Forgotten Fiction

by Lloyd Eshbach

  “Miss Connell, get me Lane Stafford of the Stafford Funeral Home.”

  “Yes, Mr. Moreland.”

  In moments the phone rang. “Mr. Stafford—Attorney Moreland. Will you be free any time this morning? . . . Good. I’ll be there within the hour.” He stood up, moved briskly into the outer office.

  “Miss Connell,” he said, “I’ll be gone for the rest of the day, and I may not be in tomorrow. So far as I know, there’s nothing pressing, but if you need to reach me, I expect to be home after four.” He saw the curious look in her eyes but did nothing about it.

  Outside, he retraced the twenty minute walk to his home. He’d need his car. Passing the pawnshop he could not resist another look at the turquoise-covered skull, an involuntary “Damn you!” flashing to his mind.

  The part-time maid had already arrived and was busy with her chores. Too big a place for one man, he thought, as he had done many times before. Some day he’d sell and move into a bachelor apartment.

  He drove across town to the funeral home, a structure of genteel opulence, typical of all of its kind. An attendant opened his car door and ushered him into the hushed interior where he was greeted by the somberly-clad Stafford himself. As the mortician led the way into his office, he said in professionally subdued tones, “Our paths haven’t crossed in quite some time, Mr. More-land. I trust that you have no need of my services.”

  Moreland shook his head impatiently. “No—but I do have a problem which I hope you can solve.” After they were seated he drew out the photograph. “I suppose you’ll recall my wife’s funeral eight months ago. This picture was taken by her cousin—atrocious taste, I thought it.” He indicated the pendant. “Remember the jewelry?”

  Stafford frowned, obviously puzzled. “I do indeed remember.”

  “You may also remember that I made the piece; I do this as a hobby. This was the reason my wife valued it so highly.” Without waiting for a response More-land brought out the pendant and laid it on Stafford’s desk.

  “Less than two hours ago I found this in a pawnshop on Cumberland Street. It’s the jewel I made which was supposedly buried with my wife. I’d appreciate an explanation.”

  Stafford gasped, his cloak of quiet dignity vanishing in a breath. “But—that’s impossible! There—there’s just no way that could have happened.” In his agitation he stood up. “Do you realize what this means?”

  Moreland nodded grimly. “I know very well what it means to you professionally. But there’s the pendant.”

  The mortician dropped back into his chair, groping for words. “But—it’s—it’s impossible! You yourself—you drew the coverlet over your wife’s face before we closed the casket. The floral blanket was placed on top—and after the pall-bearers, your friends, carried the bier to the hearse they stood by while the flowers were brought out and placed around the coffin. Then they went to their cars.”

  Again he stood up, suddenly remembering—“At the cemetery, I believe, you did not leave until the casket was lowered into the grave and the steel lid placed on the vault. Mr. Moreland—there just was no opportunity for anyone to open that casket!”

  Rob Moreland nodded slowly. “I have to agree—but we still have the pendant.”

  Silently both men stared at the silver oval, the stillness broken only by the soft, all-pervading music in the background.

  “Could it be,” Stafford ventured hesitantly, “that someone made a copy of the piece without your knowledge? I mean during the years your wife wore it.”

  Moreland shook his head impatiently and exposed the engraved inscription. “Obviously it wouldn’t make sense for anyone else to reproduce those words, and besides, the opal is distinctive. No two are exactly alike. And I know I cut and polished that particular stone. There can be no question about it.” A sudden thought returned.

  “Do you have anyone on your staff named Lowry?”

  “Lowry? No—and I haven’t had as long as I can recall. Why?”

  “That’s the name of the woman who sold the pendant to the pawnbroker.”

  Eagerly Stafford seized the thought. “Then there’s your answer.”

  Moreland rose to leave, a wry grimace on his face. “My answer to an impossibility.”

  As he drove away from the funeral home Moreland headed north to Pleasant View Memorial Park. It was absurd, he knew—grave robbers existed only in fiction and among archeologists—but he had to be sure. The park—nonetheless a cemetery—lay in the midst of a sweep of rolling hills, with second-growth forest as background and an expanse of well-kept farmland falling away from it to meet the horizon. The parklike fiction was sustained by an occasional fountain, well-trimmed hedges and randomly spaced trees, and with bronze grave markers flush with the thick turf, as carefully cut as a golf-course fairway.

  He found the grave—and felt momentary embarrassment as he noted the smooth lawn covering it, only the marker indicating what lay beneath. He stood there in silent contemplation, aware of the inner emptiness that only time—much more time—could erase. He looked at the plate—Ann Moreland and the dates—and his own name beside hers, awaiting completion. He became aware of a caretaker working nearby and called out a greeting to break the somber spell.

  As he drove back to town, no nearer an answer to his problem, he decided on a quick lunch, then a visit to Amelia Lowry.

  Rob Moreland approached Number 818 Waverley Street with some uncertainty. He had no idea what to expect, nor had he any plan of approach. There was no phone listing for Amelia Lowry, nor any other Lowry for that matter; probably a visit without warning would be best anyway.

  The Lowry house, of white clapboard with gray trim and a gray slate gable roof, was set well back from the street in the middle of a well-kept lawn, not differing greatly from its neighbors. Somewhat austere and somehow aloof, he thought—the latter impression probably suggested by the tightly drawn shades. A closed-for-the-summer appearance.

  He moved up a gray flagstone walk to a gray door flanked by two square white pillars supporting a narrow protecting roof. He grasped the weathered brass knocker, rapped sharply several times, then waited. After an interminable period he rapped again, more sharply. Finally after a third insistent rapping the door opened narrowly and a pair of faded blue eyes peered through the crack. As a precaution Moreland braced one foot firmly against the door, but a moment later it opened wider and a little old woman was framed against the dark interior.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed in a high, querulous voice, “I don’t know you. I thought it was Henry who mows the lawn.” Moreland noticed that she was breathing rapidly, almost panting, perhaps indicating excitement or the result of hurrying. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  Moreland held out a calling card. “I’m Robert Moreland, an attorney, and I’ve come to see you about some jewelry. Mr. Rothstein of the pawnshop gave me your name. You are Amelia Lowry?”

  “Y-yes,” she answered uncertainly. “Mr. Rothstein? I suppose if he sent you it’s all right.” She hesitated, wavering. “Sister Abigail says I should never let strangers come into the house.” She looked at him intently through silver-rimmed glasses, then inspected his card. “A lawyer, you say? But they’re mostly rascals. Are you a rascal?”

  Moreland smiled ingratiatingly. “I hope not. I try to be honest. May I come in? It’s really quite important.”

  While Amelia Lowry thought things over he got a quick impression of a figure out of the eighteen-nineties. Her dress was gray, of fine-spun cotton he judged, long-sleeved, full cut, with a narrow waist, the skirt reaching to the tops of her black shoes. Gray lace, supported by stays, completely covered her neck. Her face, finely featured, was deeply lined with wrinkles and was topped by thin, gray-white hair gathered in a small coil on the top of her head.

  She made up her mind, opening the door and stepping aside. “I suppose it’s all right. We never get company, you know. Not since father went away. We’ll go into the parlor.”

  As Moreland followed the slowly moving
and faintly wheezing figure through the shadowed hallway, he became aware of the mustiness and chill that permeated the place. Outside, it was a warm summer day. Within, the air was damp and stale, as though too long confined and reused and forever barred from sunshine. The mustiness, he thought, of a cellar with moist walls and an earthen floor.

  No wonder the poor creature was short of breath.

  The corridor was thickly carpeted, deadening sound. He followed the woman past two doorways, tightly closed, and through a third which she opened. The room was almost as dark as the hallway, the light of two windows kept out by heavy, tightly drawn drapes. His eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the gloom and he was able to find the chair Amelia Lowry indicated.

  “I don’t need much light,” she said half apologetically, “but I guess you’ll appreciate a little more.” She opened a drawer in a small square table beside his chair, drew out a box of matches and lit a kerosene lamp on the table top. Seating herself she said, “We used to have electricity but after Aunt Rebecca’s house burned from the wiring we had it taken out.

  “Now what have you in mind?”

  Moreland’s fascinated gaze had been circling the room. It was crowded with antiques, including companions to the horsehair seat on which he sat. Now he fixed his eyes on Amelia Lowry.

  “Miss Lowry, I’m simply seeking information.” He brought out the silver pendant. “I bought this from Mr. Roth-stein, and I must find out where it came from.”

  The faded blue eyes glanced at the jewel, then a quick smile wreathed the pale lips, emphasizing the parchmentlike texture of her face.

  “Oh, yes—that is one of the last pieces I sold to Mr. Rothstein. It’s from Sister Abigail’s collection. You see—when we run low in funds I sell a piece or two. We must live, you know. I have her permission.”

  “But—where does your sister get the things?” Moreland persisted. “Where did she get this?”

  Amelia Lowry shook her head regretfully. “I can’t say—she never tells me—not that I want to know. But she travels a lot. All over the world. And she brings back things for her collection. Father started it many years ago.” She glanced from side to side, then leaned forward with a show of secrecy. “I don’t like some of her things, opals for instance. They are bad luck and she should know it. That’s why I got rid of that piece.” She added with a trace of pride, “I always felt I had better taste than Abigail.”

  Moreland frowned. This was no help at all. Returning the pendant to his pocket he asked impatiently, “Is your sister here—may I talk with her?”

  She cocked her head to one side as though listening. “No—she’s not here just now. She comes and goes. She travels a lot. She always was one for traveling. Traveled with father even when she was a little girl. I never wanted to.”

  “When can I talk with your sister? Can she get in touch with me? I must find out how she got that pendant!”

  Amelia Lowry stood up, spoke as though brushing his question aside. “I’ll tell her what you said. She’ll find you.” A suddenly gleeful, almost impish expression transfixed the old face. As suddenly Moreland sensed the truth, and in spite of himself he felt a chill that was not induced by the musty damp of the room. There was senility here, but there was also a wilder insanity.

  “Would you want to see Sister Abigail’s collection?”

  Better humor her and leave.

  “If you wish,” he said, “and then I must go.”

  Amelia Lowry drew a deep breath and started for the doorway, then glanced back. “You bring the lamp.”

  Holding the flickering, now slightly smoking lamp aloft, Moreland followed to a room at the end of the hall. As the door swung noisily open on dry hinges, his guide reached for the lamp.

  “I’ll take it in so you can see. I’m sorry,” she added, “but you won’t be able to go in. I can because I know how. Sister Abigail fixed it like this—doors and windows. Burglars, you know,” she added brightly, bobbing her gray topknot. She moved slowly into the room.

  As the weak light penetrated the darkness, casting grotesquely moving shadows, Rob Moreland caught his breath and his heart raced, his mind refusing to accept the testimony of his eyes. The room was lined with shelves and filled with tables—and all overflowed with an incredible assortment of jewelry and artifacts, like the plunder of the world’s museums or a pirate’s treasure. The dim glow was cast back by cups and armlets and chains of smoldering yellow gold. There was the flash of innumerable gems, kaleidoscopic in color and brilliance. He saw carved Chinese jade—a gold headdress that could only have come from an Egyptian tomb—ropes of pearls. And all in chaotic disorder. An utterly impossible display in an impossible place.

  Moreland took an involuntary step forward—and struck an unseen barrier, an invisible wall as solid as the oak door itself. And suddenly he shivered.

  This must be hallucination. This was the twentieth century, in a city where he’d lived all his life. On a street where dogs barked and children played and bacon fried in the morning. But he had to get out of here!

  “Thank you, Miss Lowry,” he said in a voice that sounded strange in his ears. “A remarkable collection. But I must be going. I can find my way out.” Turning, carefully controlling every step, denying the urge to run, he moved through the dark hallway, opened the door and stepped out into a world of sanity and warm sunlight. Quietly he closed the door behind him. Only then, he realized, did he start breathing again.

  The rest of that incredible day passed without incident. Rob Moreland drove into the country, trying not to think of his visit to Amelia Lowry, not daring to consider the implications of that treasure room, particularly in light of the jewel in his jacket pocket. It was a beautiful day for a drive. The blue sky with an occasional wisp of cloud, the green fields, placid cows browsing in meadows—the sights and sounds and odors of the country—had a soothing effect, freeing his mind of the pressures of all that had happened.

  Reaching home about four o’clock, he called his office to learn that nothing had come up which needed his immediate attention. Then, feeling he could survey the day with some degree of detachment, he got out a writing pad and pen, slumped into a reclining chair in his library-den and with his lawyer’s mind ran through the day, making notes.

  When he had finished he read what he had written. Problems? Plenty. Answers? None. Except that things were happening which had no natural explanation. Especially that utterly unbelievable collection, and that doorway through which he couldn’t pass. He glanced at his watch. Krebs might still be in. He dialled a number—Marvin Krebs, Private Investigator.

  “Marv? Moreland. I have a little job for you. Should be no trouble—I’d do it myself but I’d rather pay for the leg-work. I want everything I can get on a Lowry family. L-o-w-r-y. Start with Amelia Lowry, 818 Waverley . . . . Yes, they’re local. Father, mother, siblings. Relatives—history. You know what I’m looking for. I’m particularly interested in Abigail Lowry. Got it? Get back to me as soon as you can—here at home or at the office.”

  He left his den and descended to his basement workshop, taking the pendant with him. Selecting a masculine-looking stainless steel chain from among a dozen reels, he cut off a length and prepared it to receive the opal-and-jade pendant. He’d wear it himself, until this mystery was resolved—under his shirt, of course. He wasn’t risking possible loss.

  For the rest of the day he followed his usual routine—a shower, reading, an early dinner at a favorite restaurant—not greatly enjoyed—more reading, on which he couldn’t concentrate; a bit of television which he found boring, then bed. A restless and seemingly endless night followed.

  About eleven the next morning Marvin Krebs appeared at Moreland’s office. A little man, quiet, self-effacing, expert in his line.

  “No difficulty whatever, Mr. More-land.” He handed him a typewritten report, several pages in length. “Amelia Lowry is the last of her direct line. There’s one surviving relative, a distant cousin living in Sellersville. Amelia’s fat
her was a rather prominent archeologist who died in the nineteen fifties, probably old age. Amelia had a twin sister named Abigail who died of a heart attack ten years ago. You said you were especially interested in Abigail, but that’s the only one I could find. But it’s all there in the report. Anything else, Mr. Moreland?”

  Mechanically the attorney answered, “No, Marv—that’s all. Give your bill to Miss Connell.”

  Alone, Moreland stared blankly into vacancy. The words kept echoing in his ears: “Amelia had a twin sister named Abigail . . . died of a heart attack ten years ago.”

  He read the report. Krebs as always had been thorough. Every detail was there. Ancestors. Dates of births and deaths. Interment of the last three deceased in Pleasant View. Only one new item of information that Krebs hadn’t told him—Abigail had also been an archeologist, had been Dr. Lowry’s assistant and had continued in the field until her death.

  But what did this contribute to the solution of his problem? Nothing—only more unanswered questions. He felt the unfamiliar weight of the pendant on his chest and thought savagely, “Why—why did I stop to look at that double-damned skull!” He’d be wise to forget the whole matter—but he couldn’t. He’d have no peace of mind until he had the answer.

  A few legal matters—some letters to dictate—these filled Moreland’s morning. When the secretary left for lunch he told her he’d be out for the afternoon. He had made a decision. Distasteful though it was, he’d have to make a second visit to Amelia Lowry.

  After lunch he drove to the old house on Waverley Street. He had to bang repeatedly before an answer came. This time he did not receive even the semi-welcome of his first call. The door opened about six inches; and there was obvious hostility in the little gray woman’s thin voice.