Horace was approaching the door now and I moved away from the window, not wanting him to catch me spying. He knocked and I paused for a moment before answering.
Opening the door, I was surprised when I saw his face. He’d always looked old even when he was young. Now, I’d expected he’d be practically ancient.
But I was wrong. He looked not much different than he had twenty years before. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, and what was left of his hair, sparse and gray, was tucked into the Greek fisherman’s cap he always wore. His eyes, a watery blue, stared at me intently as I opened the door.
“Miss Kate,” he said. “So good to see you again. May I come in?”
“Of course,” I replied as I stepped aside to let him enter.
He grinned at me, then, rubbing his hands together, shuffled into the house. Once inside, he removed his cap, revealing multitudinous liver spots decorating his skull like poorly designed tattoos.
Just watching him, I was struck by a literary reference … Uriah Heep from Dickens’ David Copperfield. Horace was the spitting image of that obsequious character, complete with cloying humility.
“Miss Kate?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
Realizing I’d been caught staring, I blushed. “Yes, I’m fine. How are you, Horace? Would you like some coffee?”
He smiled slyly. “No thanks, Miss Kate. I’ve already had my fill.”
“Fine,” I said, walking to the kitchen counter where I’d left Hettie’s list of instructions. “I suppose we should get started then. My aunt gave me a whole slew of things that need to be done.”
I handed him the papers. He looked them over, briefly, then nodded.
“We always start with the electric. Tom Bradshaw is meeting us at the manor.”
“Tom? Why him?”
Again, the old man grinned. “Why Tom is a master electrician, Miss. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t. What time is he expected at the house?”
“Well, I expect he’s there already.”
“There already? Well, I guess we’d better get going, hadn’t we?”
Horace nodded. “I ‘specks you’re right. I’d take you in my truck, but it’s full of tools and such.”
“No problem,” I said as I grabbed my cell phone and the keys to the carriage and manor houses. “I’ll walk. It’s only a few minutes away. I’ll meet you there.”
“As you wish, Miss Kate,” he said.
As he spoke, he handed me back the list of instructions from my Aunt Hettie. The papers were damp with perspiration and, with some distaste, I took them and tucked them into the front pocket of my sweatshirt.
I followed Horace outside, then locked the door behind me. Without another word, he climbed into his truck and backed out of the drive. I walked to the short, woodsy path that led to the manor house wondering what life was really like for that strange little man. No one ever discussed his private life. Did he have a family? Wife? Kids? I didn’t know. All I knew was that he’d been employed at Stormview Manor since before Hettie and Raoul bought it. He knew all its eccentricities. Old houses, like old people, can be riddled with secrets. Horace understood this and was, most likely, privy to all of them.
He was waiting for me when I arrived. With him was a tall young man who I assumed was Tom.
“Hey, Tom,” I called. “Good to see you.”
“Katydid!” he exclaimed as he strode to meet me and give me a hug. “You look wonderful. All grown up.”
I laughed. “So do you. Last time I saw you, we were both ten. Time flies. And you’re an electrician. I always thought both you and Jeremy would lobster. What happened?”
He grinned. “I never really liked it out on the water. The sea was always Jer’s domain. And the island needed a good electrician.”
“Well, I’m glad for you,” I replied. “Have you worked on the manor house before?”
“Yeah, I know it pretty well. Let me check the circuit breaker box and get the power turned on. It’s in the cellar. I’ll get in through the bulkhead doors and meet you in the entryway.”
“Are the bulkhead doors unlocked?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Naw, they’re padlocked shut. But, don’t worry, I have a key.”
He gave me one more quick hug then walked toward the rear of the house. Horace was waiting on the front steps, rubbing his hands together impatiently.
“Shouldn’t we be gettin’ inside, Miss?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, walking up the steps. But when I reached the heavy, wooden front door, I hesitated.
Stormview Manor. This would be the first time I set a foot inside since the day I found my mother.
“Is something wrong?” asked Horace.
“No,” I replied, taking a deep breath.
Finally ready, I inserted the key and unlocked the door.
Inside, the house was cold and dark and I wrapped my arms around myself to ward off the chill.
“Brrrr,” I said. “Let’s get those drapes open to let in some sunlight.”
Horace nodded and, together, we pulled open the heavy curtains that covered the windows that faced seaward.
“That’s better,” I said as sunlight lit up the living area. “So, where do we begin?”
“Rodents, Miss. There’ll be rodents and other vermin that come in to escape the cold. Look for their droppings.”
I wrinkled my nose in distaste. Rodents … they carried the deadly Hanta virus in their feces.
“Do we have gloves … protective gloves?”
Horace grinned. “Ayup. I’m sure there’s some in the kitchen, Miss. Would you like me to go look?”
“Yes, please,” I replied.
Still grinning, he shuffled away toward the back of the house. I watched him go until the sound of footsteps coming from the interior of the manse captured my attention.
“Power’s on,” said Tom as he strode into the great room. “Let’s check the lights. Mice may have chewed some of the wires. And, some of the bulbs may be burnt out.”
“Do we have extras?”
“Yeah, they should be in the utility closet. Let’s check this room first.”
Tom and I walked around turning on lamps and switches. All but two worked and those, Tom determined, just needed fresh bulbs.
“Let’s head toward the kitchen. We can grab some lights there. Also, we can check the stoves.”
“The stoves?”
“Yeah. They’re run on propane. Don’t know if the tank’s empty or not. If it is, Horace will know who to call. Also, got to make sure the refrigerators are running properly.”
Nodding, I followed him to the kitchen, where he stopped at the pantry to search for spare lightbulbs. I entered the main prep room and found Horace rummaging under one of the sinks.
“Here, Miss,” he said. “Gloves.”
“Thank you,” I replied, pulling a pair from the box. “You should wear them, too. Mouse feces can carry disease. Better safe than sorry.”
I could see Horace was having a hard time keeping a straight face. He cast his eyes downward and turned away. I could hear him chuckling under his breath as I snapped the gloves onto my hands.
“Do what you like,” I said, slightly irritated. “It’s your funeral.”
Tom joined us, carrying a bag of various-sized bulbs. “I’ll go replace those ones in the great room, then I’ll catch up with you here. Try the stoves first, then see if the fridges are operating okay.”
“Sure, I can do that,” I replied as he walked away.
Then I turned to Horace. “How do we handle the rodent problem?” I asked. “Poison? Traps?”
“Traps to be sure, Miss,” he replied. “Poison works, but Mrs. Hettie worries that some of the island cats might eat the dead mice and get sick themselves. So, it’s traps all the way. There’s plenty of ‘em in the pantry.”
“Traps or mice?” I answered, trying out a joke on him.
His wizened face became awash with puzzlement. “
Traps, Miss.”
I sighed. “Okay, you round ‘em up and I’ll check the stoves.”
Nodding, he left the room.
As I watched him go, I chuckled at his nonresponse to my joke, then turned my attention to examining a large Viking stove. It was a fairly new professional model as were all the appliances here in the manor house. Tentatively, I reached out and turned on one of the burners. After several clicks, it roared to life, as did all the rest, including the oven. Satisfied there was indeed some propane in the tank, I made a note on my list, then tried the other stove.
Thus, our day progressed. After the kitchen and pantry were inspected, we proceeded to check all the other rooms on the first floor, changing light bulbs and setting traps as needed.
It was going on one p.m. when we decided to break for lunch. Tom’s work was done for the time being, so he took off, leaving me alone with Horace at the manor.
“How ‘bouts I go down to the Clam Bar and pick us up some sandwiches?” he asked.
“That sounds good, but I didn’t bring my wallet.”
Horace chuckled. “No worries, Miss. I’ll just include the cost to the Missus when I send her my monthly bill. Now what would you be having?”
“Get me a tuna salad and a sparkling water, if they have it.”
Horace nodded then turned and shuffled his way down the stairs to the front door.
I watched until the door closed behind him, then walked around the second floor, studying our handiwork.
There was still an awful lot to do. Everything had to be cleaned and polished. Draperies and rugs would need to be dry cleaned and that meant hauling them to the mainland. The refrigerators would have to be stocked, the firewood stacked, and the chimney would need a good sweeping. And then there was still the wraparound porch that would need some painting and repair, not to mention the widow’s walk.
Just thinking about the tower made me shudder. I would have to go up there as much as I hated the thought.
I walked to the winding staircase. Staring up toward the landing, I wondered if Horace could even make it up there. The staircase was narrow and, given his age and difficulty walking, it might be treacherous for him.
I glanced at my watch. He should be back any minute. I gazed again at the landing above me, remembering the last time I’d been in the tower room. The memory made me gasp for breath and I meant to turn away … to go back downstairs and wait for Horace. But something compelled me to stay and, after a minute, as if in a trance, I began to climb the stairs.
I blinked my eyes rapidly, trying to focus. Where was I?
It took me a minute to comprehend what had happened. Somehow I had ascended to the third floor and now stood in front of the tower room door. In my hand, I held the key that would unlock it.
I couldn’t move. My mind screamed, Turn, you fool. Run back down the stairs, but something - some unknown force, like that in my recent nightmare, urged me onward.
My hand was shaking as I inserted the key into the lock. I hesitated, holding it there for a moment, then took a deep breath and turned it. The sound of the latch sliding open was impossibly loud and echoed menacingly as it bounced off the walls of the stairwell.
Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob and pushed open the door.
The tower room was dark, shadows looming in the corners, and I reached for the light switch to turn on the bulb attached to the ceiling fan.
I held my breath as I flicked it on.
The room was suddenly awash with light.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Everything looked normal. The big mahogany four-poster was still there, covered with a protective sheet of cloth. The dresser and nightstand were similarly covered. The drapes were closed.
Feeling relieved and somewhat foolish for my fears, I stepped into the bedroom and walked toward the window to open the drapes and let in some natural light. Halfway across the room, I stopped short and sniffed the air. There was an underlying odor in this room, something foul and loathsome, and as I approached the window, it intensified.
My stomach rolled and bile rose in my throat. Afraid I might vomit, I reached for the door that led to the widow’s walk, unlocked it, and flung it open.
Stepping out into the clean air, I leaned on the railing, breathing heavily, trying to erase the lingering stench of the tower room. I inhaled deeply sucking in huge gulps of fresh, salt air, cleansing my lungs. In a minute, my stomach calmed and, as I stared out to sea, I wondered what had caused that smell. Had some poor animal died in there?
I leaned on the railing for several minutes watching the waves break on the rocks below. Spray shot into the air and I felt cool droplets of sea water caress my face and neck. I knew, as I stood there, that I was avoiding a return to the tower room and the noxious odor that lingered within. But I had no other choice. The widow’s walk merely circled the tower and there was no other way to leave it except for a deadly leap onto the rocks below.
I steeled myself and was about to turn toward the door when a large “CRACK” caught me off-guard. I looked around, wondering where it came from, but before I could locate the source, another loud “CRACK” echoed.
I was still facing seaward, clutching the railing, which now wobbled slightly in my hands. I glanced down at it and gasped when I saw that two of the posts that secured it in place were splintered, causing the whole structure to bow out precariously toward the black rocks below.
Suddenly terrified, I screamed and let go of the rail just as it broke free. My feet were positioned on the edge of the wooden walkway and I swayed back and forth, trying to regain my balance to keep from following the railing and plunging to my death on the rocks below.
Finally, I steadied and scooted backward until I felt the wall of the tower behind me. Then, I crumpled to my knees, gasping for breath.
“Miss Kate! Miss Kate!”
I could faintly hear Horace calling to me from the stairwell. Slowly, I got up and, holding my breath, returned to the tower room, walking swiftly out the door onto the landing.
Horace was halfway up the stairs and, when he saw me, stopped.
“Are you all right, Miss Kate?” he asked, leaning his deformed body against the wall. “I heard a scream.”
Exhausted, I sat down on the top step. “I’m okay, but just barely. I went out on the widow’s walk and was leaning against the rail when it gave way. That’s why I screamed.”
Horace looked at me, puzzled. “Gave way? You say the railing broke?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Why are you looking at me that way?”
He hesitated. “Well, Miss, that railing was replaced last year. It’s brand new. Should be fine and sturdy.”
“Well, it wasn’t. Maybe carpenter ants got to it.”
Horace chuckled. “Not likely. Place is sprayed regular for those pests. Let me go take a look.”
He slowly lurched his way to the landing then reached for the doorknob.
“And another thing, Horace,” I said as he opened the door. “Some sort of animal must have died in there. It stinks something awful. Hold your breath.”
Again, he looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “A mouse, perhaps?”
“No little mouse could smell that bad. No, something larger like a rat or raccoon.”
Horace frowned, then shook his head as he crossed the threshold.
He was only gone a few minutes. When he returned, he looked at me strangely.
“Miss, I think you should come out to the widow’s walk with me.”
“Why?”
“Just come,” he said, reaching out a hand to help me up.
“Okay.”
At the doorway, I took a deep breath, holding it in. Horace laughed.
“That’s not necessary, Miss,” he said. “Only smell in this room is that of stale air being locked up all winter. Go on, breathe.”
Wondering if he were playing some sort of trick on me, I walked to the middle of the room, still holding my breath.
“Go on,�
�� he said. “Breathe.”
Steeling myself, I exhaled and, tentatively, inhaled some of the air from the room.
He was right. It smelled musty and that was all. What happened to the stench I’d smelled before?
I looked at him, incredulous.
He smiled, kindly. “Now, go out on the walk.”
Again, I hesitated, staring at him. He nodded his head toward the door as if to encourage me, and, not wanting to seem ridiculous in front of this odd little man, I gathered up my courage and opened the door.
My mind reeled.
The railing was there … in place … looking strong and sturdy, just like he’d said.
“It can’t be,” I cried. “I saw it … felt it. It broke away. I was almost killed.”
Horace eyed me strangely. “Maybe, Miss, you fell asleep and it was a dream.”
I stared at him. “No, I couldn’t … it broke. I know it.”
“Just like you knew the smell in the room?”
I sunk down to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, unable to comprehend what just happened … or didn’t happen. Was I losing my mind?
“Maybe you’re just hungry, Miss,” Horace suggested. “Come now. Let’s go back downstairs and eat. I got you a nice tuna melt and it’s getting cold.”
Not knowing what else to do, I nodded and meekly followed the little man back through the tower room and down the winding staircase.
We sat at the long, oak table in the dining room and Horace handed me a white paper bag. Inside, were a tuna melt and a bottle of spring water.
I had no appetite but, reluctantly, took a bite.
“Is it okay, Miss?” Horace asked.
“Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”
Apparently satisfied with my response, Horace pulled out his lunch, fried clams, and began to devour them noisily.
I picked at my food, lost in thought about the apparent hallucinations I had just experienced. They were different from the events in the O.R., but just as disturbing.
In the operating room, everything had been surreal, like in a Dali painting. But the smell in the tower room and the broken railing had seemed firmly rooted in reality.
Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1) Page 7