The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head
Jonathan Latimer
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Chapter I
WITH A HOLLOW RATTLE of its muffler the Greyhound bus disappeared down the cement road and left me in the darkness. Water dripped through a cluster of trees behind me, making a noise of rain, and I placed my pigskin zipper bag on the pavement and held out my bare hand. The air was chill, but no moisture was falling, and although puddles on the white cement indicated a recent downpour, in the sky the clouds were pale enough to transmit light from an opalescent moon.
I picked up my bag and glanced at my wrist watch. It was eleven minutes past midnight. There was a strong odor of woods around me, an odor of wet earth and moldy leaves, of moist shrubs and plants. The dampness penetrated my tweed coat, and with an involuntary shudder I pulled the collar around my neck, delaying my departure from the solid footing of the pavement. I dreaded the hour’s journey on foot ahead of me, around Crystal Lake to my great-uncle’s isolated estate, and I hesitated before taking the gravel road which led to the footpath by the water’s edge.
Perhaps when I was younger I would have looked forward to such an adventurous trip, but I am thirty-two years old, and as everyone knows, thirty-two is well past the prime of a man’s physical life; although my aunt Nineveh snorts when I make this remark and warns me that if I do not display some prodigality of temperament and cease spending my evenings with the Earl of Rochester and the Duke of Buckingham I will live to be a hundred, adding always, God forbid!
Since I fear I may be confusing you, I should explain that I am an associate professor of English history at Coles University and that I live in Colesville, California. My parents are dead, and my father’s sister, Aunt Nineveh Coffin, with whom I live, is my closest relative. For the past seven years I have been doing research in connection with the Restoration period of English history, and in that time I have gained a reluctant and awed admiration for the rakes who flourished under the witty Charles; hence my aunt Nineveh’s reference to the Earl of Rochester and the Duke of Buckingham.
Since completing my graduate work at the University of Chicago, I have, with the exception of a year spent in London going through Restoration legal documents, led a very secluded life. The present trip, which put me in the position of walking at midnight through a Michigan forest, was my first in four years. It was the result of a letter which came Saturday from my great-uncle, Tobias Coffin, who is my grandfather’s youngest brother. It was a rather peremptory message, reading:
DEAR PETER:
It has been many years since there has been a gathering of the Coffin family, and I have a desire to see the members of the clan once more before I die. You will please be at my home not later than Tuesday night.
Sincerely,
TOBIAS COFFIN.
I had read this letter at breakfast and had already determined to make the journey to my great-uncle’s estate near Traverse City, Michigan, when Aunt Nineveh came down to the table. She carried a similar letter in her hand, and we had a characteristically pointed conversation about the matter.
“Are you going?” Aunt Nineveh asked.
“I think I should,” I replied. “Uncle Tobias used to entertain me on his estate when I was a boy, and I think this is the least I can do to show my gratitude.”
Aunt Nineveh attacked her grapefruit furiously and said, “Well, I’m not going.”
I expressed surprise.
“I know what that old skinflint wants,” said my aunt. “He’s got all the money in the family, and he wants to see us crawl to be named in the will. I, for one, am not going to oblige him, especially if he can’t be a little more polite in his letters. I won’t dance jigs to the jingle of his money, not I.”
“I am afraid he will be disappointed if he wants me to dance,” I asserted. “As you know, I have never learned.”
My aunt glared at me across the table. “Peter, I never know whether you are being stupid or witty.”
“You’re sure you won’t go?” I demanded of her. “Uncle Tobias will be very disappointed.”
“The hell with him,” said my aunt.
It is often necessary for me to repudiate her profanity.
I took a plane from Los Angeles to Chicago, intending to make a connection with the Traverse City-bound Père Marquette train Monday night. Having three hours to wait in Chicago, I went to the Newberry Library and there discovered photostatic copies of some little-known letters written by John Wilmot to Wycherley, the Restoration dramatist, six of which I had never seen. When I completed the engrossing task of making notes I found I had missed my train. This created a rather serious dilemma. No train ran until Tuesday night, which was too late, and there was no plane service in that direction. Finally I discovered I could obtain passage on a Greyhound bus leaving Chicago Tuesday afternoon and passing the west side of Crystal Lake (on which my great-uncle’s estate was situated) around midnight. This bus I took, but because of the late hour of my approach to the lake and because it was a twenty-five-mile drive over rough roads from the estate to the highway and only four miles by the footpath, I had resolved to come unannounced.
The half-mile gravel road to the lake from the highway was smooth and when, swinging along at a good pace, zipper bag banging against my right knee, I caught my first glimpse of the water, I was surprised to find my breath coming evenly. My physical condition, I thought, must be better than I had imagined.
The lake, however, did make me catch my breath. I hadn’t seen it since I was twelve, and I hadn’t remembered how beautiful it was. I don’t suppose, as a boy, I had an eye for sublimity. The clouds had partially cleared, and in the light of the moon the water, bound by the perfectly circular shore, gleamed like a huge pearl. The moon hung over tall pines across the lake, almost over my great-uncle’s house, and toward me, on the calm water, extended a path of silver like a narrow carpet of the glistening stuff women use in evening gowns, called, I believe, silver lamé. The lake was of a dark shade of blue, but back of it, on its sides, the dense forest was even darker; midnight blue, almost pitch black.
I started on the path around the lake but found the going slower. If I relaxed my attention for an instant a wet branch would strike my face or my zipper bag would become entangled in the tall underbrush. Slippery grass grew on the path, and several times I narrowly missed a nasty fall. By the lake the moon and its reflection lighted the ground, and the way was easy to follow, but each time the path veered away from the shore I felt as though I were imprisoned in a pitch-black tunnel.
As I walked I wondered about the Coffin family. We were not a numerous family nor a friendly one. My father and my grandfather had both been archaeologists, and for some reason my great-uncle and the other branch of the family had resented this. My aunt Nineveh had, I believe, seen the two children of my grandfather’s other brother once during a visit in New York, but I had never met them. And I hadn’t seen Uncle Tobias for twenty years. I wondered if he would recognize me.
My train of thought was broken by a creepy sensation that something was following me. Several times I imagined that I could hear the underbrush being rustled fifty feet or so inland, but when I halted, my breath checked, there was only silence. I realized my nerves were jumpy. Once I stumbled over a small log and sent it tumbling into the water. With the sound of the splash a great bird raced over the surface of the lake away from me and launched itself into the air, uttering a sort of demented cry, halfway between a laugh and a shriek. My hair stood on end, and I held one hand over my heart, which, though doctors deny it, doubtless trying to hide my real condition from me, is very weak.
Further along I came to a
marshy section of the shore. There my ears rang with the voices of, I presume, frogs. I was surprised at their alarmingly human intonation. At first, as I was entering the marsh, I could hear only the higher-pitched voices, saying in chorus: “Take care, take care, take care, take care.”
But further along where deeper water covered the marsh the voices changed from tenor to baritone, warning me to “Go round, go round, go round, go round.”
At the same time the footpath began to have an unstable feel under my feet, sinking with each step, and I felt a sudden apprehension that the way might lead into a bottomless swamp from which I would never emerge. I have read somewhere that the only way to avoid death in quicksand or in a swamp is to distribute the weight over as large an area as possible by lying down. I slowed my pace and cautiously felt of the ground in front of me before trusting my weight to it, at the same time ready to throw myself flat on my back in case it should yield. Once when I thought I felt the ground give under my advanced right foot I clutched at an overhanging branch and sent a shower of cold water into my face and down the back of my neck. The shock sent me stumbling on a few paces, and to my surprise I found the ground was still solid.
Then the path dipped, and, peering ahead, I could see it ran into a small gully. Enough moonlight sifted through the trees for me to make out a small stream flowing through the gully, and I realized that here was the most likely place for me to lose myself in the bog. Coarse grass grew in clumps along the stream, and distressingly soft mud made black patches between the clumps. This mud oozed under the soles of my shoes as I neared the stream, but I determined to risk a crossing.
Suddenly a deep bass voice not more than ten feet away commanded: “Go back! Go back! Go back!”
I may as well admit I was frightened. My heart felt as though it was in my throat, blocking my breath. My back felt as though someone had touched it with a piece of ice. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t.
Then my mind began to work, and I realized the command was voiced by a frog, probably the biggest frog in all the world. I waited, and in a few seconds the bass voice repeated:
“Go back! Go back! Go back!”
I said angrily, “Go back yourself,” and was startled by the sound of my own voice. The frog was startled, too, and made a heavy splash as it landed in a large pool by the further bank of the gully.
I hurried across the stream, which was only a few inches deep and perfectly solid, and climbed the incline on the other side and started at a rapid pace along the path. I was relieved to feel that the footing was firmer and to know that I had left the marsh behind. The clouds were beginning to form again in dark masses against the purple sky, but whenever the moon managed to break through the way became quite clear. I hurried along at a very good pace for more than a mile, thinking with satisfaction of the comfortable bed awaiting me in my great-uncle’s house and worried only by repetitions of the noise of something apparently keeping abreast of me through the bushes about a hundred feet inland. I vainly assured myself it was only an over-alert imagination which created the sounds, and several times I halted to listen, but I could hear nothing.
If anything was following me, I finally decided, it was only some small animal, curious as to what I was doing. I was not far enough north to run any danger from bears or wildcats.
At a bend in the path, on a bush-covered slope leading down to the edge of the lake, I imagined I heard the noise again, and I paused abruptly. No sound came from inland, but far ahead of me in the direction the path led I heard a noise of branches being pushed aside and broken. This noise, I knew at once, was real. I waited silently while the sounds approached. They were the sounds of something large passing through underbrush, of bushes being shoved aside, of leaves being trampled on, of twigs being broken. Whatever was making the disturbance was coming directly toward me along the path!
I suspected it was a human being, and ordinarily I would have waited to see who it was. But my nerves had been pretty well jangled by the episode with the frog chorus. I turned from the path on tiptoe and crouched down behind a large clump of bushes.
I was just in time.
Around the bend of the path, full in the moonlight, came one of the strangest figures I have ever seen. It was a man. He was wearing gray cotton trousers, a blue shirt, and his feet were bare. He had no hat, and his face, fat and very pale, was smiling blissfully. He was moving at a jerky gate, as near to a schoolgirl’s skip as an adult can come, his arms flapping loose-jointedly from his shoulders and his knees moving in exaggeratedly high steps, like a high-spirited horse.
He came within ten feet of my hiding place, and I could see that his eyes were not looking at the path I had moved over so carefully. They were fixed upon the moon, and his lips were moving in some weird monody. I listened, and at first I was unable to believe my own ears. The man was chanting in a high, shrill voice:
“A tisket, a tasket,
A green and yellow basket.
A tisket, a tasket,
A green and yellow bas …”
Quickly he vanished around another curve in the path, and presently the sound of brush being disturbed diminished and was gone.
There was something about the man that froze my blood. I tried to tell myself he was intoxicated, but the explanation didn’t satisfy me. There was something terribly unreal about him, something frightfully absurd. I scrambled onto the path and hurried on my way, not even glancing over my shoulder. I was taking no chances of his returning and finding me. I felt a strong desire to reach the security of my great-uncle’s house.
I had little more than a mile to go, and I covered it at a trot which would have done credit to a Kentucky woodsman. The forest was even more ominous now. Clouds had again obscured the moon, and a wind breathed through the trees, sending showers of water down on my head. Once I fell over a root and muddied my hands, face and trousers, but I didn’t care. My mind was intent upon reaching the house as quickly as possible.
Just as the wind began to blow sort of a half gale, sending the tall trees into wild gyrations, I reached the path by which my great-uncle’s prize Jersey cattle went from the back pasture to the barn. Ahead of me loomed the house, a bulky black mass against the lake, and to the left were two other dark shapes: the barn and the servants’ house. The house was even larger than I had remembered it, and its gabled roof, its huge porch, its circular watchtower and its five-sided shape gave it such a fantastic appearance that I should have hesitated to approach it had there not been a light in the library.
I crossed the clay surface of the large court between the servants’ house and my great-uncle’s house, mounted the stone steps to the side door leading into the library and struck the brass knocker against the wood panel. I could hear a voice talking inside, but no one answered my summons. I waited for several minutes and then pounded the door again.
Someone turned on the porch light. There was a small glass peephole at the top of the door’s center panel, and a woman looked through this at me. She was an elderly woman, and her hair hung in two braids over her shoulders. She was wearing what appeared to be a kimono over a nightgown, and her brown eyes were frightened. I could hear her voice faintly through the closed door.
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to get in.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You can’t come in. Please go away.”
I was completely bewildered by this reception. The woman was obviously going to send me away. The voice inside was still speaking, and a part of my mind assured me that it must be coming through a radio. At the same time a sudden apprehension that I had in some way blundered upon the wrong house flashed through another part of my mind; an extremely illogical apprehension, indeed, because I had recognized the house, but still very real.
“Isn’t this the residence of Tobias Coffin?” I asked.
The wind was blowing in angry gusts now, shaking the trees as a wolf would lambs, and it had begun to rain. Drops of water blew a
cross the porch, further drenching my face and hands. It was turning cold.
A tall cadaverous man came up behind the woman at the peephole and stared out at me. It was my great-uncle’s butler. There were new wrinkles in his gaunt, hollow-cheeked face and white streaks in his bushy eyebrows and black hair, but otherwise he had changed little in twenty years.
“He won’t go away,” I could hear the woman say.
“Bronson,” I said, “it’s Peter Coffin. For heaven’s sake let me in.”
He stared at me without recognition for a time, then appeared to consult with someone behind him. The voice on the radio continued to speak in a rapid, excited tone. Finally, rattling chains and bolts, Bronson unfastened the door and swung it open and hastily stepped aside. A most amazing sight met my eyes.
A small crowd of men and women were grouped perhaps ten feet from the door, their backs toward a billiard table. Two young men in evening clothes had shotguns leveled at me. A pretty blonde in a gray gown of some gauzy material brandished a cue, and beside her stood a small, sharp-featured man with a knobby cane clutched in his right hand. Another man, about fifty, in evening clothes like the others and wearing horn-rimmed glasses which gave him an owl-like appearance, stood apart from the others as though he were planning a flank attack upon me. Near him was a dark-haired girl, who, though unarmed, regarded me with evident apprehension. Back of me, cutting off my retreat, was the woman in the nightgown and the kimono. She had a huge meat cleaver in her hand.
“Now we got you,” said the sharp-faced man in a firm tone. “Don’t try to escape.”
I stood in the doorway, unable for the moment to do more than blink at them.
“Better search him, George,” continued the sharp-faced man. “He might be armed.”
The man with the horn-rimmed glasses advanced upon me.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I don’t understand this. What are you trying to do?” I spoke to the sharp-faced man. “I was invited to come here by Tobias Coffin, and I don’t think he will be very pleased by the reception I have received.”
The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head Page 1