by Van Reid
It is of your generosity to me that I write, for I fear it may have purchased you more trouble than worth in the end. By the time that Uncle Ezra and I arrived in Portland yesterday, we were very troubled over the disappearance of my cousin Roger. It is true that he is no better than he ought to be and that he has contributed more complication to my life than happiness, but it is difficult to wipe the heart clean of regard when one has been fond in childhood of a playmate who helped while away so many hours.
Uncle Ezra himself is not without some feeling for Roger, and so when he did not return to Hallowell and did not communicate where he had gone to, Uncle went to Roger’s apartment and prevailed upon the landlord to let him in.
Sherlock Holmes could not have done better than Uncle Ezra, for he hunted every surface of the apartment for clues to Roger’s whereabouts, and it was during this investigation that he discovered a letter, carelessly left upon the dresser, from a Mr. Hawking, who expressed a very peculiar and definite interest in Roger’s going to Hiram.
You may be as surprised as Uncle and I were at this intelligence, and perhaps you know a Mr. Hawking or can guess what coincidence would send my cousin to the town where you live. Please do not hesitate to involve the authorities if Roger proves any trouble to you! Please write and let me know that you are well. My uncle and I will be staying in Portland for the holidays. And please have a fine Christmas, knowing that little Bertram will be having a wonderful holiday himself for the first time.
I am your friend,
Charlotte Burnbrake
51. Persistence
TELEGRAM
DECEMBER 18, 1896
PORTLAND TELEGRAPH COMPANY
Office : Federal Street
DECEMBER 18 AM 10:07
WORSTER HOUSE
MR & MRS FREDERICK COVINGTON
MR PLAINWAY SAYS THAT OXEN OFTEN SKIP FURROWS WHEN PLOWING THEN PLOW THE FURROWS MISSED ON THE WAY BACK.
SUNDRY MOSS
The man at the telegraph office was counting the words and he only glanced once at Sundry when he was done.
“Boustrophedan,” said Sundry. “It’s news to me,” said the fellow.
The Covingtons had picked up their bags and were getting ready to leave Hallowell, after a short stay with Captain Gaines, Mr. Noel, and Mr. Noggin at Skowhegan. It was only by chance that the boy from the telegraph office caught them in the lobby of the hotel.
“Mr. Moss again,” said Frederick as he frowned at the telegram. His wife found a coin in her purse and tipped the boy, who tipped his hat. “Every other furrow, huh?” said the husband under his breath.
“What is that, dear?”
“Mr. Moss again.”
“I heard that.”
Frederick was lost in thought. “There are seven rows of runes, four down, skipping every other one, and three up, catching the ones that remain.” He turned around in the lobby and fished through his pockets for the photograph of the runes on Council Hill. “Let me try it,” he said.
“Dear,” said Isabelle, “we’re going to miss the train.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, turning about-face. “This will wait, I suppose.” Moxie fell in with them at the top of the steps.
The dog was making friends with the man in the baggage car, and the Covingtons were not long settled in the train when Frederick pulled a notebook from his pocket. He wrote some things down, copying the runes from the photograph in an entirely different order. Isabelle sat opposite from her husband but attempted to see over his work.
He smiled, even chuckled to himself, then fell back to his study, frowning, and finally he looked up again.
“Does it say something?” said Isabelle.
He chuckled again, maddening her a little. He passed her the notebook and leaned back in his seat, looking out at the outskirts of Hallowell as they fell past. “The next stop I must wire Mr. Moss,” he said.
Isabelle read what he had written there. “Good heavens, really!” she said.
EASTERN TELEGRAPH COMPANY
Farming dale
DECEMBER 18 AM 11:35
SPRUCE STREET
SUNDRY MOSS
EXCLAMATION MARK. a WORD IS NOT TRUE JUST BECAUSE IT’S CARVED IN STONE. EXCLAMATION MARK.
FREDERICK COVINGTON
Frederick, who was not yet privy to the tale of Uncle Francis Neptune’s ancient grandfather, laughed when he returned from the station.
“What are you laughing about?” asked Isabelle, who knew very well that her husband was delighted beyond words, even if he was amazed and perplexed by the translation.
“We’ll see what Mr. Moss makes of that telegram,” said Frederick.
When Sundry came with the telegram into the parlor, he was able to suppress his excitement long enough to take note of Mister Walton’s preoccupied manner.
“A telegram?” said the bespectacled fellow. He seemed strangely motionless in his chair by the fire.
“You look as if you’ve had bad news,” said Sundry concernedly.
It was then that Mister Walton lifted the letter in his hand, though he shook his head dismissively. “Miss McCannon won’t be home during Christmas.”
“She’s not coming to Portland?”
“No, no,” said Mister Walton. “She’ll be in Orland with a cousin”-he looked about the old familiar room and thought that he would like to be away somewhere, but hardly had the energy to move-“closing her aunt’s house,” he finished.
“Oh?”
“There was a telegram?”
“From the Covingtons. Mr. Plainway’s notion of ox plowing seems to be the key.”
“Good heavens!” a certain animation revived the portly fellow’s limbs. “What does it say?”
“Well, look.”
“Good heavens!” said Mister Walton again. “Just as John Neptune’s uncle told you!”
“I’m wondering what else in his story was true,” said Sundry.
“Good heavens!”
“I should say.”
Mister Walton fell silent again, shaking his head and making low noises of amazement.
“Perhaps you could see Miss McCannon on the New Year,” said Sundry.
“She says perhaps after New Year’s,” answered Mister Walton. He gave an uncharacteristic sigh.
“Perhaps we should be going to Hiram, then, in the next few days,” said Sundry.
“Do you think?” Mister Walton looked interested.
“Mr. Plainway seemed very anxious to have us come. Near l as anxious as he was about Miss Burn brake.”
This raised a sympathetic chuckle from Mister Walton. “I am curious, I must confess.”
Sundry roamed across the room to the desk, where a small calendar stood. He considered what was left of the month. “Let’s go on the twenty-first,” he suggested.
“Oh? What day is that?”
“Monday. It’s the winter solstice.”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Burnbrake assured us that it is the favorite night for ghosts to appear.”
“Are you anxious to see a ghost?”
“There’s one that’s been wandering my family’s house for years, and I’ve never seen it.”
Mister Walton chuckled. “The twenty-first,” he said.
“Who knows?” said Sundry. “Someone might have the opportunity to tell Eleanor Linnett that her boy is fine. I’ll send Mr. Plainway a telegram.” But not, he thought, before I write a letter or two.
PORTLAND TELEGRAPH COMPANY
Office : Federal Street
DECEMBER 18 PM 1:26
HIGH STREET
MR DANIEL PLAINWAY
COMING TO HIRAM ON 21ST. EXPECTING TO STAY AT LINNETT ESTATE IF STILL WANTED.
THE MOOSEPATH LEAGUE
BOOK SEVEN
December 21-22, 1896
Daniel’s Story (Mid-December 1896)
He had purposely stayed away, though he had a story to tell the old house, but it seemed a small consideration just to come by and view the handiwork
of Mrs. Cutler, who, with her daughters, had been cleaning the place for a week.
When he arrived, the atmosphere was gray with motionless clouds, and the light of day cast listless shadows upon the mow. The Linnett house seemed a large, ungainly thing, and he wondered that he could harbor sentiment for an emp-hulk of wood and stone; its upper-story windows looked blind, barely reflecting the featureless sky.
He hoped that simply having another living presence in the house would make some difference to him, but when he came through the front door, the voices of the womenfolk in the kitchen echoed down the hall, as if from far away. He shut the door softly and stood at the foot of the broad stairs, ad justing himself to a separate level of loneliness.
There was the smell of wax and the absence of dust; the furnishings were unveiled, and a fire burned somewhere, but the house was cold. The further end of the hall darkened with Mrs. Cutler’s presence. “Mr. Plainway, “she said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said.
“Startle me? It isn’t easy to startle me anymore. Not with seven young ones.”
Daniel smiled. “I don’t suppose.”
She was a large, presentable woman of about thirty-five years, with strawcolored hair and a ruddy workaday complexion. She had nursed little Bertram in his first year of lie and was the person Daniel thought of when he knew the house needed a rough but caring hand. Two of her daughters peered out from behind her, and Daniel spoke to them. Her oldest son had brought in wood and was stacking it in the hearths so that fires could be lit when the guests arrived. Daniel heard the lad in one of the rooms above.
The place glowed with the attentions of the Cutlers, and Daniel was more than satisfied. “The house looks wonderful, Mrs. Cutler.”
“There’s a broken window in the pantry. My boy blocked it up.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Daniel.
“I think someones been in here,” said the woman.
“Oh?”
“And did you know there was a secret passage?”
“I don’t know that I did.”
“It goes from the attic down past the pantry to the cellar.”
“I know, Mrs. Cutler, but I don’t think the stairs were a secret. Years ago the servants used them.”
“There’s a stainway from the upstairs front hall,” she said.
“But their rooms were up in that end of the attic.”
“Were they? We saw there were quarters up there, but someone besides the servants has used it since.” She led Daniel into the pantry and stopped before a particular cupboard. The cupboard door opened like any other, but the cupboard itself as Daniel knew, was on wheels and swung on a hinge to reveal a landing from which one steep staircase led up into the attic and a second flight led down to the cellar. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Mrs. Cutler, as if she didn’t entire l approve. “My boy found it. He thought it would lead him to treasure far sure.”
Daniel peered up the dark well. “You say someones been up there?”
“The bed in the northwest rooms been used, not so long ago, and there’s been fires in the grate.”
“It would be hard to tell whether someone slept there yesterday or four years ago,” suggested the lawyer.
“I can tell,” she said without the least bit of doubt in her powers. “We heard someone up there, which is how we found it. You said not to bother with the attic, but when we heard someone clunking and scraping-trying to frighten us, I wouldn’t wonder-I tore up the front stairs in no time.”
“You should have left the house or at least sent for me,” said Daniel.
“Gory, Mr. Plainway, I had my broom. But he was down these stairs and out through the cellarvay before I was halfway up to the attic, I swear.”
“Did he leave anything behind?”
“Not that we could tell.”
“You did say ‘he.’”
“It wasn’t where a woman had set down, I could tell that. “It seemed that she could tell a great deal without empirical evidence.
“This house is haunted, isn’t it, Mr. Plainway?” said one of the girls.
“Hush, you!” said Mrs. Cutler, then to Daniel: “I am sorry.”
Daniel shook his head, casting a bland expression over the disquiet he felt.
“What makes you think so?” he asked the little girl.
“We heard her, “she replied. “Mama says she wouldn’t do any harm and to pay no mind.”
“I think your mother is right.”
“I saw the pretty lady on the stairs,” came another voice, and Daniel was then aware of Mrs. Cutler’s youngest child, Harry, whom she had been nursing when Bertram Linnett was born. Harry was a block of a five-year-old now, with piercing blue eyes and hair so blond it was white.
“Harry!” said his mother
“She was on the stairs.”
“I’ve told you about telling stories, young man.”
“She was sad when she saw me, I think. But I smiled at her, and she smiled too. Then she left.”
The mother rolled her eyes, but clearly she didn’t entirely discount the child’ tale. “We cleaned everything in Miss Linnett’s room,” she said, thereby changing the subject somewhat, though perhaps not so gracefully. “We put everything back where it was, as you said.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cutler.”
“And you found the little boy, “said the woman.
“]did, with the help of the gentlemen who’ll be coming here.”
“Land alive! Wherever has he been these years?”
Daniel told Bertram’s tale, but briefly, to a panty full of wide eyes.
“The poor bud!” pronounced Mrs. Cutler. “But what’ll he ever do with this place, Mr. Plainway?”
“That is a question. “As a matter of form Daniel took in the rooms downstairs, nodding and voicing his approval while the big woman followed him about. Coming out of the front room, where once hung the portrait of Nell Linnett, he met the older Cutler boy, who was descending the stairs.
The boy, about eleven or twelve, asked him, “Do you want me to lay wood for a fire in that room?” and he pointed to the right front room upstairs, which had been Miss Linnett’s.
“Yes,” said Daniel, after a moment’s thought. “Yes, please do. Thank you. “He must be sure to pay a little extra for the children; they were hard workers and cheerful kids, and he liked them.
“We didn’t touch much up in the attic,” said Mrs. Cutler, who hung back, for some reason, when he began to mount the stairs.
There didn’t seem to be much point in continuing his inspection for her sake is he wasn’t going to follow him, but he had committed himself to the appearance of the thing, so he continued up the stairs. He had hardly ever been on the second floor—only a time or two when the old man was ill-and he had never seen Nell’room, not even since she and her grand father died. He touched the knob of her door when he reached it, and it swung open.
He could see his breath in the air. The curtains were pulled back, but the light of this particular day did little to dispel the shadows. The furniture was ornate; frills and furbelows embellished the bedcovers and the drapes that hung between the bedposts. Flowers populated the wallpaper; fairies and haloed devotional figures were poised within heavy round frames. The chiffonnier, the commode, the vanity, and the bed were pearl white with highlights of pink and red and gray. a brush and comb and a silver-mounted hand mirror lay in a static arrangement upon the vanity. (Nell had never left them like that, he thought.) a single chair stood by the door, like a guard, and a fainting couch lay beneath a south-f acing window.
From the west windows one could look out over the rolling fields of the estate, beyond which lay Clemons Pond. Out of the vast white encasement of snow, Daniel could see the gnarled limbs of an apple grove struggling toward the sky. There, perhaps, Nell was first seen with Jeram Willum. She might have seen Jeram from this window and gone out to him.
He imagined her restles
s night after her grand father had told her that Jeram was not welcome at their home. He tried to imagine the thoughts that led to her disastrous liaison with Asher. He considered the whereabouts of the gems that old Ian had hoarded in his last days; he recalled Ian’s cryptic words: If he’s as big a man as I am-the boy, that is-he will see where it’s been put in his mother’s eyes.
Certainly Edward Penfen, alias Eustace Pembleton, had never discovered the jewels. Daniel was sure of that; otherwise the man would never have gone to such lengths to kidnap and retain the boy.
Strangely, standing in Nell’s room, where the memory of her young li and the sadness of her premature death might have been most painful, Daniel experienced another emotion, itself not without a pang, that blunted the lingering effects of the Linnett tragedy. Looking out over the grounds from Nell’s window, he thought of Charlotte Burnbrake, of her kind face and her eyes when she smiled.
It had been an awkward departure that Monday afternoon. He had not wanted to leave, and he had half believed that she had not wanted him to. Now, with time and distance working their pragmatic forces upon him, he thought the notion absurd. They had known one another all of two days by the time he left Hallowell. She had thanked him warmly, giving him her hand, the impress of which he could still imagine.
“You must have a card,” she had said, and he complied with the request. The other day he had received a letter from her, warning him that her cousin might be somewhere in Hiram; the notion seemed absurd, but he had stayed up half a night composing a reply that revealed nothing, except above his signature where he penned his fond regard. The phrase had haunted him since he had entrusted the letter to the postman. He blushed to think of it.
Daniel could see his reflection in the vanity mirror when he turned. Beyond the mirror and the vanity the Cutler boy stood in the doorway with his arms loaded with wood, and Daniel had been so lost in his musings that he had not heard his approach. “Because me,” said the boy, sensing that he had stepped into a private moment.