Death Brings a Shadow

by Rosemary Simpson

  “We got us a blow coming,” Budridge said, pulling his hat down tighter on his head. “I think we’ll head back, Mr. Bennett. We’re gonna need to get across the water before the first squall line hits.”

  They made good time out of the swamp and back toward the live oaks and the dock where the barges waited. A sense of satisfaction spurred them along; they weren’t looking for anyone anymore, and it was just possible whoever he was had drowned himself trying to swim the sound. After a while that version of events would take on the ring of truth.

  The clouds massed darker and more menacing above them as they rode, slowing to pick their way more carefully where the live oaks met the edge of the swamp. There were quicksand bogs to trap the unwary and indications that the forest creatures were restless and on the move to safety in the interior’s deep thickets.

  Deer flashed by along narrow tracks, alert to the presence of horses and humans, but unafraid for once. The men heard the growl of a panther above them, but no one glanced into the tree limbs from which it would pounce if challenged. A reek like a kitchen waste pit told them a pack of wild hogs was passing through the brush, out of sight but announced by the rank stench and the light patter of sharp hooves. Panthers usually avoided any but easy prey, but wild pigs were fearless and driven by a kind of unpredictable madness akin to lust. The horses rolled their huge eyes, poised to stomp furiously at whatever rushed out of the tangled undergrowth.

  With the stench of wild hog still in the air, Geoffrey found himself cut off from the rest of the posse. One moment they were strung out along the track, each rider close behind the man in front of him for safety, the next he was alone. The silence behind him was the only warning he had. A quick glance showed him empty trail. He glimpsed a hint of ghostlike riders through the trees. No birds sang or squawked, no leaves rustled at the passage of deer or the scamper of squirrels. No snakes sought their burrows, no panthers coughed.

  When the boar burst into sight, it was with the rush of a freight train barreling too fast along a familiar track. Geoffrey’s horse whinnied and screamed in fright, rearing repeatedly on its hind legs, lashing out with front hooves. Caught half-turned in his saddle, looking behind him for the men who had been so close just a few minutes before, Geoffrey barely managed to grab his rifle from its scabbard and pull his boots from the stirrups before he was pitched from the saddle. The fall was inevitable. His only hope of surviving was to manage it as best he could.

  He rolled as he landed, a thick layer of mulch cushioning the impact and keeping him from losing consciousness. Before he slid to a stop, his trigger finger was in place, and as the boar’s foul odor bore down on him, he fired. Blindly. Guided only by the memory of where the hog had been and his instinctive sense of the direction from which it was charging.

  He fired once, then again, impervious to the spatter of blood and brains that rained down on him, seeing only the yellow ivory of curved tusks and the glow of enraged red eyes. Two hundred pounds of murderous ferocity caught him a glancing blow as the animal fell, its coarse, bristled hide scraping against him, deadly sharp hooves scrabbling wildly for a purchase they would never find.

  He lay still, listening, while the forest came back to life around him. The stink of the dead boar lodged in his nostrils and coated the inside of his mouth. When the soft patter of tiny hooves on decaying leaves moved off into the distance, he knew the small herd had left its erstwhile leader behind. Another, younger male would take its place.

  Teddy flung himself from his horse, letting the reins trail, pulling out his pistol as he cautiously approached the boar’s carcass, falling to his knees beside Geoffrey when the beast did not move.

  “I’m all right,” Geoffrey said, pushing himself up. “Winded, but all right.” He took his finger off the rifle’s trigger and slipped the safety back on. His nerves screamed at him to be ready for the next attack, but his brain told him it was too late. Whoever had separated him from the rest of the posse had had only one chance at killing him. And he’d missed it. There were too many potential witnesses churning up the forest floor to take the risk again. Geoffrey was a white man from an old plantation family. If he went down, somebody would want to know why.

  “I don’t remember when I’ve seen a boar this big,” Teddy said admiringly. “You got him right between the eyes. Twice. Good thing, too. They don’t stop easily.” He reached out to help Geoffrey to his feet.

  Lawrence had already gone after Geoffrey’s fear-maddened horse. Without a rider to guide him, the animal would run until he sensed he was out of danger.

  Elijah Bennett sat his horse a little apart from the others, hands crossed over the pommel of his saddle, leaning forward the better to assess the boar Geoffrey had killed. One of the younger men had taken out a long knife and was cutting off the animal’s tusks and ears. He stuffed them into a leather drawstring bag and held it out to Geoffrey.

  “The rest of the carcass is too tough to butcher,” Elijah said reluctantly. “And this storm seems to be picking up speed. We’d best be on our way as soon as Lawrence brings back that horse of yours, Mr. Hunter.”

  “There’s no point holding everyone up,” Geoffrey said. “Sheriff Budridge and his men have to get back to the mainland before the sound gets too rough. You need to lead them out, Mr. Bennett. We don’t want anybody getting lost.”

  “My horse will carry two if we don’t push him,” Teddy volunteered. “And I can walk for a while. We’re bound to run into Lawrence on the way.”

  “We’ll get going then.” Sheriff Budridge waved his men on, waiting until the last of them had passed before touching one finger to his hat. “Much obliged.”

  At Teddy’s insistence, Geoffrey heaved himself stiffly into the saddle.

  “You’re sure nothing’s broken?” Teddy asked. He stood beside the horse, one hand on the animal’s bridle to gentle him.

  “I’ll be sore tomorrow, but I’ve been hurt a lot worse.”

  “What made you go off like that on your own?” Teddy asked, running a reassuring hand along the horse’s neck.

  “I didn’t,” Geoffrey answered. “Didn’t go off on my own. First time I knew what was going on was when I looked behind me and could barely see you all through the trees. Then the boar came crashing out at me, my horse reared and bucked, and I felt myself flying through the air.”

  “I thought maybe you saw one of our people in the woods and tried to warn him off before the posse could spot him.”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “I didn’t ride on ahead that far by myself, Teddy. The rest of you all hung back. Who was setting the pace for the posse?”

  “Father was riding with Sheriff Budridge and I was at the tail end to catch up any stragglers. The last time I looked, Lawrence had the lead, with you right behind him.”

  “The trail was well marked so I kept on going when he turned his horse around and rode back past me. I thought he wanted to say something to your father or the sheriff,” Geoffrey said. “I was watching the clouds and feeling the air, trying to figure out how soon this storm was gonna hit. I smelled that old boar before he charged me, but it was a second too late. Those are the kind of mistakes raw recruits make, Teddy. And I almost paid with my life.”

  “Lawrence should have called for you to wait when he saw how far ahead you’d gotten,” Teddy said. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “Maybe he thought it was time I learned a lesson.”

  “All of this has hit him harder than I would have thought possible. Wildacre is his whole life.”

  Meaning, Geoffrey thought, that without the influx of Dickson money, what is left of the once-grand Wildacre plantation is in greater danger of being lost than anyone else knows.

  Fear made people do strange things. Take chances that made no sense. Imagine threats where none existed. Suspect mortal enemies lurking behind every tree.

  By every measure, today’s clearing out of the swamp and the live oaks had been a bust. The only thing they’d found had been a piece of tin f
astened to a tree, a ragged blanket, and the remains of a camp that looked as if it had been abandoned weeks or months ago.

  Disappointed and in the absence of a real culprit, Lawrence might have decided to liven up the posse’s homeward trek. Had he, too, smelled the attack odor of the boar? If he had, he could have made sure, on the spur of the moment, that when it burst from cover, Geoffrey would be alone. Its sole and therefore very vulnerable target. Was he so warped that he could find death or serious injury amusing?

  Geoffrey wondered how the two of them, Lawrence and Teddy, could possibly be brothers.

  CHAPTER 25

  Lawrence never returned with Geoffrey’s spooked horse.

  Hours later, when Teddy and Geoffrey finally emerged from the live oak forest, the first heavy squall lines were moving swiftly over the Atlantic. Teddy’s mount had gone lame and the wind made it hard to walk; they hunched their shoulders, ducked their heads, and tried to ignore the sting of swirling sand and gusts of salty rain.

  “You’ll never make it back to Wildacre,” Geoffrey shouted.

  Teddy didn’t argue. He’d been through too many Atlantic storms to take chances. There might be uncomfortable moments when he faced Philip Dickson, but he’d get through them as best he could.

  The brick bulk of Seapoint loomed substantial and solid in its acres of manicured grounds. Gas lights gleamed reassuringly through the darkening afternoon, beckoning them to safety. As they approached the side drive that led to the stables, a boy raced out to lead away Teddy’s limping horse.

  Tall specimen trees swayed and tossed their canopies, oleander leaves whirled along the ground, and the white roses on the porch of the stone chapel lay scattered among overturned baskets and broken vases. In the distance, huge, frothy ocean waves pounded the shore, resculpting the beach.

  Their jackets and pants were drenched and their hair plastered to their skulls when they stumbled into Seapoint’s elegantly tiled entrance hall. The stillness was like suddenly going deaf.

  “We’re not hurt,” Geoffrey reassured Abigail and Prudence, who rushed from the library as the front door slammed open. He struggled to close it against the force of the wind. “Wet and dirty, but otherwise all right.”

  Stiffly polite and correct, Philip did not turn Teddy away. But neither did he pretend that his presence was welcome. Abigail had argued convincingly that the young man’s grief was profound and genuine, refusing to believe he could have done anything to endanger her daughter. If Philip couldn’t bring himself to treat Teddy with the warmth of family, she told him, he must at least extend him the formal courtesies due a guest. For his wife’s sake, Philip had agreed.

  Thirty minutes after their arrival, their wet clothes exchanged for dry, Teddy and Geoffrey met in the upstairs hall. The vista from the second floor windows was both breathtaking and sinister. In just half an hour the sky had darkened to an ominous dark gray, the wind roared against the glass panes, and the booming of the sea was like thunder.

  They walked down the curved staircase together, while behind them servants battened down the last row of outside shutters. As each window was barred against the storm, the noise grew a little more muffled. The house had been designed and built to withstand coastal hurricanes. Geoffrey wondered how the inhabitants of the live oaks would fare.

  Despite the day’s heat and humidity, a fire had been laid in the library and crackled brightly. Candles supplemented the gas lamps so that a comforting light bathed the room against the dark menace of the storm. Prudence stood beside the shuttered windows, tensely alert to what was happening outside. Abigail clasped both their hands in hers. She had fiercely reminded her husband of his promise to be civil to Teddy, and she expected him to keep it.

  Philip poured whiskey. “I don’t suppose you found anyone hiding out?”

  “There were signs that someone had been camping in the swamp. But he was long gone,” Teddy explained.

  “I hope your father and brother are satisfied that they’ve made the island safe from marauders again.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm of Philip’s remark.

  Torn between family loyalty and his private opinion that there had never been any dangerous fugitives to begin with, Teddy said nothing. More than anything, he wanted to be beside Eleanor’s coffin in the gothic chapel at the foot of the garden. Too late. He hadn’t thought of it in time.

  “I suppose the yacht is moored in one of the inlets on the mainland,” Geoffrey said into the silence.

  “The captain sent a note over on the same barge that brought Sheriff Budridge and his posse,” Philip answered. “He’ll stay there until the storm passes and the waters calm down. He thinks we can track its progress up the coast via telegraph reports. I’m anxious to be off, but I’m deferring to his judgment.”

  “I don’t mind spending a few extra days here,” Abigail said. She sipped from a glass of Portuguese sherry. Her eyes, like Teddy’s, were drawn in the direction of the chapel where Eleanor lay.

  Everyone knew that as soon as they reached New York, Philip Dickson would arrange to have his daughter’s coffin placed in the family mausoleum. Until then Abigail could sit by Eleanor’s side as often and as long as she pleased, comforting herself with the illusion that her only child could still hear the endearments she whispered. Keeping vigil was not quite saying good-bye.

  She fingered her earrings and the narrow gold bracelet encircling one slender wrist. “Teddy, won’t you come sit here beside me?” The loveseat on which she’d ensconced herself had just enough room for two people. Conversation could be low-voiced and intimate.

  Whiskey glass in hand, Teddy settled himself next to the woman who would have been his mother-in-law.

  Watching them, Prudence thought how right it was for Abigail to have sought Teddy’s company. They were perhaps the two people on the island who most wanted to talk about Eleanor. Before she turned away, Prudence heard Abigail’s soft voice. “Do you remember—?” she was saying. Her eyes lit up with a happy memory.

  Teddy nodded and leaned in to share it with her.

  Philip had pulled out a map of the Atlantic coast and spread it across his desktop. One finger traced the route the yacht would take once the weather broke and it became safe to put to sea again. They’d sailed fifty miles out from land on the way down to avoid the dangerous waters off North Carolina. He assumed the captain would take the same precautions on the way home.

  As soon as the storm passed he’d get a message to the mainland telegraph office. It would be hard on Abigail, but for the best if Eleanor’s coffin could be taken straight from the dock to the mortuary and then to the house. Two days should be enough. A closed casket vigil at home, the service at Trinity Church, and then the entombment.

  He’d find a quiet moment during the voyage to ask Prudence to see to the removal of Eleanor’s clothing from the New York City house. Her room there, too, could be preserved as Abigail would wish it to be, with some few personal items remaining, but the bulk of the dresses, shoes, and hats would go to charity. More hard choices, but they needed to be made.

  And there was a final conversation to have with Teddy. Business ties had to be severed, arrangements canceled, the young man’s position made clear. Philip would not move against him, but neither would he continue to act as either active mentor or sponsor.

  It helped a man get through the pain if he remained strong enough to ensure that everything that should be done was taken care of.

  * * *

  The storm made Prudence restless and filled her mind with island images. She pictured Eleanor wandering alone through the live oaks on a moonlit night and today’s posse riding with malign purpose toward the swamp. Aunt Jessa’s beaten body lying on the floor of her cabin, the lurch into the water when a bullet struck Jonah, the horrifying sight of Queen Lula and her black cat hanging from a tree. The classic whitewashed façade of Wildacre hiding generations of abuse. The faces of islanders whose Bennett blood would never be acknowledged.

  Her head ached wi
th the heaviness of the air and a whirling kaleidoscope of scenes endlessly repeating themselves. She yearned for cool dry breezes and a cultivated city park where she could walk without worrying about stepping on a venomous snake or being stung into near insanity by mosquitos and midges. She couldn’t imagine Eleanor living year-round on Bradford Island, but perhaps that was the reason Teddy had spoken of a house in Savannah. Maybe that was the compromise that would have made everything else possible.

  I wouldn’t know, Prudence thought. I’ve never been in love like that. And felt no guilt in admitting that while she had been prepared and even eager to marry her late fiancé, she had not been in love with him. Not in the way that Eleanor had fallen head over heels for Teddy and he for her. Which was better? To remain emotionally independent enough to take charge of one’s own destiny? Or to lose oneself in a delirium of happiness and delight that might be short-lived and never come again?

  Geoffrey caught her eye, then glanced toward the library door, a clear signal that he, too, was restless. Abigail, unshed tears pooled in her eyes, had left the loveseat to look over her husband’s shoulder as he calculated the yacht’s projected route back to New York. Teddy stood as far away from the desk as he could get while remaining in the same room. When the Dicksons sailed, they would be taking Eleanor’s mortal remains with them. All he would have left would be his memories.

  Prudence touched Teddy’s sleeve, then slipped her arm through his, guiding him toward the door where Geoffrey had one hand on the knob. As they stepped out into the foyer and closed the library door behind them, the Dicksons didn’t seem to notice their departure.

  With no fire burning, the foyer felt damp and chilly, its two-story height soaring into darkness above their heads. Geoffrey lit two of the gas lamps lined up on the table where outgoing mail was stacked and handed one to Teddy, leaving Prudence’s hands free to hold on to the banister and gather her skirts as they climbed to the second floor. One of the shutters had been blown off the Atlantic-facing windows.