Harris didn’t sigh but I knew he wanted to. Any damage to Wendover House might as well be damage to him.
“I suppose retrieving the dread object was more important than the plaster,” Harris said bravely. He really talks like that.
“I think so.” We started up the stairs. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but why have you come?”
“Well, it’s not truly important. Just some gawmy gossip, but Bryson and I discussed it and I thought I had best tell you that we’ve had a death in the islands and there is bound to be some talk since the deceased has family.”
“Someone besides Mrs. Tudor died?”
“Yes, a mainlander. He did not heed the weather bulletin and went out last night. There was an accident and he drowned. He came for the celebration.”
I stopped outside the bedroom door, feeling a little ill. I hadn’t thought about the tourists who would be here for the Founders Day Pageant.
“And?” This news by itself was not enough to bring Harris to the island.
“And the night before, whilst inebriated, he claimed to have seen a ship—a fire ship. Which in some cultures betokens that there is a treasure hidden nearby.”
“It also betokens death in every damned case I’ve ever heard of. It’s like a nautical banshee.”
“Yes. But he was drunk and overcome by the idea of treasure, and chose to chase the ship as one would a rainbow.…”
“And the storm killed him for it.”
Harris hesitated. He prefers to be precise and he feared it wasn’t actually the storm that had killed the man. I’ll grant the distinction of being killed by a storm and what was hiding in it, but not in matters of public relations.
Some people are indefatigable in their efforts to do stupid things for money. My surge of anger was partly about feeling some sense of responsibility because it seemed that this curse was caused by a family member. But it was also plain old anger that this stupid, greedy stranger could cause more problems for us.
Some of the mainland coastal towns are within the outskirts of the bane’s influence. The people are grateful that their fishing remains good while other regions are in trouble. Mostly they don’t ask questions about what happens in the islands because the story of the Wendover bane is still vaguely remembered in fishing families. But those further inland do not benefit directly from the islands’ good fortune and they do ask questions which sometimes find their way into the press whose denizens are always hungry for sensational stories. There is a saying in the news business: if it bleeds, it leads.
“It wouldn’t matter so much, if Mrs. Tudor had not had her vision of a pirate vessel as well. People have long memories and aren’t always careful about where they reminisce about past visitations,” he finally said. “There’s been some talk among the visitors.”
“Harris, I don’t know what to say, except that I hope everyone is paying attention to the weather bulletins from Bryson and staying off the water at night. I’m doing what I can to fix this, but I keep getting sandbagged with problems outside of my skill set. A little warning would be nice.”
“Keeping people off the water at night shouldn’t be a problem,” Harris said, ignoring my implied criticism. “It never was a problem here in the islands. Those on the mainland … they have mostly forgotten to have fear.”
I nodded, letting the matter go, and opened the door to Nicholas’s sleeping chamber. We stepped into the bedroom. Harris winced when he saw the wall and the dried wood lathes and plaster on the floor, but his attention went at once to the glove on the rug near the window. In the sunlight it looked a bit like a shriveled hand.
“Use the tongs if you want to see the coin that’s inside.” I didn’t offer to fish it out. “The damned coins are associated with something called monkey leprosy.”
Harris actually shuddered.
“That’s alright. I feel no need to see the damned things. Your great-grandfather described them well enough.”
“You knew about them then?”
“Not that they were specifically cursed, he may not have known that, but that there were two gold coins in the chest, yes.”
Not for the first time I felt like shaking Harris for withholding information from me. Again. He would let me do it too. Because I was the last Wendover. This kept me from giving in to the impulse. That and the fact that I knew he acted out of what he thought was kindness and the danger of overwhelming me with peculiar and sometimes even bad news.
“There are three gold coins now. And the necklace. The jewelry may not have anything to do with the problem, but Nicholas thought it might, so I’m sending it back, just in case. I don’t want anyone else dying.” Especially me.
And I was beginning to wonder if this was a possibility. Ghosts in literature and legend are usually unaware of the people who witness their movements. The white ladies and black monks make their eternal rounds at their appointed places at the predetermined hours, unaffected by human presence. But I know from personal experience that ghosts can be completely aware of the corporeal world and can seek to influence it.
I was beginning to think that whatever was out there was aware of me. At least was aware that I was a Wendover, and as the family’s last representative, it wanted something only I could give it.
Harris stared at me for a moment, probably wondering how Nicholas had contacted me with news from beyond the grave, and then his consternation broke. His smile was relieved.
“You found his log? Where was it? I should very much like to read it.”
“No log, just some notes. But there is enough there to give me the general outline of the situation.”
When Harris made no move toward the yellowed glove, I gestured that we should leave. Just seeing the thing made me nervous and, though it was completely unreasonable, I didn’t even want to breathe the air of the room so long as the coin was in it.
“Did you know that Nicholas killed the crew of the ship he stole the treasure from?” I asked Harris. “They were sick with something he called monkey leprosy and he sewed them up—living and dead—into a sail and threw them overboard.”
Harris looked distressed and also revolted. He doesn’t like staring such brutal unpleasantness in the eye.
“I know every family has black sheep, but this guy was a real winner,” I said. “I kind of hope the ghosts, or monsters, or whatever this thing is got him in the end.”
“It was said that either he died by accident, or that he killed himself.” Harris got out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “He did not die peacefully in his bed.”
“So, chalk one up for the other team. Or maybe three, if they scared Mrs. Tudor to death and lured the drunken treasure hunter out to sea.”
Harris hesitated.
“What?”
“There were probably more deaths through the years. It is said that deaths come in threes whenever the box appears and it seems to have come every decade or so. At least during Kelvin’s life.”
That was a lot of deaths. Thirty every century. Somehow, this had to end. Hopefully returning this last coin would do the trick.
“Ben doesn’t know that part of the story,” I said. “I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“I agree. There is no way that the family could be held legally liable but the whole thing would attract the sensational press if he were to mention it in one of his books.”
Leave it to Harris to worry about that aspect of things ahead of anything else.
“I know,” I said soothingly. “That’s why I wouldn’t let Ben’s museum friend call in specialists to examine the box and the coins. The matter must be contained.”
We reached the foot of the stairs. Since Harris didn’t put his hat back on immediately I suggested he stay for lunch. I didn’t have much I could prepare on short notice, but he liked baked beans on toast and that I could manage.
As I prepared our meal, augmenting the beans with a tablespoon of marmalade and the remainder of a very old tin of curry powder, Harris
read through the papers I had found. He rearranged them slightly, perhaps giving them more coherence, though obviously not improving the grim tale because he cycled through expressions of amazement, fear, and disgust as he read.
“Kelvin didn’t tell me about this. If he knew and I am inclined to believe he did. This is simply.…”
“Yes.” I set our plates on the table. “As I said before, I hope the whatever the hell it is out there got him. He deserved it.”
Harris tutted at my bloodthirstiness but didn’t contradict me.
“It comes from marrying men from away,” he said fussily. “They almost always have bad blood.”
I wondered if he was thinking of Jack.
“Some of the local blood isn’t so great either.”
That reminded me that I still hadn’t answered Jack’s email. I would need to do that before he climbed on a plane and flew out to see what kind of trouble I was in. Jack had done that before, bless him.
“So, you plan to return the box on Friday evening?” Harris asked.
“At the full of the moon. Nicholas mentions it as important so….” Kelvin jumped in my lap and fixed me with his unblinking stare. “The full moon is good? You approve?” I asked the cat, forgetting Harris was there and rather nervous about the cat.
Kelvin lay down in my lap and began to wash his paws.
“Yes, Friday night is a go,” I said, looking up and finding Harris staring at me with something close to consternation. He can accept everything about the family except that we have always had cats. That look exactly like Kelvin. In fact, I think Harris believes that all the cats are Kelvin. “It’s okay, Harris. I talk to the cat, but he doesn’t talk back. He isn’t a demon or anything.” Though he wasn’t just a cat either. I didn’t try to fool myself about that.
Barney sighed and dropped his head onto my feet, no doubt wishing that he, too, could sit in my lap.
“I talk to the dog, too, you know. He doesn’t answer either. It’s just the habit of someone who lives alone.” I broke off some crust and passed it to Barney. I know, I shouldn’t feed him from the table, but usually it’s just us and Barney really likes toast.
Harris picked up a fork and began eating. I didn’t think that I had convinced him of my cat’s innocence.
Chapter 8
Never before did I believe that the dead would truly ryse up in judgment if not layd to rest in consecrated ground. But I have seen with myne own eyes, those drowned faces and barnacled bones walking out of the surf. They stay on the shore for now, waiting, demanding I return what is theyrs. Horror dwells upon me day and nyght. I must find some way to do what they want. My wyfe who is wyth child must not be allowed to see them lest it harm the babe resting in her womb.
—from the unbound journal of Halfbeard
Ben reappeared that afternoon. There were circles under his eyes which were an unattractive shade of red in whites that looked a little jaundiced.
I had expected him to plead once more for the box to stay with his friend, but after he set it on my counter, he went immediately to wash his hands. I thought that, perhaps once the excitement of discovery had worn off, he was beginning to find the box as repellant as I did and to maybe question the wisdom of possessing it. At least I hoped that was what he was thinking and not plotting how he could convince me to keep it, or to let him have it. All other considerations aside, I didn’t think that the box was good for Ben.
Or anyone.
Even if you didn’t believe in psychic contagion, the damn thing might somehow still be carrying some corporeal disease.
My offer of tea was accepted and we sat down on the kitchen bench with our cups and some muffins and ate in silence. It wasn’t an angry quiet, but one filled with unusual tension. Ben was troubled.
“I don’t believe in curses and ghosts,” he said at last. “I just don’t. It isn’t rational.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” I said mildly. “Think about where you live. Everyone here believes in curses and they are all quite sane.”
“I don’t mean that. I’m talking about this box and those coins … it’s just a legend that ignorant seamen believed in. Treasures can be cursed, of course, but it doesn’t mean the crazy people who mumble their spells over it really have any real power,” he insisted but looked uneasily at the box on the counter. It wasn’t actually still wet but it gave the impression of being damp and slimy. It wouldn’t have surprised me if something squishy and tentacled had come wiggling out of it.
“Have you found any of Halfbeard’s papers yet? Does he talk about the box?” Ben asked.
“I’ve excavated to the right layer, I think, but am still sifting,” I lied. I had picked all the papers up and locked them in the desk. I wanted to get a fire box for them. All the papers should be stored more carefully, but I figured rubber totes would do fine for most of them. “I should have something by this weekend. Right now I just want to get through this Founders Day speech.”
Ben grunted.
“What a confoundedly stupid time to have a celebration,” he complained, though it was actually the perfect time for this sort of thing if one wanted tourist dollars and the islands most emphatically did. That meant getting in your licks between the mainland blueberry and cranberry harvests. “Is your speech ready?”
“Yes. More or less. It just needs a tweak or two. What I need to do is practice it out loud. I hate public speaking.”
“Do you want me to read it over? Maybe punch it up a little?”
He didn’t mean that to be insulting about my writing abilities. It was a nice offer, an olive branch even. After all, Ben was a great writer. He probably could punch up the speech and make it something for the history books. But that would mean spending more time with him and I didn’t want to have to keep lying about stuff, not even by omission.
“That’s okay. I need this to sound like me. To sound sincere and homegrown. You know, not too slick. Or good.”
Ben grinned briefly and got to his feet. He rubbed at his face. He looked absolutely haggard.
“I need to get home and start writing. I’ve been away a lot this week and haven’t gotten nearly as much done as I had hoped.”
I felt guilty. Ben really didn’t look well.
“Thanks for everything. I should have something for you on Saturday.”
“Good. I need to put this baby to bed. I have other deadlines. By the way, do you want to ride over to Goose Haven with me tomorrow? You could practice your speech on me if you wanted.”
“Thanks. That would be great.”
Chapter 9
The whyspers came from all around—at sea. From land, above, below. When we heeded them not they turnd to slurs and snarls that seemed to draw ever closer. Those below decks heard them too as well as scratching at the syde of the ship where something threatnyng tried to gain admittance. Even down in the lazarette they heard the snarls and scratching as if giant rats gnawed at the timbers.
—from the unbound journal of Halfbeard
The weather was lovely for Founders Day. I wondered if I would get credit for it. Certainly I would have been blamed had it stormed.
Barney knew that something was up when I took the step of putting on makeup and he began to look concerned. He wasn’t used to being left alone and it caused me some guilty pangs. I just hoped Kelvin would be a good enough babysitter since Ben was going to be away too.
Going on the theory that an easy walk is not an attractive walk, I was wearing moderate heels and a slightly tight skirt. My neckline dipped a couple of inches into a tasteful V but even the Reverend Burke could not claim it plunged and my arms were covered.
I had decided against wearing a costume. There hadn’t been time to dig out something appropriate. It seemed best that I should go as myself and not feel self-conscious when Bryson and I dined later.
A glance at my watch said it was time to go so I propped open the back door, put food in the already empty dishes, and headed for Ben’s cottage.
Ben was
quiet on the trip over, withdrawn though not angry. That silence was unlike him, but since I had a head full of my own thoughts, I decided not to try and draw him out. Anyway, what was there to say? The box had to go back.
The various groups coagulated into colorful clots along the street and condensed around the stage, mostly sorted by era but sometimes by color, as in the case of the choirs. I have noticed that there is ecumenical harmony at official functions, probably because everyone agrees to pursue a separate but equal doctrine. At least in public. What they feel in their hearts is another matter. As far as the world of the mainland is concerned, the Catholics love the Methodists and everyone enjoys pancakes with the Baptists and snow cones with the Episcopalians.
The stands were full of tourists from both the U.S. and Canada who were looking for some wholesome entertainment. They would get it too. I bet the pageant wouldn’t have one witch, execution, pirate, or sea monster in it. There would be no ugly histories reenacted in the play. They would learn a lot about fishing and pine trees, and in a punctual manner since the program would by God start on time.
Mr. Hazeltine, chairman of the Committee for Better Motion Pictures, took the stage to introduce me. The man is an utter and extreme bore and isn’t particularly well informed about local history, but it hardly matters. He sounds like Sean Connery and always gets asked to narrate plays and introduce speakers. The only holdouts are the Catholics who won’t ask him to call Bingo on account of his being a Methodist.
My speech wasn’t long, but I don’t think they wanted it to be. I spoke mainly to Harris and a little to Ben who were both in the audience, since I don’t like public speaking. The words were sincere and the crowd not critical, either because they knew me, or because they didn’t, so I got a lot of applause and was able to escape before I got sunburned.
The all-church choir took the stage next and sang “State of Maine Song,” which I had never heard before. After that the choirs separated by robe color. Red robes sang first. I sat through “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” and then Bryson appeared at the edge of the stage. His smile was muted but that meant it was genuine. He saved the toothy grin for the tourists. I nodded when he jerked his head toward the chowder house and at the next exchange of choral groups I snuck away from the stage.
Pieces of Hate (A Wendover House Mystery Book 4) Page 8