Fenimore chuckled. “For a minute I thought Lydia was going to come with us.”
“You and your old dames!” Jennifer burst out, unexpectedly.
“You and your young blade!” Fenimore retorted.
Jennifer dragged one skate, slowing her pace, to look at him.
“Greg,” Fenimore said, and was horrified at the petulance of his tone.
Coming to a full stop, Jennifer’s blades sent up sparks. “Greg Nicholson?”
Fenimore looked confused.
Her laughter pealed though the still cold air like sleigh bells. “He’s my cousin. I told you my uncle has a boys’ school in New England. Greg is his youngest son. He was caught smoking pot with some of his buddies one day, and my uncle thought it would be a good idea to get him away from his peers for a while. They sent him down to us for the summer to work in the store. He’s only sixteen.”
“He looks twenty-six.”
“Kids age faster these days. He wasn’t much help. He’s too lazy.”
They started skating again. Fenimore, suddenly exhilarated, skated faster. “But he was good with the computer,” he called back to her.
“I said he was lazy, not stupid. Once he’s out of school, some internet company will snap him up and he’ll probably be a millionaire by the time he’s thirty.” She caught up with him.
“Shhh.” He touched her arm. “Listen.”
They paused. The moon was just beginning to rise over the marsh.
“What are we listening for?” she whispered.
“The absence of sound.”
No bird calls. No katydids. No wind. Not even a dog barking. Fenimore imagined this stillness to be like the stillness of outer space, or the end of the world. He took her arm. They skated together until the ice became too rough, and—needing both arms for balance—they were forced to separate.
“Aren’t we getting near that ‘X’ on your map?” Jennifer asked.
Fenimore paused to get his bearings. It was hard to keep track of all the twists and turns in the creek. He pulled out the map and studied it in the moonlight. The “X” was about a half-mile from Possum Hollow Road. “It should be coming up soon,” he said.
Jennifer charged ahead, disappearing around the next bend.
Fenimore was just beginning to worry when she came tearing back.
“I think I’ve found your treasure. Come on.” She grabbed his arm, pulling him after her. Around the bend loomed the dark bulk of a small building—a cottage, the same shape and style as Lydia’s cottage. It was covered with ivy. Jennifer clambered up the bank and began tugging at the brittle vines.
“What are you doing?” He followed more clumsily.
In a few minutes they had cleared a wide swath of brick wall. Clearly visible in the moonlight was the date 1754 worked in blue bricks—and above it, the initials “A.F.”
“For Adam Fairfax, I’ll bet,” said Fenimore, remembering the local family name.
“Or,” said Jennifer, “Andrew Fenimore.”
Fenimore’s head jerked up. He stared at the starry sky. Was that Reebesther Smith laughing?
Back at the house, Horatio left the festivities to go upstairs to the bathroom. When he came out, he passed one of the guest bedrooms and caught sight of the old sea chest. With a swift look up and down the hall, he ducked into the room. Taking out his penknife, he twisted it twice in the rusty lock. The lock sprang open. Slowly, he lifted the lid. A familiar scent met his nostrils. Camphor. His mother used it with a liberal hand when she stored stuff in the summer. Inside lay a pile of blankets, neatly folded. Pink, blue, yellow. Moth balls, the size of marbles, were scattered over the top.
What did you expect, man?
He shut the lid and resnapped the lock. They were starting to sing carols down below. One voice carried more clearly above the others. Susan? Mrs. Ashley? He went to the head of the stairs and peered down.
Doyle.
“Jesu, joy of man’s desiring …” One of his favorites. As Horatio descended the stairs, he joined in the singing.
Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
—Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island
ALSO BY ROBIN HATHAWAY
The Doctor Digs a Grave
The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
Notes
1 Czech for veal
THE DOCTOR AND THE DEAD MAN’S CHEST. Copyright © 2001 by Robin Hathaway. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
www.minotaurbooks.com
eISBN 9781429975193
First eBook Edition : March 2011
First Edition: November 2001
The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Page 28