Daniel Plainway - Or The Holiday Haunting of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  “No more than his mother’s story, I promise you,” said Daniel, but there was in his manner the indication that he was not ready to say more unprepared was the feeling that Piper got.

  “Here we are,” said the sherif. “There’s someone inside you may be able to tell us something about.”

  They were standing before the county jail, a very cold and lonely-looking edifice on this winter day. The living quarters for the jailer and his family might have looked homely enough but for the square gray walls of the prison itself, directly attached. The only color on those plain walls was a rusty stain beneath the iron-barred windows.

  “What do you do, Mr. Plainway?” said Piper as he led the way to the front door of the jail.

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  Charles Piper hesitated only briefly, and Daniel knew that the man was casting back on his story and their conversation, wondering if he had said too much.

  “I am the executor of the Linnett estate,” said Daniel, “but I am here first and foremost for the well-being of Nell Linnett’s child.”

  “Come on in,” said Piper.

  11. Incident on a Train

  The train had already made two or three stops outside Portland, and the population began to rise in the car that had started with only their own party and two blond fellows (one of whom wore a large mustache)who sat with their backs to the Covingtons. The sun, as it distanced itself from the rim of the ocean, laid a blinding light across the snowy fields and treeless hills, so that everyone tended to squint away from the windows.

  Pairs of seats faced each other, like benches at a table. Mister Walton sat near the window, opposite Mrs. Covington, and the sounds rising from his chest hardly contradicted the notion that he was catching forty winks. Sundry himself stifled a yawn. a mother and child sat directly across the aisle; the little girl was singing a song as she combed the hair of an old doll. Several newspapers were unfolded, and more than one traveler was following Mister Walton’s praiseworthy example. The blond fellows behind the Covingtons were sharing a large sandwich, and despite a good breakfast, Sundry felt hungry watching them.

  “Does Moxie mind travel?” asked the young man.

  “She’s very used to it,” said Frederick. The dog was in the baggage car and had made friends with the bag handler before the Covingtons had time to leave.

  “It’s a shame she can’t ride with us,” said Sundry.

  “I could use her to warm my feet,” said Isabelle.

  “I rode on a train with a raccoon once,” said Sundry. He had to repress another yawn.

  “A raccoon?” said Isabelle.

  “Just a baby, but he got loose and a woman mistook him for a rat and the end of it was we were kicked off the train.”

  “Mister Walton and yourself?” said Frederick.

  “Yes, and the fellow with the raccoon.”

  “I wish we could promise you such diversion,” said the clergyman.

  “I had a duck once,” said a man across the aisle from Sundry. “A fellow stole it and took it to Woolwich.”

  Since the conversation had hitherto avoided the subject of ill-gotten ducks, Sundry took a moment to consider this unexpected information.

  “Did he live in Woolwich?” asked Frederick.

  “The duck? He lived with me in Richmond.”

  “I was thinking about the man.”

  “I don’t know where he lived. But they caught him in Woolwich. It happened last October. He was a good friend.”

  “I wouldn’t think he was too good a friend if he filched your duck,” said Sundry. “I’m adamant on the subject of stolen fowl.”

  “I was talking about the duck.”

  Sundry did not blink.

  “He played the mandolin,” said the man, and though they each wanted to, nobody asked the question that inevitably came to mind.

  “You say he was a good friend,” said Mister Walton. Curiosity must have wakened him. “I hope nothing happened to him.”

  “The duck?”

  “I think that’s whom I meant,” said the portly fellow.

  It was then that they heard a honk come from below the man, and as if in answer a yellow bill poked out of the bag between the man’s feet.

  “Careful he doesn’t get you thrown off the train,” said Sundry.

  “He goes everywhere with me now,” said the man. “I think he got a taste for trains when that fellow took him to Woolwich.”

  “I’m glad he’s safe,” said Isabelle.

  It was between Freeport and Brunswick that Sundry opened one eye slightly and realized, with a start, that he had been asleep. He had only to listen to know that Mister Walton had returned to the Land of Nod, and immediately opposite Sundry, Frederick sat back, eyes closed, wearing a very reasonable and understandable smile; Isabelle was curled in her seat and had her head on his shoulder. Sundry was a little envious in a general sort of way, and his thoughts were sped to a young woman he had met the previous October, whose name he had never discovered, and another young woman, Priscilla Morning side, whom he had met the July before that.

  A sigh escaped him, then a movement-or rather the sudden cessation of movement-on the part of the blond man directly behind Frederick Covington caught Sundry’s attention.

  Sundry watched from beneath his eyelashes as the blond head wavered strangely behind that of the clergyman. The man wore spectacles, Sundry noticed, and he seemed to be correcting the angle of his head so that he could see something properly. There was something mechanical about the movement, more like the manner in which a person would adjust a tool than his own appendage.

  A small point of light flashed briefly in Sundry’s eye, and he couldn’t fathom its source. Then the flash came again, and Sundry understood suddenly that the man’s spectacles had a little mirror attached to the back of one lens, that the man was watching someone behind him, and that the mirror had caught the light from the window.

  Sundry had all he could do to keep himself from leaping up with a shout. What could the man be watching for? Sundry eased the one eye shut and barely cracked the other. The second man too wore spectacles and was presumably using a similar device to supplement the first man’s purposes. But if they were watching the Covingtons and their companions, why observe them while everyone was obviously asleep?

  Sundry realized that the two men must have an objective besides simple scrutiny, and this was corroborated by a furtive movement at Frederick Covington’s coat pocket. The first blond man in fact was retrieving for himself a small envelope, and the pickpocket was depositing the object into his own coat when Sundry leaned forward and took hold of his wrist.

  “Pardon me!” said the pickpocket indignantly, and the man beside him nearly jumped from his seat. “What do you mean?” said the man with the mustache when Sundry did not offer to let him go.

  The Covingtons of course were up immediately, and Mister Walton, who must have been deep in the arms of Morpheus, roused himself with a yawn, blinking behind his spectacles. “Sundry?” he said.

  Snatching the envelope from the thief’s hand and returning it to its owner, Sundry said, “I believe this is yours, Mr. Covington.”

  The cleric managed to frown with his brow, while he looked at the envelope with what Sundry perceived as a wry smile. “It is,” said Frederick in the mellifluent tones of a choirmaster. “Did I drop it?”

  “Into this fellow’s hand,” said Sundry. He still had a grip on the appendage in question.

  “I demand that you let me go!” said the man with the mustache, and his seatmate made a similar, if less articulate, sound.

  “I’m not sure that you’re in the position to be leveling demands,” said Sundry. He did let go of the man’s hand, however, before violence was offered or warranted. “I saw him reach into your pocket for that envelope,” he said to Frederick.

  “He is very much welcome to it,” said the cleric without altering his smile. “I believe it is a laundry bill and a note explaining a new policy regarding t
he use of starch.”

  “I thought I was reaching into my own coat,” said the thief.

  “And do you have an envelope in your pocket?” wondered Sundry.

  “No,” said the man. “That’s why I was so surprised!”

  The commotion was of great interest to the other people in the car, and several shouted encouragement to one side or the other. The conductor had been called for at the first sign of trouble, and he arrived in the car with an official sort of frown clearing the way. “What’s all this now?” he demanded as he approached the scene.

  “I have been accosted by this man!” exclaimed the blond man with the mustache, which addendum waggled to complete the picture of agitation.

  “What he is particularly annoyed about,” informed Sundry, “is that I prevented him from picking Mr. Covington’s pocket.”

  The conductor glanced from Sundry to the blond man and finally to Frederick Covington. Mrs. Covington seemed to think the entire business unamusing; Mister Walton watched the proceedings with concern.

  “That is a serious accusation,” said the conductor.

  The first blond man thought, just then, to hide whatever evidence might be found against him, and he would have put away his spectacles if Sundry hadn’t stymied his intentions again.

  “That’s a very interesting pair of glasses you have there,” said Sundry, and by the element of surprise he was able to lift them from the man’s grasp.

  “See here!” shouted the man.

  Even the conductor thought this more than was necessary; he grabbed hold of Sundry’s wrist in turn and took the spectacles from him. “That is quite enough of that, sir!” he said.

  Sundry was not to be daunted, however; he asked the conductor to take a closer look at the glasses, and when the man could see nothing strange about them, the young man carefully pointed to the inside of the right lens.

  “What’s this?” said the conductor.

  The Covingtons leaned forward, their own interest piqued. The blond men’s looks of outrage began to melt before expressions of a more desperate sort.

  “It’s a mirror,” explained Sundry, “so that he can pick the pocket of whoever’s behind him.”

  “Is it?” said the official. It wasn’t clear whether he believed Sundry or not. “Did he take something from you?” he asked Covington.

  “A laundry bill,” said the clergyman.

  “I thought it was my pocket,” said the blond man again.

  “That’s not much to go on if you want to press charges,” said the conductor. “What do you want to do?”

  It might have seemed unusual that a man of the cloth would apply to another person in such a situation, but anyone who knew Mister Walton, however briefly, would not have been surprised to see someone turn to him for advice. “I am wondering what you think, Mister Walton,” said the clergyman.

  “I have great faith in Sundry perceptive abilities,” said the portly fellow, a keen light showing from behind his spectacles, “but more significant is my faith in his fair-mindedness. It seems to me that the telegraph companies are very much up on criminal activities, and when we reach the next station, we might find intelligence to corroborate Sundry’s characterization of these fellows or give them the opportunity to exonerate themselves before a judge.”

  Mister Walton continued with the sort of expression one might give a wayward child to whom one meant to be merciful without making light of his misconduct. “Then again,” he said carefully, “nothing of great value was at risk-if I understand correctly that you hold little sentiment regarding your laundry bill, Mr. Covington-and that of course has been recovered. Perhaps it would be best instead if these gentlemen chose to part company with us altogether and make Brunswick, which we are approaching, their immediate destination.”

  “There,” said the conductor, clearly impressed, “that is as fair as it gets.”

  “At any rate,” said Frederick, as if this had just occurred to him, “I am in the business of forgiveness.”

  “Frederick,” said Isabelle quietly, if with a certain insistence, a hand on her husband’s arm. Covington only needed to shake his head to cut short the conversation.

  “I certainly am not going to travel with people such as these!” said the first blond man, seconded by further sounds from his companion. “And I certainly will report to the railroad regarding your conduct toward an innocent passenger!”

  “I certainly think you should,” stated the conductor dryly. There was a whistle from the engine in front of them. “And don’t think I won’t report this incident to the stationmaster, in case you decide to board a later train. Why don’t you grab your bags and follow me?”

  “Keep a hand on your back pocket,” suggested Sundry.

  “Enough from you, young man,” said the conductor with a sternness that was not without humor.

  The blond men looked indignant as they gathered their things, and Sundry might have regretted the accusation if either one of them had once looked him in the eye. Bystanders commented upon the incident as the conductor escorted the men from the car. There was another whistle, and they could feel the train slowing for Brunswick station.

  “My word!” said Mister Walton. “How very you were awake, Sundry. How did you ever spot them?” He gripped his friend’s shoulder warmly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Moss,” said Frederick Covington.

  Isabelle, her expression troubled, watched the blond men leave the car.

  Sundry himself was feeling some doubt about what he had seen; to his mind, falsely accusing a person was just about the worst thing a body could do. “I hope I didn’t jump to any wrong conclusions about those fellows,” he said to Frederick.

  “Nonsense,” said the minister. “That was his third or fourth try. I was wondering when he would get hold of the thing.”

  Daniel’s Story (1877–1891)

  The first time Daniel Plainway saw Parley Willum was briefly, as Parley came out of the woods with a shot in hand and something out of season slung over his shoulder; the sight of the sherif, who had accompanied the lawyer to the Willum abode, stopped the man in an attitude of furtive surprise. He knew that these officers of the court were here to deliver a summons because of a threat he had made against another citizen in town. Parley turned about with his illegal game, unhurried, though with no wasted motion, and disappeared into the undergrowth.

  “He has to come home eventually,” said the sherif, who made no move to pursue the man, “and when he does, the summons will be waiting for him.”

  Elizabeth Willum appeared at the door then, and Daniel was surprised to see such a comely woman, where he had perhaps expected a pipe smoking carlin wife. She had hardly inquired why Daniel and the sheriff were there bef ore young Asher Willum wedged himself out between his mother and the doorjamb. Asher was nine or ten, eyes gleaming like a wolf’s, dark hair hanging over his ears. Daniel had never seen such a young boy look dangerous, but he was unsettled by those hard eyes and the expression of disdain-disdain, not because here were a sheriff and a lawyer but because here was anything that was not himself The boy flashed an expression, not altogether dissimilar, at his mother.

  In most towns there were “Willums, “folk who lived in a house far from the road, sheltered from sight like an animal’s den, their children rising up, generally unnumbered by the community and rarely touched by whatever brief appearances they made at the local school. They would have certain wood skills, these people, but would carelessly leave a telltale bottle where they had been poaching and where the sheriff wouldn’t otherwise find so much as a footprint. In some places people such as these would simply have been squatters, but in Hiram the Willums had secured their land down by Trafton Pond by other means, commonly thought to have involved a murder earlier in the century.

  They were always up to something, plotting, yet they were not deep, only watching with suspicion and wondering where they might acquire something of another man’s labor. Their yards were monuments to acquisitive
ness, littered with useless objects jealously guarded. Their children wore bruised faces, knocked about by life, one another, and their parents.

  In this yard there was a dog, half choked at the end of its leash, a plate of water just beyond its reach. “I’d say that dog was in need of a drink,” said the sheriff, the lack of expression on his face indicating just how angry he was.

  Asher Willum smiled, baring his teeth. There was no mistaking, he was a handsome lad. The mother simply said, “The kids will tease it,” though she showed no inclination to do anything about either the dog or the children.

  Then Asher’s younger brother Jeram wormed his way out past the dirty faces in the doorway and scrambled down to the dog. He was a frail-looking child, the very opposition to his brother’s wiry hardness, his face small and uncertain. When he bent down to slide the dish within the dog’s reach, the animal let out a vicious snarl and lunged at him. Teeth snapped within an inch of the little boy’sf ace, and he fell backward, barely pulling his feet away in time.

  Daniel and the sheriff both jumped for the boy, and each caught hold of a shoulder to yank him back.

  “You see what you did, putting your nose where it doesn’t belong?” scolded the mother, who registered no concern for her son.

  “It’s no wonder the animal is mean!” said the sheriff, his anger now out of hiding. “You either treat it right or, if it isn’t to be trusted, put it down.’”

  Daniel had Jeram in front of him, holding him “y the shoulders. The little fellow looked up at him and said, “I’m all right, mister.” He didn’t thank Daniel outright, but his gratitude, and even a certain amazement, were clear in his voice. Not knowing what to say, Daniel simply patted the boy on the back and nodded.

  The sheriff delivered the summons to Mrs. Willum, saying, “If Parley gets lost and doesn’t see that in the next day or so, let me know. We’ll go out looking for him.” His voice was raised loud enough for Parley himself to hear, wherever he was hiding in the brush nearly by. The sheriff gestured to Daniel, and they walked back to the road and the carriage left there.