Wrack and Rune

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Mrs. Fescue claimed Gunder Gaffson was willing to go as high as eleven hundred. If she was telling the truth, that would set a new record for Lumpkin Corners property. It would be peanuts in a fashionable suburb, though, and it was still peanuts to a man about to collect the Lumpkin inheritance.

  Suppose Nutie the Cutie did win his case and forced Henny to sell out in order to settle the claim as best he could? By the time court fees and the realtor’s commission were paid, Nute would wind up with maybe thirty-five thousand dollars, if he was lucky. What was that to him now, and what in Sam Hill was the point of this scurrilous lawsuit against the Horsefalls?

  Chapter 14

  “GOLD! THEY’VE STRUCK GOLD!”

  “Who? Where?” Shandy and Mrs. Peavey cried in unison as Fergy hurled his bulk into the Bargain Barn, rolls of avoirdupois quivering like St. Nick’s bowlful of jelly.

  “Orm’s place,” he gasped, sinking down on a roll of rusty chicken wire. “Get me a beer, Millie. I’m plumb—whoo!”

  Mrs. Peavey ran to fetch the restorative. Fergy took a few reviving swigs from the can, panted awhile, then got his voice back.

  “Cripes, a man my size ain’t built for runnin’. Couldn’t wait to tell Millie. You two make yourselves acquainted?”

  “Oh, Mr. Shandy and I are old friends by now,” Mrs. Peavey giggled. “Who’s Orm, Fergy? Funny name. I’ve known an Oscar and an Orville, but I’ve never run across an Orm before. Where’s he live?”

  And is he married? Shandy supplied the rest of Mrs. Peavey’s question mentally. Millie would of course want to know.

  “He’s dead,” said Fergy, taking another gulp of beer. “Leastways I should think he must be by now. Eh, Professor?”

  “I—er—shouldn’t doubt it,” Shandy replied. “Do you mean some—er—golden relic has been found in the vicinity of the runestone?”

  “Right smack dab in front of it, buried less’n a foot deep. An’ to think I been right here practic’ly across the road from it all these years!”

  Fergy bowed his head over his beer can in what was no doubt deep mourning, and heaved a mighty sigh. “How the hell was I to know?” he demanded of nobody in particular. “Nobody never said nothin’ to me about no runestone.”

  “I wish you’d tell me what a runestone is,” Millicent Peavey exclaimed pettishly. “What kind of gold? How much did they find?”

  “The runestone’s that rock in the woods they was makin’ such a time about last night. An’ the gold’s a little bitty coin ’bout as big around as a nickel with the edges chewed off. You wouldn’t think it would be worth botherin’ with, but them professors was glommin’ on to it an’ gloatin’ over it like it was the Hope Diamond or somethin’. O’ course, at today’s prices—”

  “I expect the historic and numismatic value would incalculably outweigh any actual monetary worth,” said Shandy. “Was it in fact a Viking coin?”

  “Them professors seemed to think so. They wouldn’t let me close enough to look at. I was out o’ there before I was in, darn near. Say, Professor, not to be personal nor nothin’, but is that president o’ yours by any chance a little bit nutty?”

  “Many people have made the mistake of thinking so. I expect he may have been somewhat—er—elated over the find. Dr. Svenson is not one to repress his feelings.”

  “You can say that again. Jeez, I ain’t seen nothin’ like that since King Kong.”

  “The resemblance has been—er—remarked.”

  In fact, around campus, President Svenson was seldom called anything else. Except, needless to say, in his hearing. “How did you happen to get close to the runestone in the first place? I thought the police were keeping spectators away.”

  “Oh, I cut down through the path made behind the Horsefall place an’ snuck up on ’em from behind, just in time for the big hoo-ray. Say, the gov’ment don’t waste no time, does it? They got men out there surveyin’ already.”

  “Surveying? I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, if they ain’t they’re puttin’ up a pretty good imitation. They got transits an’ charts an’ all. I guess that Fescue woman was right about Kenny’s land bein’ declared a national monument, much as I hate to give ’er the credit. Henny better do like she said an’ grab what he can while the gettin’s good. Not that it’s any of my business an’ I wouldn’t say so to his face. Won’t have to.”

  Fergy crumpled the beer can with a wide, fat paw and threw the remains more or less in the direction of a trash basket. “You heard the way them relatives was growlin’ an’ mutterin’ back there. Just because one or two lit on that guy Adoniram or Athelstane or whatever his name was don’t mean he didn’t get ’em thinkin’ just the same. An’ now that they’ve already started the surveyin’…”

  Shandy shook his head. “It can’t be the government. They’d never get around to moving this fast, especially when the runestone hasn’t even been authenticated yet. Maybe the water department has got the bright idea of digging up the pipes to discourage traffic along the road, which would be an excellent idea in view of the situation as it stands.”

  “Excellent for who, Professor?”

  “Er—yes, of course. Sorry, it wouldn’t be so hot for you, would it? Er—as a matter of curiosity, where does Horsefall’s boundary line lie, and who owns the property next to his?”

  “Cussed if I know. How about another beer, Millie? You want one, Professor?”

  “Thank you, no. I must be getting on. By the way, I made a call on your phone.”

  Fergy’s piggy eyes became slits. “Where to?”

  “Just to my housekeeper in Balaclava Junction. That’s not a toll call for you, I believe?”

  “Oh no, that’s all right. Housekeeper, eh? I thought you said you was married.”

  “I am. Mrs. Lomax comes in—er—to help out.”

  “Uh. Wife workin’ steady?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Hey, not bad. One to do the work an’ one to foot the bills. How come I never thought o’ that?”

  “I’ll leave you to mull it over,” said Shandy, who was feeling he’d had about enough of Fergy and his nice lady friend. “By the way, it might, be wiser not to mention that gold piece to anybody else. You know what’s going to happen if the word gets around.”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, Professor. I wasn’t born Tuesday. See you around.”

  “No doubt. Enjoy your visit, Mrs. Peavey.”

  Shandy left the Bargain Barn, deep in cogitation. He paused to look back toward the logging road, and sure enough, there were two men wearing the hard hats and fluorescent orange safety vests of surveyors. They must have been back in the woods somewhere when he’d come by before. Now they were on the pavement, one sighting through the transit, the other doing something with a plumb bob.

  He thought of going down to ask them what was up, but he’d learn soon enough, no doubt. Fergy’s other news concerned him far more. If a piece of genuine Viking plundered treasure had in fact been unearthed, all hell was going to break loose once the word got around. He had little faith in Fergy’s ability to keep his mouth shut, and none at all in Millicent Peavey’s. If the Horsefalls didn’t already know, he’d better go right now and alert them to batten down the hatches and call all hands to the pumps.

  At least the company had left by now. Only the Ameses’ new car was in the yard, and Shandy found Miss Hilda sitting at the kitchen table, having a quiet cup of tea with Roy and Laurie. With them was Sven Svenson, his head swathed in gauze bandage.

  “Good God, what happened to you, Dr. Svenson?” Shandy asked.

  “Orm got ’im,” Miss Hilda answered for the shaken Swede. “I tell ’im that’s what he gets for messin’ around with sacred places.”

  “But the runestone’s not a sacred place, is it?” said Roy Ames. “I’d got the impression it was anything but.”

  “H’mph, dunno where you got that notion.” Miss Hilda tossed her head in assumed dudgeon, but her twitching lips rathe
r spoiled the effect.

  “Well, the inscription’s all about rotten liquor and mean women,” Roy insisted. “What’s so elevated about that? And Orm’s not buried under the stone, I assume. If he’d died there, he’d have been in no condition to complain, would he?” Roy did have the scientific approach.

  “What is the nature of your injury, Dr. Svenson?” Shandy repeated. He was having an awful time getting straight answers today.

  This time it was Laurie who took it upon herself to reply. “He got conked on the head falling out of a tree.”

  “What was he doing in a tree?”

  “Climbing it, I suppose.”

  The old man shook his bandaged head. “Not climb. Up.”

  “You mean you’d already climbed the tree and you were up in it and a branch broke or something?”

  “No. Not climb. Up.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Laurie said.

  “Well, don’t go pesterin’ the man now,” Miss Hilda told her. “Here, old-timer, I’m goin’ to put some more sugar in your tea an’ you dern well better drink it. Sugar’s good for what ails you.”

  “Unless you happen to be ailing from diabetes,” Roy murmured.

  Laurie had already learned the wifely art of silencing her spouse with a look. “Miss Horsefall means sugar is good for shock, and she’s absolutely right. Dr. Svenson must have got a dreadful jar from that fall. It’s a mercy he didn’t break his neck.”

  “I’d still like to know why he was in the tree,” Shandy fretted.

  “Nobody seems to know. The president lugged him in here a little while ago and told us to take care of him. Maybe we ought to take him to the hospital, but on the other hand, maybe it’s better not to joggle him around too much. He doesn’t seem to have any bones broken. He did cut his head, but it isn’t bad, really. Miss Horsefall bandaged it to stop the bleeding.”

  “So I see.”

  “I suppose, being so little and light, he didn’t fall very hard. But one would have thought, at his age, his bones would be so brittle that he’d have really done a number on himself.”

  “One would indeed,” Shandy replied. “I’d be inclined to leave him alone for the time being. He appears to be responding to treatment.”

  In point of fact, Sven Svenson was now making what might, for want of a coarser term, be called advances to Miss Hilda. She was not discouraging him very hard, perhaps out of pity for his recent injury.

  “Where’s your father, Roy?” Shandy asked to cover his embarrassment at the goings-on. “And Mr. Horsefall?”

  “Henny’s upstairs resting. The funeral sort of did him in. Dad’s out communing with Bashan of Balaclava. The Animal Husbandry boys brought old Bash over this morning in a horse trailer, and left him up there on the rise in case anybody takes a notion to cut through the swale to the runestone.”

  “Do tell,” Shandy replied. “What time this morning?”

  “Sometime during the funeral, I suppose. The bull was here by the time I brought Laurie over because we went up to say hello to him.”

  “What did they do, just stake him out?”

  “No, they set in some posts and strung electrified wire to make him a large enclosure, which was a darn good idea. The wire looks flimsy enough to discourage anybody from trying to get near, especially when Bashan gets to stamping and snorting, putting on his act.”

  Roy, having grown up on campus, spoke as if he found the bovine behemoth’s histrionics rather cute. “But you know Dad. He always did get along with bulls. After living with Mother so long, I think he finds them restful company.”

  “Huh! Nice way to talk about your own mother,” snorted Miss Horsefall, moving a little closer to Dr. Svenson, Sr. “Come on, you old he-devil, you better go lay down awhile.”

  “Sure, tootsie. Ve take little rast, hah?”

  “I didn’t mean me, drat you, an’ keep your grabby hands to yourself. Come on, I’ll bed you down on the sofa.”

  As she was leading him away, they heard a thump at the knocker on the front door.

  “Now who in tarnation’s that?” said the old woman fretfully. “More trouble, I s’pose. Laurie, get this hellion laid down an’ cover ’im up with the afghan while I see who ’tis. An’ you behave yourself for a change, Sven Svenson. She’s a married woman even if she don’t look it.”

  “How should a married woman look?” Laurie asked in a rather pettish tone since she was, after all, straining every nerve to leave her Antarctic adventures behind her until she’d learned to be a model wife.

  “Like she’s sorry she ever bothered. Quit that bangin’, whoever you are. I’m comin’ as fast as I can. Oh, it’s you.” Miss Horsefall sounded sorry she’d ever bothered. “What are you after now? Our back teeth? If you are it’s too late ’cause I ain’t got none left an’ neither has Henny.”

  “I came for my late cousin’s personal effects.”

  That mincing voice could belong to none other than Canute Lumpkin. Shandy thought he’d better go join Miss Horsefall.

  At the moment, the old lady was managing nicely on her own. “What effects? If you mean Spurge’s other pair o’ socks, why can’t you come straight out an’ say so? You always was an aggravatin’ little bugger an’ you ain’t improved none by gettin’ older an’ fatter.”

  “Slander won’t help your case, Miss Horsefall,” Nute replied sweetly. “Would you kindly show me to my late cousin’s room?”

  “You try to step over that threshold an’ I’ll lay you out flat as a pancake with this here umbrella stand. You could never be bothered to set foot inside this house while Spurge was alive an’ you ain’t never goin’ to do it now, not while I’ve got a breath left in this ol’ carcass o’ mine. Stay out there where you won’t stink up the air an’ I’ll fetch ’em out to you, such as they are. Too bad corpses’ eyes don’t get weighted down with copper cent pieces no more. You might o’ filed a claim for them, too.”

  Lumpkin only glanced over her shoulder and drawled, “Ah, Professor Shandy, how do you do? I’m so glad you overheard that remark. Now you can testify at the hearing that I was subjected to verbal abuse and threats of physical violence when I attempted to carry out my proper function as next of kin to the deceased.”

  “Certainly, Lumpkin. If you don’t feel sufficiently abused, perhaps I could help you there, too. It is a shame about the two cents. However, if you’ll wait here as Miss Horsefall suggests, I’ll help her fetch out whatever—er—effects your cousin may have left.”

  Canute Lumpkin spread a mauve silk handkerchief over the seat of the least-battered rocking chair, hitched the creases of his pinky-beige trousers ever so carefully over his knees, and planted his pudgy bottom on the handkerchief.

  “How kind of you, Professor Shandy. I shall be quite content to entrust the mission to a person of your stature and probity. It won’t take too long, will it? I should so hate to cause a scene by violating the sanctity of Miss Horsefall’s threshold if I were kept waiting.”

  There was no cause for delay. Spurge Lumpkin’s personal effects consisted of two worn but clean and mended suits of long underwear, some much-darned socks, a couple of flannel shirts with turned collars and patched elbows, a pair of work pants, a plaid mackinaw much like the one Shandy himself had worn until Helen had threatened him with bodily violence if he didn’t buy himself something fit to be seen in, a pair of heavy boots with run-down heels, and a cap and mittens knitted from odds and ends of bright worsted.

  These last brought tears to Miss Horsefall’s eyes as she laid them on top of the pitiful heap. “I knitted these for Spurge one Christmas before my hands got so bad. Never seen a man more tickled. We had a good Christmas that year. Times was better then. Ayup. Well, I’ll be in a better place myself before long, the Lord willin’.”

  “Nonsense, you mustn’t talk that way,” Shandy replied brusquely. “Is this all? No—er—pajamas or slippers or whatever?”

  “Hell, no. Spurge always slep’ in ’is socks an’ union suit.
It was as much as I could do to make ’im take a bath an’ change ’em once a week. Spurge did have a good suit an’ a white shirt that used to belong to Henny when he was bigger, but we buried ’im in those. Ain’t nothin’ else but the tobacco boxes.”

  “Good Lord,” said Shandy, eyeing the stack of cartons that filled one corner of the sparsely furnished little room. “What did he keep in them?”

  “Nothin’. He just liked to save ’em.”

  There must have been hundreds of the small tin and cardboard containers, carefully stowed away in those dusty grocery cartons. Shandy would have liked to make sure the containers were in fact empty, but it would take ages to open them all and he knew Nutie the Cutie was quite capable of staging the promised scene if they didn’t get this stuff out to him right away. Anyway, the film of dust over them would be proof that they hadn’t been tampered with, assuming there could possibly be anything of worth inside. There probably wasn’t, judging from the lightness of the boxes, unless Spurge had gone in for collecting chicken feathers. Shandy picked up a tottering armload and juggled them out to the porch.

  “You’d better start putting these in your car, Lumpkin. There are lots more.”

  “Oh dear. Perhaps I might just sort over the boxes ands leave what I don’t—”

  “Not on your life. You came for your cousin’s possessions and you’re damn well going to take them away.”

  Lumpkin shrugged and began loading the worthless boxes into his shiny new car. At last he sighed, “Is this all?”

  “This is damn well all, an’ no thanks to you for what little there is,” Miss Horsefall snapped back. “Never seen you offer Spurge so much as a stick o’ chewin’ gum while he was alive. He’d o’ been sent to the county home with nothin’ but the shirt on ’is back if me an’ Henny hadn’t o’ took ’im in. An’ a hell of a lot o’ thanks we ever got for it from your folks, not that we cared. Spurge was our—” She cleared her nose with a mighty sniff, wiped her sleeve across her rheumy eyes, and finished savagely, “Now you got what you come for. Take it an’ git.”