Steeplechase

by Jane Langton

  Steeplechase

  A Homer Kelly Mystery

  Jane Langton

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media Ebook

  For Joe Gillson

  1868

  The Aeronauts

  Thank God, men cannot as yet fly, and lay waste the sky as well as the earth!

  —Henry Thoreau, Journal, January 3, 1861

  The Brothers Spratt

  The wind was blowing gently west-southwest. Two church steeples in the town of Bedford veered away below the balloon as the Spratt brothers dropped their leaflets, and before long two more spires appeared above the trees in the town of Concord.

  “Two churches apiece they got, Jack,” said Jake.

  “Right you are, Jake,” said Jack. “Two apiece.”

  Looking down, they could see Hector. He was standing up in his wagon, whooping at his tired old horse as it galloped after them along the road.

  Now the main street of Concord opened out below them. Pale Concord faces gazed up. Jake slid the lid halfway over the firebox, and the balloon drifted lower over the housetops so that everyone could read the painted words on the bag:

  J. & J. SPRATT

  PORTRAIT AND AERIAL

  PHOTOGRAPHY

  Jake picked up another bundle of pamphlets, dropped them over the side, and watched them flutter down on the street. Some lodged on rooftops, some disappeared in the leafy canopies of elm trees, some fell on the muddy road, and some were caught by eager hands reaching up.

  “Whoopsie, Jake,” said Jack, because the wind was shifting into another quarter.

  “Going due west now, Jack,” said Jake, and he opened the firebox again to lift the balloon high over the road to Nashoba. As it rose, he leaned out to look for Hector. Had he caught up? Yes, there was the wagon, a speck in the distance, with Hector’s old horse pounding along at a gallop.

  Jake made a huge pointing gesture—West, Hector, we’re heading west—and Hector understood. He was waving his hat in the same direction.

  “This here must be Nashoba, Jake,” said Jack as the next town came in sight.

  “Right you are, Jack,” said Jake. “Hey, Jack, look at that there big tree.”

  “What tree, Jake?” said Jack.

  “Down there in the graveyard, Jack. See there?”

  “My goodness, Jake. I ain’t never seen such a big old granddaddy tree.”

  “Whoopsie, Jack. I almost forgot.” Nimbly, Jake untied another packet of pamphlets and dropped them over the side. Once again, hands reached up and children ran after fluttering scraps of paper. Looking back, Jack and Jake saw the main street of Nashoba drifting away behind them, until only the low dome of the church steeple was visible above the trees.

  “Wind’s died,” said Jake. “We’d best go down.”

  “Where to, Jake? In that there field?”

  “See if Hector’s a-coming, Jack,” said Jake, closing the firebox.

  “Yep, Jake. I see his horse and wagon. That poor old nag, she’s weaving all over the road.”

  “Poor thing must be wore-out,” said Jake. “Whoopsie! Hang on, Jack.”

  The basket settled with a bump in the pasture, tipped, dragged, bounced, tipped, dragged, and at last came to a stop in the grassy stubble between two flabbergasted cows.

  NOW

  Joy on the River

  “Why!” said I … “the stones are happy, Concord River is happy, and I am happy too.… Do you think that Concord River would have continued to flow these millions of years by Clamshell Hill and round Hunt’s Island … if it had been miserable in its channel, tired of existence, and cursing its maker and the hour that it sprang?”

  —Henry Thoreau, Journal, January 6, 1857

  Homer’s Happy Day

  Something amazing was happening. Homer Kelly had become a star.

  “I know it’s ridiculous,” said his editor. “I mean, it’s like a meteor falling on your head. That book of yours is number one on the Times bestseller list for nonfiction.”

  “But Luther, it came out three years ago,” crowed Homer happily. “This is just a reprint of a boring old scholarly work. There isn’t a ripped bodice in it anywhere.”

  Luther chuckled. “Well, who knows the ways of Providence? Sometimes it casteth down; sometimes it raiseth up.”

  “Having often been casteth down,” cried Homer, “I’m grateful to be raiseth up.”

  “Watch it,” scolded Luther, who was a stickler for grammatical perfection. “Thou shouldest not mess around with tricky old verb forms like that.”

  They argued gaily for a while about eths and ests, thees and thous, and then Homer cackled a jolly good-bye. He wanted to jump up and down, but he was afraid the floorboards would snap under his six and a half feet of flab. Instead, he bounded out the door and hollered at his wife, “Number one, I’m number one.”

  Mary looked up from the shallows, where she was boot-deep in pickerelweed, and shouted back, “That’s crazy. It’s just ridiculous.” But she, too, was laughing as she slopped out of the water.

  Homer hurtled down the porch steps and hoisted her off the ground. “You know what a bestselling writer gotta have?” he chortled joyfully. “He gotta have champagne. We’ll just make a little trip into town.”

  It was a happy day. “I deserve it,” said Homer smugly, raising his glass. “I’ve been in the wilderness too long.”

  “You certainly have,” said Mary.

  “And the strangest thing has been happening in our department. Have you noticed that all the new grad students are mere babies? The other day, I swear I saw one of them sucking her thumb.”

  “It’s not that they’re younger, Homer dear; it’s just that we’re older. But honestly, this is such a wild stroke of luck. Whatever got into all those people, going into all those stores and buying a book about the spread of old New England churches?”

  “I’ve become chic, that’s it,” bragged Homer, pouring Mary another glass. “Everybody’s got to have my Hen and Chicks.”

  “They won’t read it, of course,” said Mary, laughing. “It isn’t exactly a page-turner.”

  “Well, who the hell cares?”

  After lunch, Homer hauled the battered aluminum canoe down to the water’s edge for a celebratory paddle, but his phone buzzed as he shoved off. He put it to his ear, yelled, “Just a sec,” and stuck it in his pocket while he poled the canoe away from the shore. Afloat at last, he pulled out the phone. “Okay, here I am.”

  It was Luther again, more excited than ever. “Listen, Homer, we’ve got to follow this up; we’ve got to strike while the iron is hot. How’s the new book coming along?”

  The breeze was mild, the river placid. Homer was appalled. “The new book? Christ, Luther, it isn’t anywhere near ready. I haven’t done the work. I’ve got to go to all those churches and talk to people.”

  “I seem to remember it’s got a cute title. What is it? I forget.”

  “Oh God,” groaned Homer, seeing the heavy labor of the next few months appear before him like a cloud over the river. “I’m going to call it Steeplechase.”

  “Oh, right, that’s great. Steeplechase, meaning chasing around after churches. Really catchy. Well, get to work, Homer. Throw it together. Like I said, we’ve got to strike while the iron is hot. People will gobble it up, a peek through the keyhole at all the dirty linen hidden away under all those pious steeples. You know what I mean, Homer, an overview.”

  “An overview?” Homer’s voice was hollow.

  “The title alone will do the trick. Think of the book clubs; think of the advance sales. An overview, that’s all we want, Homer, a godlike view from above.” Luther laughed and shouted, “Get to work, Homer. Steeplechase! Tarantara!”

  1868

>   A Godlike View from Above

  Jack and Jacob Spratt

  Aerial and Portrait Photographers

  Cartes de visite, cabinet photographs

  Men, women, children, and babes

  Mortuarie images a specialty

  Our mobile studio will be at your service

  on the green in Concord

  10 o’clock, Sat’y, May 16.

  Satisfaction garanteed.

  Eben

  A storm of paper drifted down over Concord’s Milldam, flapping all over the road. One pamphlet slapped the nose bag of a horse tied up at the Middlesex Hotel. Startled, it reared and plunged. An astonished deacon plucked another from the front of his coat.

  When one of the flying pamphlets drifted lazily back and forth over the head of Eben Flint, he reached up, smiling, and took it out of the air. It wasn’t every day that messages fell from the sky. Was this an angelic announcement?

  But, of course, it was only a broadside dropped from the hot-air balloon that was majestically disappearing behind the elm trees on Main Street. Eben read the message as he headed for the bank.

  “Eben, Eben,” called Ella Viles. From across the street, she waved a pamphlet.

  Eben waited, watching her dart in front of a team hauling a wagonload of empty barrels. The driver shouted, “Whoa,” the heads of the horses jerked back, and the hollow barrels thumped and rattled. Angrily, the driver shouted, “What’s your hurry, miss?”

  Ella only giggled and bolted to the other side, skipping over puddles in a flurry of swaying skirts. Breathlessly, she held up the pamphlet. “Oh, Eben, we must both be taken.”

  Against the background of the dull mercantile street, she was a lovely object. Behind her, two ladies in drab shawls were gossiping in front of Cutler’s Dry and Fancy Goods, a hired girl hurried past with a basket of eggs, one of the Hosmers shook hands with one of the Wheelers as they agreed to trade two bushels of turnips for one of winter-stored apples, and the fish cart rattled past the town pump, the driver blowing his horn.

  Did Eben mind the way Ella teased him about their names being so much alike? Did he mind her inference that it was the hand of Fate? Did he object to the way she kept saying, “Eben and I,” “Me and Eben?” No, he didn’t mind. Not when it came so sweetly from such a pretty creature as Ella Viles.

  As the wagon rumbled away down the Milldam with its wobbling cargo of barrels, Eben smiled at Ella and shook his head. “I don’t need another likeness. I’ve already been taken.”

  “Oh, that one. I’ve seen that one. Oh, Eben, you were just a little boy. The war is over, and now that you’re back home, you’re so much more grown-up and good-looking.” Ella blushed and dropped her eyes. “And, oh, Eben, I hope you’ll like to have my picture?” Tittering, she said, “My gracious, I’ll have to order a whole set, I have so many admirers.”

  This was said in jest, but it had the desired effect. Eben gazed at her without speaking, and she told herself how delightful it was to be so pretty and to be standing so close to Eben Flint, right here on the Milldam. How that old spinster Betsy Hubble must envy Ella Viles! And surely the other ladies on the street were saying to one another, “There they are again. You always see them together, Ella Viles and Eben Flint.”

  But then Ella remembered that she had sensational news, and her face turned solemn. She stepped closer and lowered her voice, “Oh, Eben, have you heard about James?”

  “James?”

  “James Shaw.” Ella’s eyes shone with the excitement of being the first to tell the horrid story. “He was your teacher, wasn’t he, Eben? Your old friend? Oh, Eben, do you mean you haven’t heard the dreadful news?”

  Eben stiffened and said sharply, “Tell me.”

  “He’s back from that hospital in Philadelphia. And, Eben, they say”—Ella’s eyes widened and her voice sank to a whisper—“they say he’s dreadfully disfigured.”

  Eben stared at her blankly, and she hurried on. “Oh, poor Isabelle! James was such a catch, remember, Eben? All us girls in school, we were so jealous, but now— Oh, poor Isabelle.”

  “She’s with him?” said Eben. “Isabelle and James are back home in Nashoba?”

  “So they say.” Ella looked slyly at Eben. “I remember how everybody used to say you were sweet on Isabelle. But now, just imagine what her life will be like, married to that— Oh, poor dear Isabelle!”

  Horace

  Dr. Alexander Clock picked up his bag and looked at his brother-in-law soberly. “I don’t know, Eben. I told you, I’ve seen James and I’ve seen his wife. She told me James wants no visitors.”

  “But James was my friend before the war. He was like an older brother.” Stubbornly, Eben pulled on his coat. “And I was in school with Isabelle.”

  “But Eben, it’s very bad.” Alexander gazed out the open door at the two Miss Rochesters, who were bouncing on the seat of their runabout, racing along the road to Barrett’s mill behind their high-stepping mare.

  Eben wondered if the Misses Dorothea and Margaret Rochester were scurrying to call on the neighbors and pass along the sad news about James Shaw. “Do you think I can’t bear it?”

  “No, it isn’t that.”

  Alexander’s wife, Ida, called down from the top of the hall stairs, “Have you seen Horace?” She hurried down and threw open the door to the sitting room. “I thought he was still napping, but he’s gone again.”

  At once, Eben bounded away to look in the kitchen, calling for his nephew, while Alexander shouted, “Horace, where are you?”

  But Horace was nowhere in the house. He was out-of-doors, darting joyfully into the henhouse and astonishing the chickens. When they flew up and squawked, he ran out again and romped across a bedsheet that had been spread out on the grass to bleach in the sun. A tin pail was hanging upside down on a fence post, and it bonked as Horace scrambled over the fence. In the pasture, he startled the dreaming cow, then raced to the dead tree that stood high on a rise of ground. The bark of the tree was rough, but Horace shinnied up easily to the lowest branch and then clambered higher. But the branches were rotten, and one of them broke. Half-falling, half-slithering, Horace came down with a bump and rolled over. Rolling over was so pleasant, he rolled all the way to the bottom of the hill. When he stood up, covered with dry leaves, his stepfather towered above him.

  “Horace,” said Dr. Clock mildly, “your mother is looking for you.”

  “Oh,” said Horace, and he raced ahead of his stepfather to the stable, where his mother was standing in the doorway, holding baby Gussie.

  She said nothing to Horace, but she gave his breeches a soft slap as he scooted by. “But after all,” she whispered to Alexander, “he’s only five years old.”

  “He’s got to learn,” said Alexander. He thumped his bag down on the seat of the gig and showed Horace how to help him hitch up the mare. Mab stood quietly, stretching her neck sideways to chew at the brim of Horace’s hat.

  When the turnout was ready, Alexander tousled Horace’s hair, kissed the baby, kissed his wife, and said, “I’m off to see James.”

  “Oh, poor James,” said Ida, and she pressed her face into Gussie’s fat cheek.

  Eben was waiting beside the road. Alexander sighed, but he did not complain when his brother-in-law climbed up beside him. Together, they set off down the road to Nashoba to visit Eben’s old friend and Alexander’s tragic patient, Lt. James Jackson Shaw, shattered by the premature explosion of a shell at the Battle of Five Forks, only eight days before Appomattox.

  James had survived, but might it have been better if he had not?

  Ida watched them drive away in the direction of Nashoba, their wheels churning up the dust. As she walked into the house holding Horace by the hand and baby Gussie against her shoulder, she wondered how her old friend Isabelle would bear it. And how would Isabelle’s mother and father bear it? And what about Ida herself? How would she herself bear the pity of what had happened to Isabelle and her husband, James?

  It was not
that Ida was timid. She had seen terrible things before. After the Battle of Gettysburg, during her desperate search for her missing husband on the battlefield, she had witnessed an amputation, she had endured the stench of dead horses, she had seen hundreds of badly wounded men, and she had searched among long rows of dead soldiers awaiting burial.

  Of course, her second husband, Alexander, had seen even more terrible things. As an army surgeon, Alexander Clock was accustomed to every kind of battle wound, gangrenous and worm-infested, and every kind of dangerous camp fever. He had served in field hospitals in Maryland after the Battle of Antietam, and then as chief surgeon in the Patent Office hospital in Washington. In fact, it had been in the Patent Office that he had first met Ida. She had gone there to look for her missing husband, but she had found her brother Eben instead, dangerously ill with typhoid fever. And it was there that Alexander had fallen in love with her, even as her time came to deliver her baby, the boy who was now bouncing up and down on the sofa in the sitting room.

  “Horace?” called Ida’s mother. “Are you trying to bring the house down?” Eudocia ran into the sitting room, plopped her grandson down on the sofa, and settled herself beside him. It was time for “Jack and the Beanstalk.”

  James

  With drums and guns, and guns and drums,

  The enemy nearly slew ye.

  My darling dear, you look so queer,

  Oh, Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

  —Irish folk song

  The mare needed no direction to follow the road to Nashoba. Mab trotted steadily between strawberry fields where people were spreading armfuls of hay. The gig rocked and jiggled as it crossed the bridge over Nashoba Brook. There was no other traffic on the road but a plodding old horse coming the other way, drawing a wagon loaded with a gigantic basket and a strange flabby object of shriveled red and blue. Two men in bowler hats were squeezed together on the seat beside the driver.