my God."
"Not so little," said Leo, and raising his voice he shouted, "Gussie? Gussie!"
"But who is he?" asked Andrew.
"One of Harriet's strays.., an actor. Or was," replied Miss L’Hommedieu, and extended a hand to him. "See if you can stand up—you're Mr. Griggs now, are you?"
He tottered to his feet and promptly sank down on the sofa. "It seemed a good name," he muttered, and more urgently, "What happened to me? They gave me three days to find those bank keys—" Tears of weakness spilled from his eyes. "If I couldn't find those keys they said—they said—"
"They did," said Andrew. "Threw you out of a car drunk and reeking with whiskey."
"Yet here I am at Thale's Folly! If only—only I'd known you were here! I hitchhiked up from New York, no job, no money, no prospects, and—"
"And got into very bad company," pointed out Leo.
"I hadn't eaten in two days, I'd hoped Miss Thale would take me in."
Andrew said to Leo, "But didn't you know his name? recognize the name Griggs?"
Miss L'Hommedieu said tartly, "Scarcely possible when seven years ago—it is seven years, isn't it?—he was Toby Gravino."
The sliding doors flew open and Gussie, followed by Tarragon, said crossly, "What is it now, Leo, we were busy—"
"It's Hamlet," Leo told her.
"Hamlet?" gasped Tarragon. "Oh Mr. Gravino, I've never forgotten you, how wonderful to see you again!"
"You'll have him crying again," pointed out Miss L'Hommedieu. "He's very weak just now."
Gussie said sharply, "All very well to welcome him, but he broke into this house—how could you, Hamlet!"
"I never dreamed it was you still living here .. ."
"No croquet set," Andrew explained dryly.
"I thought—long gone," he said, and added miserably, " 'Oh, what a world of vile ill-favored faults!'. . . That man— that man who asked all those questions, I'm to go to jail now?"
"Yes," said Andrew.
"Oh no," cried Tarragon.
"You've grown up," he said in a dazed voice, staring at her. "You've grown beautiful."
' 'They that touch pitch will be defiled,' " pointed out Miss L’Hommedieu.
He nodded. "Much Ado About Nothing. Yes, of course to jail I must go. A new experience for me at least—'there's small choice in rotten apples!' but—Ah, the inaudible and noiseless foot of Time!' "
Tarragon grinned at Andrew mischievously. "Mr. Gravino is how I learned Shakespeare, he hasn't changed a bit."
"Yes, he fairly drips it," said Andrew. "What do we do now?"
"I know what Í do," said Gussie. "It's my turn to run the machine over the field. Two more rows to do, and if that thing doesn't find"—with a glance at Hamlet—"doesn't find you-know-what, we'll know nothing is buried there. Unfortunately."
"Lawn mowing, is it?" said Hamlet. "Give me an hour or two, and I'll help. Penance," he added. "A trifle frail just now, but if I'm to sit in a jail cell for weeks"—he sighed—" 'to be imprisoned in the viewless winds, and blown with restless violence 'round about the pendant world
Gussie patted him on the shoulder. "Just rest, Mr. Gravino, and enjoy being alive. What you need is some red clover tea to clear your system of poisons."
The side field was finished by one o'clock in the afternoon and yielded nothing; the metal detector gave no tug or pull to signal a companion metal in the earth. Leo and Gussie took turns consoling their prisoner in the parlor. Following lunch, Andrew took a stroll down Thale Road and was gratified by what he found but said nothing of what he'd seen; that had to come later, but he felt almost shy about it. At three o'clock a state police car drew up to the house and two officers brought out Mr. Gravino-Griggs in handcuffs but this Andrew didn't see, for he had been running the metal detector down the path to the pond, where he stole a brief swim to cool off. Tarragon reported to him later that both Gussie and Leo had followed the police to the car, explaining to them— or trying to—that Mr. Griggs was a very fine actor and well known to them, but had been too poor to resist bad company.
"Ask Artemus" were Leo's final words to them. "Tell them he's Hamlet, damn it, he'll remember."
But Artemus, of course, was delivering the mail on his afternoon rounds.
The rows between the vegetables were walked through with the detector, and the ground between the house and the road were swept. Hot, tired and exhausted they at last gave up their search and at six o'clock returned to the kitchen, where Tarragon made cucumber and tomato sandwiches for them. But no one touched their supper.
"We've covered every inch," Gussie said in a discouraged voice. "Except for the woods, but I cannot imagine—"
"We can't try th
e woods," Leo said firmly. "Absolutely not, she'd never have buried anything in the woods."
"She could have—if she'd left a map," pointed out Gussie, and with a sigh, "We have to give up, have to." To Andrew she said, "Mr. Margus was going to send a cable to your father about his not owning the land now. We'll just have to accept Mr. Margus's suggestion and sell the woods. You think your father would be interested in buying twenty-two or twenty-three acres?"
Andrew thought his father would be far more interested in berating him for ever finding Harriet Thale's will. He said truthfully, "I wouldn't count on it, but Mr. Crumbull of Bear and Crumbull seemed eager."
The moment had come for him to make his statement, and he nervously cleared his throat. "In the meantime I have something to say to you that you must all hear."
He was looked at with surprise.
"Yesterday," he told them, "when my mother and I took the bus into Pittsville we didn't just rent the metal detector, we also visited the electric company."
"Electric company?" said Gussie blankly.
He nodded. "To ask the cost of reconnecting your house with electricity, which—considering what I still have in my savings account in the bank—is affordable for me. And this afternoon, as promised, there were two men down on Thale Road checking the lines, and also the poles for termites."
"Lines? Poles?" said Miss L'Hommedieu, frowning. "Termites?"
"Oh," gasped Tarragon. "Oh Andrew!"
"It may take as long as a week," he explained, "but you'll have electricity very soon for the winter—and the oil tank filled, too—for at least one year, which should give you time to—well, find the right buyer for the land if it's necessary, seeing how there's no money."
Gussie had heard him out and now said fiercely, "We don't take charity, Andrew, you hear me? We do not accept charity."
On stronger ground now, Andrew smiled. "But it's not charity, Gussie, it's a bribe. Actually it's blackmail."
"Blackmail!" exclaimed Gussie.
"Yes, because you'll have to take me along with the electricity. I want to stay here with you for that one year, Gussie. I may never write another book again but I'm growing more and more cheerful by the day. It's good for me here."
Thales's Folly Page 11