Edith smiled at Willa’s joke. It was a very long way down, and even at full tide, Edith guessed, the larger rocks along the base of the cliff would signal their danger, their formidable heads rising well above the incoming waves. Edith couldn’t imagine anyone being careless enough to stand as close to the edge as she was now, certainly not someone in city shoes. But then Mr. Brown hadn’t stood near the edge, had he. He had come from somewhere behind, suddenly and fast. Edith turned her head to look back. Why?
ROB FEENEY retrieved a paper clip from the top drawer of his desk and attached the passenger list to the names of the crew members who had made the crossing the day before with Mr. John T. Brown. Then he drew out a pen and added his own name to those of the crew. So few passengers and no strangers among the crew, but Mark Daggett eventually would want to know who they all were, Rob was sure of that. Daggett was a thorough man. He was probably already busy finding out who on the island knew Mr. John T. Brown and why he had been on the cliff at Seven Days Work. Rob would have the lists ready when Daggett came by, whenever that might be.
Later that afternoon, Rob thought, he would drop by for a visit with Miss Edith. What a frightening experience she had just had witnessing Mr. Brown’s demise. Rob caught an inner glimpse of the ashen face he often saw arriving on the S. S. Grand Manan and smiled at the set of its lips. Tough lady, Rob heard himself saying and realized that Miss Edith didn’t need sympathy. And, he reminded himself, Miss Willa didn’t like interruptions. Privacy, he mused, placing his papers with their lists of names above the blotter on his desk and pushing back in his chair. He was already late for lunch. A writer’s indulgence, privacy. He decided not to intrude.
“WHAT do you say we try the woods,” Willa headed in that direction. Several old sheep trails, as well as those maintained by wildlife, meandered everywhere on the island. Inexperienced hikers often found themselves fooled. Once a year in late spring, islanders would take a day to mark the trails, painting slashes of colors on trees and rocks at strategic points. Red, blue, orange. Different colors to denote the different trails. Seven Days Work was on the Red Trail. “We don’t know which way they came,” Willa pointed out. “Maybe they didn’t come on the main trail at all.”
“That’s true. They might have come through the woods,” Edith scrambled behind, “but why?”
“When we know the answer to that,” Willa moved further into the trees, “we’ll probably understand the rest of it.”
Willa turned north toward the brook that bubbled out over the cliff.
Edith followed.
VI
“YOU MUST BE joking,” Little John Winslow waxed eloquent before a small crowd of three adults, two children, and a puppy standing outside Tinsley’s Pharmacy. “She’s a witch.”
Mark Daggett, just exiting the bank, heard Little John all the way across the street.
“I’ve known there was something wrong about that woman since she first set foot in North Head. Her and her red hair and fancy car. She could have done it.”
Daggett smiled despite his annoyance. No stopping Little John in the best of times, and no reason to think that deputizing him would ensure his silence. It didn’t matter what Little John swore to uphold.
“She could have done it easy,” Little John, driving his point home, shook a finger in the direction of Daisy Edwards.
Little John’s voice always carried well, though mostly he was restricted to writing letters to the editor or delivering speeches at village meetings. People otherwise walked away. Maybe it had been a mistake to involve Little John. Gives him too much importance. But he had been the only one to arrive with a wagon, and Daggett had had a fleeting notion that deputizing Little John might bring him more into line. That clearly was wrong.
“Got the strength of a bull, she does. And anyway, you’ve heard of levitation,” Little John’s voice and hands became more agitated. “Witches do that. She could have levitated him right off over the edge.” Little John raised his hands, palms down, fingers extended. They floated horizontally off to the right, then shook once sharply as if they were shedding rain from their tips.
Daggett reached the group just as Janey Dawson’s eyes were growing wide and Daisy Edwards exchanged glances with Jason Tinsley. Eva McDaniels was nodding and working her mouth, a sure sign that she was about to add to Little John’s newly discovered wisdom.
“Excuse us,” Daggett brushed past Eva’s paisley pink shoulder to take hold of Little John’s arm, “we have business to do. Little John, I need your help.”
Mistake number two. Little John’s chest puffed out, and Janey’s eyes grew wider. Leaving Eva McDaniels speechless would also be short lived, Daggett realized too late. Eva published a bi-weekly rag called the Recipe Exchange and had the best gossip network in the village. Daggett swore silently to himself and jerked Little John’s sleeve more firmly than he intended. Little John’s feet finally joined with his body, and they moved off in the direction of The Swallowtail Inn.
Daggett didn’t speak, and Little John contented himself with matching Daggett’s stride. Little John’s head had snapped up, eyes forward, mustache following the upswing at the outer edges of his lips. Little John was grinning. Immensely irritated, Daggett lengthened his stride.
“You shouldn’t spread rumors, you know,” Daggett waited until Jackson’s Drygoods to break his silence. They had only a short block to go along North Head’s single business street. The wharf took up most of the opposite side, along with the dock where the S. S. Grand Manan delivered her passengers once every second day. The Swallowtail Inn stood off by itself, facing away from the village toward Petit’s Cove and The Swallowtail Light.
By the time they reached the front steps to The Swallowtail Inn, Little John had ended his protestations and twice promised he would stay mum on the subject of Sabra Jane Briggs. He thumped his chest and crossed his heart, but Daggett was hardly mollified.
“You do have to admit, now, she’s a different one,” Little John finally concluded, his eyes conveying luminous certainty, “that she is.”
Daggett had never before noticed how the droop of Little John’s mustache concealed the fleshy fullness of his lips.
AT Daggett’s insistence, Little John considered the duty of walking the kilometer or so out to the lighthouse, asking at cottages along the way whether Mr. Brown had passed by the previous afternoon. Daggett readily agreed that it was probably a fool’s errand.
“That’s the wrong direction entirely,” Little John’s voice began to rise again.
“Routine police work,” Daggett patted him on the shoulder. “Part of the process of elimination,” Daggett lowered his voice to suggest confidentiality. “Has to be done, and you could save us a lot of time doing it.”
With Little John’s shrug, Daggett spun up the steps to The Swallowtail Inn. Daggett was pleased he had thought to say “us.” Little John was always difficult. An odd combination of ignorance and intelligence, Little John generally favored superstition and prejudice. But if at times he was unpredictable, he was consistently stubborn. It was devilishly hard to talk Little John into doing anything, especially if it involved walking. Little John hated walking, and Daggett knew it.
“WASN’T anyone here wearing a red shirt, I can tell you that,” Harvey Andrews’ finger ran down the list of names on The Swallowtail register. His finger pressed so hard when it came to the last name two thirds of the way down the page that the skin under its nail turned a combination of white and bright pink. “Only but two of these people aren’t regular guests. This here Jackson Knoll, a large fellow, kind of swaggery, you know,” Harvey’s voice rose to a question mark before he cleared his throat, “says he’s from Toronto.” The finger stabbed higher on the page, “and Miss Anna Driscoll,” the finger ran back down, “says here she’s from New York. Has a friend up at Whale Cove, I believe she said. Or maybe it was The Anchorage.”
Daggett cleared his throat and jotted in his notebook.
“Oh, and those two you
ng couples from Boston,” Harvey glanced up, then narrowed his eyes. “But they wouldn’t know anything. They were down birdwatching at Castalia all day yesterday.”
Daggett looked above the finger to catch the spellings upside down of all the names on the page. Jameson, Johnson, Ainsworth, McKinney, Blackall, Reimer, Hart. Anglo-Saxon names most of them, from New York or Massachusetts. One from New Jersey and two Canadians, one from St. Stephen, the other from Montreal. Jackson Knoll had a heavy hand. The pen had spread wide to accommodate him. Miss Driscoll’s signature was neat, with scrolls.
Harvey finally relaxed his finger, and Daggett turned the registry around for a better look. John T. Brown was second to last, only Driscoll followed. Mr. Brown’s hand was light, his letters precise and erect. Had there been any i’s, Daggett guessed, little round dots would appear directly above them. A vertical sort of man, this Mr. Brown.
“Did Mr. Brown give any indication of knowing any one of the others? Regular guests or otherwise?” Daggett always hoped the answers might change. He had already been through this with Harvey and his wife Geneva the night before.
“Like we said, we didn’t notice him talking to anyone.”
“And as far as you know, only Miss Driscoll came over on the same passage with him?”
Harvey’s nod was short, “Might be someone checked in other places but not here. You ask around?”
Daggett smiled, “Haven’t checked with the agent yet, but the captain telegraphed three passengers boarded in Eastport. I’ve been able to find only these two.”
“You been down toward Southern Head? Miss Briggs, she takes in quite a crew,” Harvey began sucking air between two teeth on the left side of his mouth.
“This was a man,” Daggett wished he had a toothpick to hand Harvey. “The captain said two men and a woman.”
“Could have been an islander,” Harvey pointed out. “Did you try Isabelle Ericson? She sometimes takes boarders, but that’s generally for overflow.” Harvey used a finger to probe the inside of his mouth. “We’re not full yet,” the finger reappeared, “not by a long shot. Been too cool for July.” He rested both hands on the counter. The sucking sound resumed.
“No one called for Mr. Brown? You didn’t see him leave with anyone? A man?” Daggett paused, “Or a woman?”
“No, like I told you.”
“And he left for a walk about half an hour after returning from lunch at two?”
“Like I told you.”
“And neither of you saw him return or heard anything unusual?”
MR. BROWN’S room was virtually untouched. He apparently had not even sat down on the bed, though a copy of Audubon appeared to have been casually dropped on the yellow chenille bedspread next to an open suitcase. Audubon come home to roost, Geneva Andrews had ventured after showing Constable Daggett up to Mr. Brown’s room the previous evening. Audubon was one of the principle reasons people came to Grand Manan. He had visited the island in 1833 and sketched many of the 330 bird species that used Grand Manan as their sanctuary. Geneva was the principle reason the people who came stayed at The Swallowtail Inn. She had a pleasant sense of humor and provided ample meals.
Daggett had already been through Mr. Brown’s room once the night before, when he had set the large brown leather suitcase on the luggage rack and pried its lock. The smaller case still lay open on the bed where Mr. Brown had placed it. There were no name tags and neither bag was packed full.
Daggett went through them again, beginning with the smaller case, taking everything out just as he found it. One copy of the book all the tourists were reading this season, All Quiet on the Western Front. One black leather notebook, its blue-lined pages entirely clean, a freshly sharpened pencil tucked into a pencil fastener inside. A small case containing shaving equipment and toiletries with nothing unusual. No prescription drugs, no wrist watch, no rings, either here or on the body. Daggett had recovered an Elgin pocket watch, a pair of gold cuff links, and a black leather belt from the body, all without peculiarity. Two garters and four pairs of socks, two black, two navy blue. One pair of cream colored pajamas. Four pairs of cotton underwear, one bow tie, and two linen handkerchiefs with JBT embroidered in the corner.
The larger case held one maroon bathrobe of good quality silk. One pair of leather slippers, their tan doeskin uncreased, heels unworn. Three starched shirts, white with French cuffs, still in their wrappings from Chin’s Chinese Laundry, 148 W. 13th Street, New Bedford, Massachusetts. One light wool plaid shirt and one sweater, a navy blue pullover, both from Abercrombie and Fitch in New York City. One pair of navy blue knickers. And one three-piece suit, a fine light gabardine, also navy blue, with Marvin Gates, Boston’s Finest Tailor, For JBT, embroidered on the label.
Daggett had already jotted down the numbers and names on the labels and laundry wrappers the night before and sent telegrams to the police in New York City, Boston, and New Bedford, asking for help in tracking down information about John T. Brown. Now he ran his hands over each piece of clothing to make sure he was missing nothing and then felt carefully around the inside of each bag, making small slits in their bottoms to check the linings. Nothing he hadn’t already seen made itself evident.
The room, too, was empty of new clues. Daggett shook his head. He’d gotten various descriptions of Mr. Brown, ranging from blue eyed and tall to green eyed and medium height, but Daggett had never seen the man, only his mutilated body. The body carried no pictures or identification. What had happened to the personal effects on Mr. Brown’s body, Daggett wondered and reached for his pipe. The key to his suitcase, for instance. And if Mr. Brown’s death had involved robbery, why hadn’t the killer taken the twelve American dollars from Mr. Brown’s pocket?
Nothing about this case made sense. Daggett tamped tobacco into his pipe and sat down in the room’s solitary chair, a hickory rocker with a yellow quilted cushion. The rocker was deep and made a pleasant creak with each forward roll. Daggett rested his head against its tall back. So far, the only hints that this was a murder case were the lack of identification on Mr. Brown’s body and the red-shirted figure that Miss Lewis had seen. Of course, Brown’s identification could have been lost in his fall. And so far, the red shirt implicated only one person, Sabra Jane Briggs.
Daggett closed his eyes. The bowl of his pipe felt smooth against his palm. He cradled it there. As soon as he asked Miss Briggs about the red shirt, she told him to make himself comfortable while she went to get it. Most of her lodgers were off for a day’s hike to Hay Point, but there were still five women in the sitting room, four playing bridge, the fifth reading a rumpled copy of The New York Times.
“It’s like avoiding the bends,” Dottie Voorhees grinned, introducing herself. Miss Voorhees had deep dimples and eyes that laughed with her lips. “Have to come up slow. Takes at least a week for your head to leave New York and a good week more before you can give up the Times.”
When Daggett noticed a button missing from the left sleeve of Miss Briggs’ shirt, she said, yes, it had come off while she was hauling rocks around the previous afternoon. She had not been able to find the button and had worn the shirt with her sleeves rolled up. She offered to send the shirt back with Daggett if that would be helpful. After a moment’s hesitation he told her he thought that would not be necessary. But he also asked her not to sew on another button just yet.
It had taken several promptings before Miss Briggs recalled speaking with Mr. Brown. At first she protested she never met the man. But as she recounted her activities of the previous afternoon, at Daggett’s request, she recalled greeting a stranger in a pin-striped suit. Oh, she said, yes. A well-groomed man with hazel eyes and an odd manner of glancing off to the side when he spoke. Yes, she remembered she had given him the time of day. Literally. He had pulled a watch out of his pocket and set it.
It was 3:48, that’s what it was. Miss Briggs’ eyes focused somewhere beyond Daggett, her brow furrowed. Yes, she remembered she had been just about to put her parcels in the Reo
and start home. She had spent the earlier part of the afternoon at Whale Cove with Miss Cather and Miss Lewis. They were building an herb rock garden behind their cottage. And before Daggett could express interest, she took him by the arm and led him out the back door of the big house to show him the rock garden she built for herself. Daggett didn’t mind. The farm that was now The Anchorage had once belonged to his uncle Jerome, and Daggett was curious to see the improvements Miss Briggs had made.
Before Daggett left, Miss Voorhees ran out after them to issue a special invitation to their theatricals the following Saturday evening. Miss Briggs was to play Brunnhilde, Miss Voorhees announced and clapped her on the back. And Miss Voorhees was to play a Valkyrie. Call me Voorhees the Viking, Miss Voorhees roared, and rolling her shoulders forward and placing a fist on each hip she began to swagger around the apple tree in front of the big house. Daggett drove off promising nothing.
The Cottage Girls gave theatricals, too. Daggett’s wife had been once, his daughter twice. It was something to do and preferable, Daggett thought, to the moving picture shows at the Happy Hour Theatre. The movies had been installed, like the tennis courts and motor boat rides, to entertain the tourists, but they dazzled islanders, too. None more than his daughter until she saw the Cottage Girls perform Jane Eyre. Jennifer thought their costumes were lovely and said so for days. Miss Bromhall was beautiful and Miss Cobus so handsome, Jennifer’s eyes sparkled. Elizabeth said she thought perhaps the Cottage Girls were not the best influence on their daughter, but Jennifer and her best friend Alice Bright had gone on to play Jane Eyre for months until finally they read the book and announced that Rochester wasn’t so wonderful after all. Daggett wasn’t sure what they played now. They spent much of their time out of doors in the summer.
Daggett stopped the rocker. This was no help. He couldn’t even keep his mind on the crime. The room was quiet and orderly, its pale yellows restful, but something very disorderly had happened to its occupant, and it was up to Daggett to figure out just what that was and who was responsible. He hadn’t a clue.
On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery Page 6