Wrack and Rune

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “But ’twas Orm that flang the Swedish feller into the tree,” Henny argued. “He said so hisself.”

  “Dr. Svenson’s a lot older than you are, Horsefall, and his English is none too good. He either didn’t grasp what had happened to him or didn’t know the right words to explain it.”

  Shandy described the crude but effective catapult that had been made from the limber birch sapling. “It was a stroke of luck, good or bad depending on your point of view, that a light little chap like him instead of someone big and heavy like his nephew happened to lean against the birch and get tossed when it sprang back upright.”

  “I’ll be danged!”

  Henny was looking a great deal brighter now, and Mrs. Fescue showed clenched teeth as her smile became more and more forced.

  “So it was just more o’ them cussed—great balls o’ fire, what’s that?”

  From out of the night came a galloping of hooves. Into the yard burst a coal-black horse, greater than any living beast. On its back loomed the majestic figure of a woman more beautiful than any woman could be, her long, golden hair streaming out behind her like an outrun aureole. And right on her steed’s spurting heels came another rider, tiny atop another coal-black immensity, blond also but with hair cut into a curly nimbus. It was the Ride of the Valkyrie!

  No, by George, it was Sieglinde Svenson aboard Odin, largest and swiftest of the mighty Balaclava Blacks. And the attendant page pounding toward them on Odin’s consort Freya was none other than—

  “Helen! Good God, are you trying to kill yourself?” roared her distraught husband.

  “Don’t be silly, Peter. Whoa, Freya. She’s gentle as a lamb. A baby could ride her. Anyway, Sieglinde and I couldn’t get hold of a car because Thorkjeld’s got theirs and you’ve got ours and we didn’t dare ask Dr. Porble and you simply had to know right away.”

  “This will be a blow the most shattering to Thorkjeld,” sighed Mrs. Svenson, reining in Odin as if he were a child’s hobby horse. “Be still, my noble steed. Peter, it is you who must tell him. I have not the heart.”

  “Tell him what? Great Scott, what’s happened now? Is somebody dead?”

  “Worse. Far worse. He has never lived.”

  “Who? You don’t mean Birgit’s had a miscarriage already?”

  “Peter, don’t be absurd,” said Helen primly. “She’s barely off on her honeymoon. It’s Orm, of course. He’s a fake.”

  “What?”

  “Orm was another of Belial Buggins’s little funnies, that’s all. After you’d pointed out that joke about the moonshine I got to thinking about what a person with an odd sense of humor and a hang-up on the Kalevala might do, so I went to the library and did some more research on those diaries. He had it all written down. See, I’ve even brought the right book with me, in case Thorkjeld won’t believe us.”

  She pulled a small paper-bound volume out of her pocket and waved it under his nose. “It’s right here. Belial had also taught himself a little Old Norse, and boned up on runes. He thought it would be a barrel of laughs to carve that stone, get some archaeologists out here from Harvard, and make a big to-do, then reveal the hoax. This was about the time of the Cardiff Giant and all that, you know. They rather went in for intellectual whimsies in those days.”

  “My love, will you quit flaunting your erudition and get down off that elephant?” Peter entreated.

  “You can’t get down off an elephant. It grows on birds. I learned that old chestnut in second grade,” Helen replied lightly. “Anyway, Belial was going to do it up in grand style. He managed to acquire a couple of genuine Viking relics from some old collector he’d met somewhere. One was that piece of helmet Cronkite Swope found, of course. The other was a coin. Apparently they were both of a late period and in bad condition, so the other man didn’t mind parting with them. Anyway, Belial was going to bury them both under the stone. After they’d found them, the archaeologists were supposed to dig down a little farther and find a saga—or would it be an edda—that Orm had allegedly written. It was all about his voyage to this undiscovered land, only it had some pretty juicy local scandal worked into it and Belial was thinking of burying it inside a Lydia E. Pinkham’s bottle. The diary stops right after that, so I don’t know what happened next.”

  “Most likely somebody shot the bastard,” said her husband with a good deal of feeling. “Belial must have been a public menace. Know anything about Belial Buggins, Horsefall?”

  “Made the best white lightnin’ in Balaclava County is all I know. My ol’ grandpop used to go on about Belial’s booze when Granny wasn’t around. Aunt Hilda would likely remember some of ’is folks. Gripes, if we’re bein’ haunted by Belial’s ghost, we’re in a worse mess o’ trouble than I thought we was.”

  But Henny chuckled as he said it and Mrs. Fescue quit trying to smile.

  “Mr. Horsefall,” she wailed, “you as much as promised.”

  “Like hell I did. Excuse me, ladies, I don’t gen’rally cuss in front o’ females I ain’t related to, but this woman’s been pesterin’ the daylights out o’ me so long she’s druv me to it. You get on back to Gunder Gaffson, Miz Fescue, an’ tell ’im he can build anywhere he dern well pleases long as it ain’t on my land. This is the Horsefall Farm, which it’s been for the past two hundred an’ forty-three years, an’ it’s goin’ to stay the Horsefall Farm while there’s a Horsefall alive to till it. Now if you folks’ll excuse me, I think I’ll step inside an’ have a little nip myself. I kind o’ feel the need.”

  “Go ahead, Horsefall,” said Shandy, repressing an urge to kiss him. “Good for what ails you. We’ll go too, if you don’t mind. I’d like a few words with your aunt before we tackle the president.”

  “Come right ahead. She was in the parlor with Dr. Svenson last I seen of ’er.” Henny led the way, then turned to apologize. “She’ll raise ol’ Ned with me for takin’ you ladies in through the kitchen. Ain’t been time to keep it picked up, what with all the goin’s-on.”

  The room was in a certain amount of disarray. The cake plate Shandy had been eating from stood on the square pine table, a crudely painted, garishly colored bird against a dull red spatterwork background showing through a smear of frosting and crumbs. The pierced tin door of the dark pine pie cupboard hung open, revealing shelves cluttered with odds and ends of pastry that hadn’t got eaten up during the onslaught after the funeral. About five generations of plates and teacups lay around the soapstone sink. Sieglinde and Helen exchanged looks.

  Shandy caught them and scowled. “I think Miss Horsefall manages very well, all things considered.”

  “She has managed perhaps far better than she knows,” said Sieglinde, carefully moving the worn comb-back rocker in order to get her large though elegant form through the narrow doorway into the hall. “We shall find her in here?”

  They found her, all right. They could have chosen a worse moment to burst into the parlor, but it was obvious they hadn’t missed that moment by much. Miss Hilda hadn’t quite finished rearranging her garments and Uncle Sven’s mustache was in a state of total dishevelment. As he tried to comb it out with his fingers Sieglinde said something sharp to him in Swedish and the ends drooped for a moment, but they snapped right back into a tight upward curl. Shandy thought he’d never seen a happier mustache.

  “Er—don’t disturb yourselves, folks,” he said. “We’ll be back a bit later. Mrs. Svenson just wanted to make sure the president’s uncle was all right before we go down to the dig.”

  They backed out, all trying to pretend they hadn’t seen what they’d indubitably seen, rounded up a few flashlights, and remounted Odin and Freya, Shandy riding pillion behind his wife. There was traffic on the hill road again tonight, but the police were being extremely severe with anybody who tried to loiter. The Balaclava Blacks, not to mention the spectacle of the president’s wife with her hair down, awed them into easy submission, however. This time, Shandy had no trouble being let into the logging road.

  The archaeologists
were still at it. Shandy and his party could see them up ahead working under a couple of floodlights that must have come from the college. They’d completed what appeared to be a ridiculously small excavation considering the long day they’d put in. Thorkjeld Svenson looked fresh enough, but the other two were obviously ready to call it quits.

  Sieglinde nodded at Helen. Helen winked back at Sieglinde. Both nudged their mounts into a gallop and swooped down upon the runestone with a Wagnerian “Ho-jo-to-ho!”

  “My God, he’s sent Brunnhilde after us!” shrieked the elder archaeologist, falling back in awe and terror.

  “I—I’m not sure it’s—”

  The younger archaeologist’s voice failed him as Thorkjeld Svenson plucked the Viking queen of battles from her saddle, kissed her mightily and at great length, then began to roar like Boreas through the pines of Norway on a night in January.

  “You—you know this—-this goddess?”

  “Hell, I ought to,” bellowed the president. “I’ve been sleeping with her for thirty-four years.”

  “In lawful wedlock,” Sieglinde added primly. “I am the wife of President Svenson and how do you do? It is only that I have lost my hairpins because Odin runs so fast.”

  “I hope you appreciate the honor that’s being done you, gentlemen. My wife doesn’t let her hair down for everybody.”

  Svenson was still laughing as he gathered up the radiant masses in his great hands. “Here’s the purest Viking gold you’ll ever see.”

  Sieglinde rescued her tresses and twisted them into a knot behind her neck. “Thorkjeld, could you not first have wiped the leaf mold off you hands? But what you say, alas, is true. Here is no Viking treasure, gentlemen, only Belial Buggins.”

  “What?” roared the president.

  “I’m sorry, Thorkjeld,” said Helen. “I found it in his diaries.”

  “Found what? I never knew Belial could write. Thought he was a moonshiner.”

  “He was, but he was also a number of other things, including a remarkably erudite practical jokester.” Helen produced the foxed little book in which Buggins had recorded his secret japeries. “See, here’s where he tells how he’s carved the runestone, and where he bought the Viking relics he plans to bury.”

  The president studied the sputtery browned handwriting first with suspicion, then with fury. “Why, that son of a—”

  “Thorkjeld!” chided his wife.

  “But damn it, Sieglinde, I—I’m—Helen, you mean there never was an Orm Tokesson?”

  “Not in Lumpkin Corners there wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Is that all you can say? Sorry! Hell.” He draped himself over the runestone like a stricken Titan. “I liked Orm.”

  Sieglinde went over and clasped his massive head to her equally massive but far more shapely bosom. “Be comforted, my own. You have still me, not to mention our seven beautiful daughters, our five handsome sons-in-law, our nine adorable grandchildren, our dear parents, our beloved sisters and brothers, our respected friends, and many aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and cousins to the fourth degree, though I see no need to invite them all to the engagement party.”

  “What engagement party? Good God, you don’t mean Frideswiede?”

  “I do not. I mean your Great-uncle Sven and Miss Horsefall, between whom affairs have progressed to a state where someone must step in and observe the proprieties. I say this in the presence of others because I am overwrought by your grief, my dear husband, and I trust to the discretion of all here not to repeat. To the discretion of Miss Horsefall and Uncle Sven I trust not at all, so we waste no time. At least this way we get to use up all that herring left over from Birgit’s wedding reception.”

  As Thorkjeld strove manfully to overcome his pain at the loss of Orm Tokesson, Sieglinde turned to the two archaeologists. “Learned sirs, you have labored in vain. My husband will now take you to our home and our daughters will give you sustenance. I can only wish that the excellence of our herring may be some compensation for your fatigue and disappointment.”

  “I’m not a bit tired,” the younger archaeologist lied gallantly. “It’s been a privilege and an honor to work with President Svenson, and I’m crazy about herring.”

  “Herring disagrees with me,” said the elder archaeologist, “and I’ve been convinced from the start that this would turn out to be another hoax. Therefore I have not labored in vain. I never do. I am writing a book about archaeological hoaxes. Mrs. Shandy, if you are in fact Mrs. Shandy,” he added with a cold glance at the arms Peter had wrapped about her petite form so tightly that they’d have cost Sieglinde another round of herring, no doubt, had not the Shandys been duly united and therefore within the scope of her tolerance, “I trust you’ll allow me access to the diaries of Belial Buggins.”

  “I shall have to consult with our library director, Dr. Porble,” Helen replied demurely, “but I expect he’ll be willing to let you see them. I’m only assistant for the Buggins Collection. And I am indeed Mrs. Shandy.”

  “Oh. Pity. Perhaps I might just give you my card in case you contemplate a divorce anytime in the reasonably near future.”

  “Thank you. I’ll add it to my applicants file. Peter darling, must you do any more detecting tonight, or can I persuade you to come home to your wife and family for a change?”

  “There’s still that trifling matter of who killed Spurge Lumpkin, my love. I’m afraid I’d better go back and have that talk with Miss Horsefall if she can keep her mind off more—er—immediate concerns.”

  “Ah yes,” said the president’s wife. “I too must chat with Miss Horsefall.”

  “Then do let Peter put in his licks first if you don’t mind, Sieglinde,” Helen entreated. “You know how you get carried away on the subject of smorgasbord. What’s happened to the Ameses, by the way?”

  “Roy and Laurie thought they’d better drive Tim over to Dr. Melchett at the hospital for a once-over,” Peter explained. “He did something to his back trying to keep from being buried alive by that explosion, which is another reason why I’m damned anxious to get this business cleared up.”

  “Of course, dear. Boost me back up on the nice horsie, then, and let’s go do it.”

  Chapter 21

  AS THEY WERE RIDING back up the hill, Helen asked, “Peter, how much was that Gaffson man offering Mr. Horsefall for his farm?”

  “I’m not sure. As a generous guess, I’d say somewhere around fifty thousand.”

  “For the whole place?”

  “That was my impression.”

  “Good heavens! Sieglinde, did you hear that? Peter says Mr. Horsefall would have got fifty thousand dollars for his property. Can you imagine?”

  Both women went into gales of somewhat hysterical laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Peter demanded.

  “What’s so funny is that you don’t think it’s funny, you silly old learned gentleman, you. Sieglinde, is there a man alive who knows anything?”

  “Men know everything except what matters. Thorkjeld would also not think it funny for Mr. Horsefall to turn down fifty thousand dollars. He would think it noble and heroic.”

  “Well, I suppose it is, really. But it’s still funny.”

  They were off again. Shandy, riding behind Helen with his arms around her waist, gave her a warning squeeze.

  “Madam, if you don’t stop this unseemly tittering I may be forced to take a bite out of your neck. Precisely why is it so funny?”

  “Oh, Peter, honestly! What have we been doing for amusement this past couple of weeks?”

  “You know damn well what we’ve been doing. Do I have to offend Sieglinde’s sense of propriety by saying it out loud?”

  “I don’t mean that. I was referring to the conch shell for the whatnot.”

  “You mean running around to antique shops? I presume it amuses you. I myself have not been roused to heights of hilarity. Why people choose to pay astronomical prices for other people’s old junk—”

  “Ah, but
people do. That’s what’s so funny. Instead of standing there snarling like a trapped wolverine whenever I wanted something, like that sweet glass paperweight I bought with the money Aunt Bessie sent us for a wedding present, you might have spent the time to better advantage noticing what sort of old junk people are paying those astronomical prices for. The Horsefalls have probably close to fifty thousand dollars’ worth of old junk in their kitchen alone, and I’d swear their parlor set is genuine Belter.”

  “You mean that woodcarver’s nightmare with all the bumps and squiggles on it? Helen, do you know what you’re talking about?”

  “Helen knows what she is talking about, Peter,” said Sieglinde. “Thorkjeld would also not recognize genuine Belter.”

  “Would Nute Lumpkin?”

  “If he wouldn’t, he’s in the wrong business,” said his wife. “That incredibly ornate pierced carving is hard to mistake and also hard to find. Belter never made much of it in the first place because how in the world could he? Furthermore, prices for Victorian antiques are getting higher by the minute now that earlier pieces are almost out of the market. But the Horsefalls have real Colonial and Federal things, too. I’ll bet you anything their kitchen table and that pierced tin pie chest are easily two hundred years old.”

  “My God! Then the Horsefalls have been sitting on a fortune all these years they’ve been scratching to make ends meet!”

  “But it is only within recent years that great prices are paid for such things,” Sieglinde pointed out reasonably. “Had they not sat, there would now be no fortune. Anyway, for the Horsefalls it would be not antiques but Great-aunt Matilda’s wedding china. They would think not in terms of money but of sentimental attachment.”

  “Maybe so,” Shandy replied, “but I think I know what Henny Horsefall’s going to say when you point that out to him.”

  He was right. A few minutes later, Odin and Freya were in the barn having a bait of oats and Henny was listening slack-jawed as Helen and Sieglinde gave a cautious estimate as to what his family relics might be worth at current prices.