“Have you got a camera?” Ben asked. “We need to take some pictures. I wish I had done it before I pried the box open.”
The box had probably never been pretty, but its sojourn in the sea and subsequent encrustation had not improved it.
“Don’t worry. I took pictures already.”
“Good. Get your camera. Let’s take some more. I want a record of everything.”
Chapter 2
My wife, her maid, the outdoor lad and the cook have no knowledge of reckoning proper time. I have set them on watches for the Dog, the First and the Mid. My wife insisted that we do not ring the bell to avoid rousing those who sleep, but I wake in time for every eight bell and walk the house to see for myself that all is well.
—from the unbound journal of Halfbeard
We took more pictures of the chest, and I uploaded them to my computer and emailed copies to Ben. Then, at his insistence, I called Harris and told him what I had found and asked about insurance. As I had expected, Harris said we probably couldn’t take out insurance until we knew what we had, but to mail him copies of the pictures and that he would make enquiries. He assured me that until I sold the box—assuming I did, which I knew Harrison would never approve of—I didn’t need to worry about entering anything in the Doomsday Book.
Taxes were the last thing on my mind.
I agreed to do as Harris asked and hung up quietly. I was feeling uneasy. Perhaps because Harris was also uneasy, though he tried to hide it from me. My attorney is a creature of ritual and habit—and schedule. It would not surprise me to learn that he walked in widdershins circles and bayed to the moon before getting into bed. He is a traditionalist whose beliefs are repackaged eighteenth-century superstitions. He probably believes in cursed treasure. And he wouldn’t be alone in this if word got out. Strange boxes appearing on the beach during unnatural storms is just part of the local microclimate of weirdness that happens in the islands.
And because of that, I didn’t really want word getting out about pirate treasure—cursed or otherwise. I knew Harris and Ben would keep quiet. Harris didn’t want strangers on the island and Ben didn’t want anyone scooping him on his story. But was the curator at the museum someone who would be able to keep quiet in the face of a great discovery? And what about my insurance agent?
Who the hell was my agent? I was annoyed to find out that I didn’t know. He had likely been Kelvin’s agent—my great-grandfather, not the cat. I just had to hope that he was trustworthy too.
As promised, I began searching for letters, journals, and diaries. I looked through the history books as well, hoping that there would be something in them, some mention of Halfbeard by an enterprising writer a century back. It was slow going. I was careful not to touch any of the taxidermy I had to work around. If I left them undisturbed, I wouldn’t have to smell them. As much. My least favorite of the preserved corpses was a ridiculously large varnished swordfish. I don’t care for maritime decorations, especially dead ones that stink.
Barney galloped by, stirring up dust. Almost instantly I began sneezing, violent paroxysms that nearly caused whiplash and left my head aching.
“This place needs cleaning. Maybe I should tie dustcloths to the pair of you and let you chase mice.”
Kelvin looked at me with scorn but Barney wagged his cobwebbed tail. He has a hopeful disposition and thought maybe this would be a fun game.
The attic was stuffy and unbearable past eleven, so after a superficial look inside the latest filthy box which looked fairly promising, I grabbed it and another small crate of papers and dragged it down to the library where I could work in the cool and comfort.
The cool and comfort weren’t enough to keep me on point. My ancestors may have had many skills that I am unaware of, but I think I can safely say that there was not a closet librarian among them, except perhaps my great-grandfather, Kelvin. And he arranged his books by some system unknown to adherents of either Dewy Decimal or alphabetizing. And no one had made any effort to straighten loose papers which seemed to have been heaped in whatever chest or crate was available and stuffed in the attic with no thought of tidiness or that someone might actually wish to examine the writings someday. A few personal letters were sometimes tied up with ribbon, but these were usually romantic missives and a century off of the date I was searching for.
“Maybe there was some emergency,” I said to Kelvin. “Like a flood and they just rushed to get everything to higher ground before it was destroyed.”
This seemed unlikely though. What might have happened was someone making a frantic search for something and not having the time or inclination to clean up afterwards; they had just stuffed things in boxes higgledy-piggledy and dumped them in the attic.
“Doesn’t matter how it happened, I suppose. It has to be sorted.” I sighed and Barney sighed too. There would be no playing for a while.
Things started going into piles by date—when I had one—and by name when I did not, though this was hardly satisfactory given that almost all my male ancestors had been named Kelvin. Eventually my body announced that my eyes would herniate if I read and sorted any longer. The angel on my shoulder—the not so good one—suggested that I had done my neighborly duty and that I needed some fresh air to resuscitate the brain cells.
It would come as a surprise to most people who know me, but once in a while my better sense is overcome by the need for a seasonal craft project. Stepping out to look at my small back garden, I decided that I would leave the largest of the garden sunflowers to set seed for the birds in winter and that the smaller ones needed to be cut and dried for an autumnal wreath.
“Come on, guys,” I said to Kelvin and Barney. “Let’s get some sun.”
It was technically still summer, but the first pangs of autumn were in the air and my sleeveless shirt was probably a little optimistic. You could feel the changing season on the skin and smell it in the wind. It made Barney joyous and Kelvin sleepy.
“I should cut back the Virginia creeper.” Or have someone come and cut it back. The transplant had proven a ferocious contender for most dominant plants and was fighting a fierce battle with the English ivy for control of the back porch. The curtain was thick enough to create a kind of twilight.
However, the creeper looked like a big job that might need a ladder since it had grown up onto the wall. I decided to save it for later and began clipping sunflowers, trying to enjoy the breeze and the sun that warmed my back. Though the weather was very pleasant, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something unpleasant was looming large. Larger than usual. Closer. I had a weird kind of faith that the islands would protect me from whatever outside threat was approaching. But it still felt like it was my obligation to be rid of the hostile invader if I could manage it since it might be a threat to others. Also, unfinished business can trouble spirits that should be at rest. Those swindled in life can be nasty in death, as I had cause to know.
There was nothing new about this idea. I had been tying up my ancestors’ loose ends since I arrived on the island.
In an attempt to push back the mental shadows I began humming Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring, sadly with more enthusiasm than accuracy. Barney and Kelvin didn’t mind my version of Bach and the composer was dead, so who cared if I flatted a note or two?
I hadn’t been at work for more than a few minutes when Mary Cory arrived. I wondered what she wanted. It seemed doubtful that one of her rare moments of friendliness was visiting her since she had smiled at me only last week.
“That almost sounded like Bach.”
I don’t dislike anyone with sufficient fervor to spend a lot of valuable brain wattage hating them by the hour, but Mary isn’t my favorite person and seeing her had the potential to ruin the day.
“Delibes,” I lied.
Neither of my pets rushed over to see her. She isn’t an animal person and they know it.
Mary takes care of an aging neighbor, Archibald Hicks, who owns one of the two other houses on the island. Archibald
is so very old that he has begun to blur around the edges. Old age and illness have consumed his vitality and I always feel I need to be ready to run over and resuscitate him. His muscles and memory sagged long ago, skin and hair have faded to beige and he looks like a watercolor portrait of himself that had been painted on cheap tissue paper which has begun to disintegrate. Though no one has said it straightly, I believe that he lives on the island because he thinks that it somehow prolongs his life, that the island keeps death away. Though what he goes on living for I cannot guess. He rarely has visitors and there is no other family that anyone knows about.
Mary doesn’t wear a nurse’s uniform on the job, but even her summer sandals somehow manage to look sober and orthopedic. They matched her nature, which has had the slightly grim island culture ground into it like some kind of invisible tattoo that can’t be seen by outsiders but whose irritating presence can be felt. I think the muscles for laughter have atrophied and she looks rather like an old person is living behind her younger face and always forcing it into a worried frown even when there is no particular reason for concern.
The islands are kind of inbred and everyone who has lived here through the centuries has broad, overlapping interests and relationships. Sometimes deciding which role to play could be confusing and involved splitting hairs so fine they could only be seen with an electron microscope. My family, in particular, has had a long and strange relationship with the other islanders. Thanks to our familial curse—or blessing—I have an undeniable degree of local notoriety. Some people fear me because of my lineage. Others love me for being their savior. I deserve neither fear nor love from these people who are still virtual strangers, but that’s just how it is.
Mary is an exception. She neither fears nor loves me. We tolerate one another when we must interact and ignore each other when we can. Apparently this wasn’t one of the days when we could pretend the other didn’t exist.
I tucked my flower into the bucket and then turned fully to face her. Best not to draw things out. Goodwill can curdle quickly and I wanted to answer her questions and send her on her way rejoicing. Or not.
The first thing I noticed was that she had colored half her hair a strange shade of red that looked like it had come from a spray can. In fact, as I looked closer I could see flecks of red on her old sweatshirt. Knowing it was paint and not blood was a relief though I had to wonder how she had gotten it in her hair.
Mary has an unusual hobby. She makes papier-mâché figurines of people’s deceased pets. I find it a bit strange but certainly more agreeable than the taxidermy that fills my attic. Still, she is about as witty a conversationalist as one of Barney’s squeak toys and I avoid her lectures when I can.
As usual, she was scowling slightly and her mouth was pulled into a frown. I didn’t take it personally. The only time she didn’t scowl was when she was with Everett Sands. Everett and his brother, Bryson, are the local law. Bryson is charming. Everett less so, and I think he is with Mary mostly because she will never punch him in the brain with her intellect. Both of the brothers are smugglers who used to use my great-grandfather’s hidden sea cave and secret staircase for smuggling whisky from Canada—with his blessing, I should add. In the islands we all kind of live outside the law, if that can be said of people who have probably never been inside of it to begin with.
And, just to complicate things, one of their ancestors was also responsible for hanging one of mine. It was a love affair that ended in accusations of witchcraft, which sometimes happened in New England back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. I have been willing to forgive, but forgetting is harder for all of us, especially when there are ghosts who refuse to rest.
Like I said, it’s all kind of inbred and every time I saw Bryson I had to decide if he was there as the law or a smuggler, to be hated for an ancient wrong done to an innocent woman or considered as a potential romantic partner.
And Mary…. How did she fit in? Her presence was suspicious so soon after the box’s arrival. Could Everett have sent her?
“Do you have a stud finder I can borrow?” she asked. These were not the words I expected.
I resisted the urge to make any jokes about her finding studs. Mary has no sense of humor and I didn’t really want to know what she was doing. At least, I didn’t want to know from her. I would ask Bryson later. Unlike Everett and Mary, he wasn’t witheringly unimaginative. If he didn’t know the truth he would make up an entertaining lie.
“No, but Ben might. He’s been hanging shelves and pictures.” Ben’s office is functional, full of filing cabinets and, except for his chair, lacking in comfortable furniture. He had decided to add some shelves and hang some of his awards. I like my library more, though I will grant that Ben’s office, devoid of cushions and pets, is probably better at keeping a body focused on their work.
Mary shook her head.
“He’s gone to the mainland. Took off going wicked fast earlier this morning.”
Probably with the chest and high hopes of fame and fortune. Well, that suited me fine. The damned box gave me the willies.
“I have a small tool chest, but it’s just hammers and screwdrivers, I think. Do you want to look through it?” I had to make some gesture of helpfulness. Only four of us live on the island. It is important to be on good terms.
“No. I’ll call Everett. Damn,” she muttered. “I wonder why Ben left. He was here earlier, wasn’t he? Did he say anything about leaving?”
So, she had been watching the house. She couldn’t need a stud finder that badly, could she?
“Yes. He’s got me looking through old family letters. He’s trying to find some information on one of the Wendovers for a book he’s doing and he is all riled up about it.”
“Which one of your ancestors?” Mary asked, trying to be casual. Mary doesn’t read much and has no interest in genealogy.
“The one who married Abercrombie’s daughter. The ship captain from away.”
“Ah.” She nodded. Apparently my failure to use the word pirate had reassured her. Mary is one of those who doesn’t like the ugly old facts disturbed by research. “Quite a storm we had last night.”
“Yes. I wasn’t expecting it.”
“Have you been down to the beach today?” she asked abruptly.
I stared at her, trying to decide if this was her version of small talk or if Mary was actually trying to be sly.
“Is there any good driftwood?” I answered without answering. “I wouldn’t mind a piece for a flower arrangement I have in mind.”
“I don’t know.” She paused. “I haven’t gone down to the beach. I’m too busy. Maybe Ben went down.”
This new thought made her frown.
“Oh. Well, I may walk down later and have a look around.” I turned back to my tidy row of sunflowers and began snipping. “See you,” I said.
“Bye.” I heard her walk away.
“Well, that was strange,” I muttered to Kelvin. “Do you think she knows something about the chest?”
Kelvin meowed.
“I think so too. Maybe she just saw Ben rushing off with it and got curious enough to come for a visit.”
But I suspected it was more than that. I bet she had heard rumors of treasure through the years and it had probably excited her interest. Gold had that effect on many people. However, there was nothing I could do about what she thought so I shook my head and went back to cutting flowers.
Eventually I returned to my boxes of paper and found many interesting things, but nothing from Nicholas Wendover and no captain’s logs entitled The Diary of Halfbeard the Pirate.
Night hadn’t reached the west side of the island when Barney began to pace and whine, but the increasing shadows in the east made me nervous. My limbic brain had become sensitized to certain stimuli and it could not ignore the circumstances under which the box had arrived. It was off island with Ben, who still hadn’t returned or I would have seen lights at his house, so I should have felt safe. But I didn’t. The coming s
torm was hostile.
Finally I drew the curtains against the sunset and resisted the urge to go downstairs and check yet again that both outside doors as well as the one to the basement and the secret stair were locked. They were. I had already checked. Twice.
I decided on a bath though tremendous effort is needed to coax the aged taps into opening and releasing the dangerously hot water created by the immersion heater mounted in an old brass tank. I would have liked it better if the cistern screamed like a tea kettle when it was ready instead of relying on a timer which had rust around the edges, but the damn thing worked fine and they hadn’t made a water heater large enough to supply water for the giant old bathtub. So, I took life in hand once again and I turned on the heater and went to make hot chocolate.
After I had boiled myself a nice shade of lobster, I gathered up Barney and Kelvin and retired upstairs where I lit a fire in the bedroom grate. It wasn’t cold, but a fire is friendly and there is comfort in light that won’t go out if a line or transformer goes down.
I was not surprised when I heard the storm begin its angry symphony. The moaning of the wind could be heard above the crackling in the grate and the sound cut right through the calm well-being provided by the hot bath and cocoa.
I love the house and have always felt welcome and safe here. Usually it doesn’t seem empty because I had never lived here with anyone else so don’t know any differently. But something about that night made the rooms fill up with the awareness that my family was dead and I was entirely alone and vulnerable.
Kelvin mewed and smacked my leg with his claws. The tiny pain broke my bleak reverie and I again felt fine. The room was just a room. The fireplace would be warm and inviting as soon as I laid some kindling in the hearth.
Barney got in his bed and huddled unhappily until I gave in and called him up on the mattress. Kelvin got up on my pillow and stared at the bedroom door while I finished laying the fire.
Pieces of Hate (A Wendover House Mystery Book 4) Page 3