The Pied Piper of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  “And we conjecture that the woman in the more modern clothing wearing the locket is probably Rebecca Piper, Peyton’s great-aunt. This is the same woman who disappeared in 1932 shortly after giving birth to a son.”

  “My uncle.”

  “Who was killed during the Korean War,” Lyon added.

  “Which would mean that we are missing the remains of Lavinia, Caleb’s second wife,” Rocco said as he noted it in his pad.

  “Don’t forget Caleb’s wife number one,” Lyon added. “Mary.”

  “Damn it, Wentworth!” Peyton said. “Don’t you listen? I’ve mentioned several times that the colonel’s first wife, Mary Piper, jumped off the parapet into the river. Her body was never recovered.”

  “She probably washed downstream into the Sound,” Rocco added. “I’m beginning to think that no Pipers disappear around here. They just play musical graves. All right, Lyon, we found Rebecca like you said we might. She seems to have died like so many of the others.” Rocco thought a moment and chewed on the end of his pencil before turning to Peyton. “If that is Rebecca in the crypt, was she the firstborn?”

  “Yes.”

  “What in hell happened to Caleb’s second wife?” Rocco mused.

  “Tell me something,” Lyon asked. “From the time Mary Piper killed herself until Caleb remarried was how long?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Peyton left his chair and crossed to the rows of bound ledgers and books. “It’s all in the family lore, I suppose. Let me look it up.”

  They watched as he scanned the series of ledgers, pulled down a large Bible, and thumbed through its rear pages. He ran his fingers down to midpage and then looked up at them with a puzzled frown. “If this is the case, and I’m sure it’s a misprint, Caleb married Lavinia three weeks after Mary took her own life.”

  Rocco groaned. “I’m glad I don’t have to investigate that one. Three weeks doesn’t even border on the obscene, it’s smack dab right in the middle of it.”

  “I’m surprised he was able to get his first wife declared dead fast enough,” Lyon said.

  “Dig a little deeper in those records and you’ll find a little political hanky-panky,” Rocco said.

  “So, it would appear that there’s a surface possibility that Caleb was interested in Lavinia before Mary died,” Peyton said. “That might have been the reason for her suicide.”

  “Who saw her die?” Lyon asked.

  “Caleb was having dinner with the original Roger Candlin when it happened,” Peyton said. “They were evidently eating dinner on the patio when Mary abruptly left the table and ran to the parapet. She jumped before anyone could stop her.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rocco said. “Run that name by me again.”

  “Roger Candlin.”

  “Any relation to Congressman Candlin?”

  “A direct descendent, I believe. Our families have been involved in various business endeavors for generations. In the early days of the Piper Corporation expansion, the Candlins were our investment bankers.”

  “Interesting relationship,” Lyon said.

  “Typical,” Rocco snorted. “Rich New England families have been in bed with each other for generations. And yet the only people who get screwed are the rest of us.”

  “You know, Chief Herbert, I don’t need that socialist crap.”

  “We’re not here to worry about some grave desecration that may have occurred fifty years ago,” Rocco said. “We’ve had a recent murder at Bridgeway and that’s why I’m here.”

  “It’s all intertwined,” Lyon said.

  “I am not spending any more time on ancient misdemeanors. You have any relatives who were into practical jokes, Peyton?”

  “My Uncle George was into leaky wineglasses and clay dog doo-doo. He wasn’t very popular around holidays.”

  “Then George did the grave shuffling,” Rocco said. “Is he still around?”

  “He is if you count the Piper Pie. He occupies the fourth row, third from the left, I believe.”

  “He probably rigged the joke years ago,” Rocco continued.

  “Involving a missing woman?” Lyon asked.

  “All right, so it doesn’t explain everything,” Rocco said. “But I can’t spend more time on it. I’m a small-town cop who had a burglary in town last night, vandalism at the high school, and some new creep is peddling crack in town. Those are my concerns.”

  In answer to a beeper at his waist, Rocco left the room before either Lyon or Peyton Piper could answer.

  “Let’s call it a day, Wentworth. I think it would be appropriate for me to arrange some sort of memorial service for my Aunt Rebecca.” He looked thoughtful. “The service will have to be handled without publicity, of course. I think the Reverend Duncan can be counted on for his discretion.”

  “What were those books you were searching?” Lyon asked.

  “Family records. Ancient lore signifying little.”

  “How come Markham Swan didn’t have them down at the cottage?”

  “Certain volumes were never allowed to leave this room,” Peyton said. “He had to work from them here and make notes.”

  “Mind if I glance at them?” Lyon asked.

  Piper looked at him. While it was obvious that he initially had no intention of honoring the request, his social sense and political ambition prevailed. He waved toward the section of the bookcase where the bound volumes of family records were kept. “Help yourself. Turn out the lights and lock the door when you leave.” Peyton paused at the door. “And don’t stay long. I’m not in the mood for another long-term guest.”

  What Peyton Piper so casually referred to as a bunch of ancient lore was actually a full historical record of his family for the past 150 years. Diaries, Bibles, ledgers, business records, and boxes of correspondence occupied a full wall of the library.

  Lyon did not believe that he would find anything incriminating in the material. Over the years, any derogatory material in the records would have been deleted by family protectors, leaving only a rosy portrait of the Family Piper. Any hint of scandal concerning Caleb Piper’s hasty marriage to Lavinia would have been expunged long ago.

  Lyon needed to hurry: Peyton’s indulgence could terminate at any time.

  He walked along the bookshelves and let his fingers run lightly across the bindings. The voluminous records began with the construction of Bridgeway House. He suspected that prior to that time the obscure emigrant family did not consider their past worth recording. The early volumes recorded two parallel developments—the growth of the Piper Corporation and the construction of the house—and he thought they might hold the key.

  He began with the mansion’s building records. Construction of the house actually began with the original Piper, who died before its completion. Caleb Piper, the colonel of Civil War fame, completed the building after his marriage to his first wife. The early records simply referred to the building as “The Piper Home.” Evidently it wasn’t called Bridgeway until after his return from the Civil War.

  There were countless folders of old invoices, lists, and drawings concerning materials and the importing of labor for its construction. Lyon nearly missed the note concerning the first Mrs. Piper that was attached to a rough sketch. Written in the clear wide penmanship so prized at the time was, “Mrs. Piper desires that only those men who are returning to their countries work on the station.”

  That note was attached to a simple line drawing of what appeared to be an ordinary dormitory-type room. The room bore no resemblance to the interior of the mausoleum that was purported to be the Underground Railway station. Lyon assumed that concern about secrecy prompted Mary Piper’s directive about workmen. He put the note and drawing aside and continued flipping through other material.

  He had an inchoate feeling that Mary’s actions might hold a clue to the mystery. Using the sliding ladder to explore upper shelves he found a narrow container labeled MARY PIPER. It was out of order and placed at the far end of a top shelf. The layer of dus
t along its top lid indicated that Markham Swan had never reached this box in his research. He took the file down and carefully placed it on the table under the Tiffany lamp.

  The first document in the box was a short letter. If this woman’s body is recovered it may not be buried in sacred ground as she took her own life. The note was signed in large bold letters: Caleb Piper.

  The sparse contents of Mary Piper’s box revealed a few details of her short life. A nuptial agreement and Hartford Courant articles showed that she was a bright young woman who was the only daughter of a wealthy Middleburg ship owner who operated a series of river packets. Her father’s boats sailed from Middleburg to Springfield in one direction; and to New York City in the other. Her family were early Unitarians, free thinkers, and Abolitionists. This probably meant that her father’s packets were used for part of the transportation within the Underground Railroad system. It was ironic that it was on this very same route that a subsequent Piper had been murdered over a card game.

  Mary Piper had evidently subscribed to William Lloyd Garrison’s Abolitionist newspaper, The Liberator, as there were several copies inside the container. A headline on one of the Liberators caught Lyon’s eyes:

  STATION X IN NEW ENGLAND LARGEST IN UNION

  ABLE TO HOLD TWO-DOZEN FREEDOM SEEKERS

  MORE STATIONS NEEDED WITH THIS DEDICATION

  The front page of The Liberator contained an ink drawing of a room that matched the one Lyon had found in the construction files. The article about the largest stop on the Underground Railway identified it in only a vague manner that kept it anonymous; but it was obviously Bridgeway to any reader with intimate knowledge.

  The room in the drawing and in the Liberator article was not the space in the mausoleum. The holding room for escaped slaves was somewhere else.… But where?

  The early records verified that the colonel’s tomb was constructed long before his death. Rabbit had said the crypt and the tunnel to the river were meant as a station on the Railway. Escaped slaves on their flight to Canada were hidden at the station until they could be given passage on one of the riverboats.

  The escapees might have to remain for days waiting for the proper packet to make its secret stop. The crypt would not be a logical place for lengthy stays. Lyon looked at the drawing of the room to be constructed. It showed a narrow room with a long table in the center and bunks against the wall: a bit more hospitable for a long wait than a dank room containing two empty tombs. He now felt there must be another room somewhere near the mausoleum that also had access to the passage down to the river.

  The question was to find it.

  Rabbit opened his bedroom window and glared down at Lyon. “You throw another rock against this house and I will come down and beat the crap out of you.”

  “I need help, Mr. R.,” Lyon said.

  “Try a triple dose of Prozac.”

  “There’s another room in the Piper mausoleum.”

  “If I were allowed to have a gun you’d be history.”

  “I want you to help me find it.”

  “Drop dead!”

  “Go with him!” Frieda yelled from bed. “At least with you both gone I can get some sleep.”

  It took a grumbling Rabbit fifteen minutes to become halfway mobile. Lyon sat in their small kitchen and watched him brew instant coffee in the microwave. He shuddered as the finished product was garnished with a raw egg, hot sauce, and red pepper. Rabbit sat at the miniature table and sipped on the completed concoction.

  “You, Rocco, and Katherine Piper drink too much,” Lyon said.

  Rabbit glared as Lyon knew he would. “Did we appoint you guardian?”

  “If you didn’t imbibe to excess you wouldn’t have to drink that junk.”

  “It so happens I like this junk,” Rabbit said an instant before he bolted for the bathroom.

  “Are you gone yet?” Frieda called from the bedroom.

  “Working on it,” Rabbit answered his wife.

  “Move it. Now!”

  Reluctantly Rabbit began to gather his gear, which consisted of rope, two powerful flashlights, and at Lyon’s suggestion his tool belt.

  “You know, Wentworth, this is ridiculous,” Rabbit said as he steered the electric cart down his drive and into the lane leading to the nearby cemetery.

  “Possibly.”

  “Piper said you were nuts. Why do you think there’s another room down there and where in the hell is it? I’ve never seen another passage.”

  “One of the sketches made during the construction of Bridgeway indicated another room. I believe that’s the one which was the true station on the Underground Railway.”

  “I told you, the runaways waited in the mausoleum until the riverboats came to pick them up.”

  “I don’t think so,” Lyon said. “I think there was a larger, more practical room built into the structure somewhere else.”

  They arrived at the mausoleum and flicked on their lanterns. A half-moon flickered dimly through scudding clouds and made the white stones stand out in ivory relief. A light breeze off the river rustled trees in the distance. The cannon’s black barrels at the foot of the obelisk glowered ominously over the graves.

  “I have been going in and out of here since I was a kid,” Rabbit said. He pushed the stone lever to open the concealed door on the side of the mausoleum. “And believe me, there isn’t any other room in here except the passage down to the river.”

  Lyon followed Rabbit inside and splayed his light around the walls. Nothing seemed to have changed since they had replaced the bodies and recapped the tombs.

  “See,” Rabbit continued. “Nothing.”

  Lyon nodded. “It would seem that way. I’ve thought about it and decided that two bodies in the same tomb didn’t make any sense unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  “It was simply a question of storage space. Whoever last used the Railroad room needed easy access and the colonel was temporarily placed next door. Whoever it was had to leave hurriedly before replacing the colonel back in his coffin. For one reason or another, they never returned to rectify the problem.”

  “Do you stay up all night thinking of these things?”

  “The entrance to the station is through the colonel’s tomb.”

  “Junk talk! We’re standing in the station. The runaway slaves waited right here,” Rabbit insisted with a wave around the small interior.

  “I understand that large numbers of escaped slaves often had to wait days before they could be placed on a river packet going north. The place where they waited was constructed by workers who returned home to Europe after the house was complete.”

  Rabbit’s tone changed from disbelief to serious questioning. “You think the entrance to the real station was through the colonel’s crypt?”

  “Yes. Let’s get at it.” Lyon shoved the stone lid of the colonel’s tomb into the crossed position. He turned to face the skeptical Rabbit who stood behind him. “Well?”

  “You want me to go in first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn,” Rabbit muttered as he climbed over the stone side. He bent to crawl toward the head of the container. “Nothing here. Nothing. Damn waste of time,” his muffled voice carried back to Lyon. “Oh, for God’s sake, there’s an open panel at the far end.”

  Rabbit stopped talking. The beam from his flashlight disappeared. Lyon heard a faint shuffling sound in the distance. It was five minutes before Rabbit crawled back. He threw his arms over the side of the vault and looked up at Lyon with a chalk-white face.

  “What’s down there?” Lyon asked.

  “Two more bodies for openers. And other things … strange, weird things, Lyon. You had better come see for yourself.”

  Lyon climbed over the edge of the vault. Once inside he turned his light toward the far end, where it illuminated a small open passage. He dropped to his hands and knees to crawl through the opening. Beyond the mausoleum wall the passage widened sufficiently for men or women to walk u
pright in single file. The narrow corridor continued for another dozen feet until it opened into a long narrow room.

  The station was carved out of the rock that formed the escarpment above the river. As he entered the room and let his light sweep across the walls, he saw that it followed the basic configurations of the drawing found in the old files. A line of double bunks had been built along one wall. A rough-hewn table took up the center floor space. Storage cupboards were located along the far wall, while on the river side were narrow window slits. These openings were positioned under the lip of the hill, with heavy undergrowth obscuring their appearance. They would be invisible to anyone on or across the river.

  The two cadavers were dressed in midnineteenth-century dresses and were propped on wide chairs at each end of the table. Their extended arms made them appear to be engaged in animated conversation. Their voluminous skirts were covered with a film of fine white dust. The surrounding rock evidently had an absorbent quality, as the remains of their flesh had drawn and tightened over their skulls to form a desiccated brownish covering.

  “The two Mrs. Pipers,” Lyon said.

  “I thought one of them took a dive into the river?” Rabbit asked in a strained voice.

  “That’s what they said. I believe the second, Lavinia, died of natural causes. Odds are that the first wife has a bullet wound.”

  “People saw her jump into the river,” Rabbit insisted.

  “Not people,” Lyon answered. “Two persons said they saw her jump. Caleb Piper and Roger Candlin. Three weeks later Caleb married Lavinia and shortly thereafter Roger Candlin became the banker for the Piper interests.”

  Located on the center of the table was a box of Civil War rifle cartridge packages. The box had been opened and was only half full. “Interesting,” Lyon said with the knowledge of where the missing cartridges had been spent over the years.

  “Do you see the stuff all over the walls?” Rabbit asked.

  “I noticed,” Lyon said. Early sunlight came up over the river and narrow streaks of day filtered through the small window openings. They formed cool slanted shafts of light that fell across the station onto swatches of material tacked over the walls. The display was an eclectic assortment of military items: uniform buttons, brass belt buckles, Civil War forage caps, a piece of uniform fabric, a small prayer book, a straight razor. Each item had a single last name inscribed on a small card fixed next to it.