by John Wilson
“Oh no,” Grandfather says with a grin. “I doubt if the mystery of how Tom Thomson died can ever be solved now, so long after the event.”
I’m about to ask where the fun is in a mystery that can’t be solved when he goes on. “There’s another mystery, a much more recent one that I was involved in, and that’s the mystery I’ve brought you up here to solve.”
It takes me a moment to realize what Grandfather is saying. “You’ve brought me here to solve a mystery?”
Grandfather’s grin broadens. “You didn’t think I would bring you all the way up here just to sit by the lake and listen to my old stories, did you?”
“Well…I…” I stammer. “I did kind of wonder why DJ got to go to Central America and I came to Canoe Lake.”
“As you know, I plan to take each of you grandsons on a trip. You’re all very different, even twins like you and DJ.”
“And brothers like Spencer and Bunny,” I add.
“Exactly,” Grandfather says with a laugh. “I’m going to have to think about the trip for those two. I want to make each of your trips different, so I’ve given some thought to each of you. You’ve always loved mystery stories, Encyclopedia Brown, the Hardy Boys and so on, so I thought I’d give you a real-life mystery to solve. Kind of like a game of Clue in the real world.”
“Cool,” I say. Suddenly I’m thrilled. This week is looking up. “What mystery are we going to solve?”
“We’re not going to solve any mystery—you are going to solve this on your own. I’ll give you the background and a few clues, and the rest will be up to you. You’ll have to do some things that might seem odd at the time, and it won’t be easy, but you won’t have to do anything dangerous, and I’ll be looking out for you all the time. Are you up for it?”
I don’t have to think long. This is my chance to be a real live detective, to live out one of the novels I love so much. “Sure,” I say. “Steve McLean the Super Sleuth at your service. What do I have to do?”
“You have to find Tom Thomson’s head.”
I guess I look shocked, because Grandfather bursts out laughing. “Not literally. What you have to do is work out where his skull is.”
“It’s not with his body?”
Grandfather shrugs. “Let me give you a little background, but first we’ll need a bit of light.”
I look around and see that it is getting gloomy in the cabin. The flickering firelight doesn’t show much beyond the hearth. Grandfather removes our dishes, throws a couple of logs on the fire and lights two oil lanterns. One lantern he hangs from a hook on one of the ceiling beams, the other he places between us on the rough table.
“A number of years back,” Grandfather begins as he settles into his chair, “I came up here on business and fell in love with the landscape. My business ended earlier than expected, and it was a beautiful day, so I rented a canoe to explore the islands you saw offshore. On the largest one I met an old fisherman, Jim Davis, who was building a fire to brew some tea. He invited me to join him, and we fell to talking. Since we were on Canoe Lake and drinking tea a matter of meters from where Thomson’s body was found, the conversation turned to the artist’s mysterious death.”
I’m leaning forward, totally riveted by Grandfather’s tale of mystery and murder. I can hear the hiss of the lantern and feel its heat on my cheeks.
“Jim couldn’t cast any light on Thomson’s death, but he had some interesting things to say about what happened after. When they found it, Thomson’s body had been in the water for eight days. I’m sure you can imagine it wasn’t in very good shape, so they buried it quickly in the cemetery at Mowat. When Thomson’s family in Leith, just outside Owen Sound, were told of the tragedy, they asked for the body to be sent home so he could be buried in the family plot. This was done in a sealed casket, and a funeral service was held. Shortly after, a tale spread that the undertaker had been too lazy to dig up Thomson’s body and had sent an empty sealed casket to Leith.”
“So Thomson’s grave is empty?” I ask.
“Well, he has two graves. One of them has to be empty. In 1956 Judge William Little and three friends decided to find out which one. One morning in September they started digging around in Mowat Cemetery. The problem was, no one had bothered or had time to put up a tombstone back in 1917, so the exact site of the first grave had been lost.”
“In daylight? Didn’t any of the townspeople notice four guys digging holes in the town cemetery?”
“You would think,” Grandfather says with a sly grin. “But we’re in Mowat right now. Did you see many people around when we drove in?”
I shake my head.
“Used to be,” Grandfather goes on. “Once upon a time there were more than five hundred people living here. The town had a store, lodge, hospital, lumber mill, railway, school—everything a thriving little community needed. But not anymore. The mill and the railway closed, the lodge burned down, and people drifted away. Now there are just a few cabins on the lakeshore. Mowat’s a ghost town, and it was when Judge Little did his digging.”
“What did they find?” I ask eagerly.
“It took them several attempts, but eventually a spade hit the edge of a wooden box—they’d found a rotting oak coffin.”
Nothing could drag me away from the table now.
“One of the men stuck his hand in the coffin and pulled out a bone.”
“Ew!” I exclaim at the thought of someone putting their hand in a coffin.
“It was an old coffin, and they were just bones. Remember, these guys were used to hunting and so on. Anyway, they found a complete skeleton and took some bones out to show to a doctor friend they knew.”
“Was Jim one of the men?” I ask, thinking I should find out as much as possible if I am going to solve this mystery.
“No,” Grandfather says, “but he told me he had Tom Thomson’s skull in his garden shed.”
SIX
“This guy kept a human skull in his shed? That’s sick,” I say. When I get over my shock, I remember that detectives need to keep asking questions. “Did you see it?”
“Good question,” Grandfather says. “The short answer’s no, but let me finish the first part of my story. After the skull and bones were removed in 1956, they were sent to Toronto for analysis. Scientists there determined that the bones belonged to a young First Nations man, about five foot eight inches tall. Since Thomson wasn’t of First Nations descent, was over six feet tall and was thirty-nine years old when he died, they concluded it wasn’t Thomson’s skeleton and sent the bones back for reburial.”
I’m disappointed. Every time Grandfather seems to be getting deep into the mystery, he provides an answer. “So Thomson’s body was moved to Leith,” I say.
“A good detective never rushes to conclusions,” Grandfather says with a wink. “There’s more. There was no CSI or Bones back in 1956. The skull was determined to be First Nations based on the teeth, a very uncertain way to do things. Same thing with guessing height and age from bones—it’s not exact, and we don’t know precisely how tall Thomson was. The other interesting thing about the skull was that it had a round hole on the left side.”
“Was the hole where the bruise had been seen when the body was found?” I ask excitedly, remembering Grandfather’s description of the body from 1917.
“An excellent question that any good detective would ask,” Grandfather says.
“How did the Toronto scientists explain the hole in the skull, and how did Jim get the skull?” I blurt out, thrilled that I’m doing so well.
“One question at a time,” Grandfather cautions with a smile. “Yes, the hole in the skull was on the left temple, exactly where the bruising had been seen. The scientist who examined the skull claimed that the hole was the result of a surgical procedure called trepanning, where a hole is drilled in the skull to relieve pressure. Trepanning is a very rare procedure and is very unlikely to have been carried out on a young First Nations man in the wilds of Algonquin Park 100 years ago.
&nb
sp; “Jim Davis became involved because he was given the job of reburying the bones when they came back from Toronto. He buried most of them, but he stole the skull.”
“Why did he steal the skull?”
“Partly because he still believed it belonged to Tom Thomson and partly just for a souvenir.”
“Some souvenir. Why didn’t you get to see it?”
“You’ve certainly got a detective’s talent for asking questions,” Grandfather says with a chuckle. “When I met Jim on the island, he wasn’t planning on heading back to his cabin for a couple of days. I couldn’t wait that long, so I arranged to return when I had a few days free. Things got a little crazy when I got back to the city, so it was almost a month before I headed back up here. By then it was too late.”
“Too late?”
“Jim was dead.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “How did he die?”
“His cabin caught fire. No one knows how. Could have been a faulty oil lamp, a spark from the open fire, a fallen cigarette.”
“Did the shed burn down as well?”
“Good for you,” Grandfather says. “You get straight to the important point. No, the shed wasn’t touched.”
“So the skull was still in it?”
“That’s the strange thing. I went to have a look. The shed was cluttered, but it looked as if stuff had been moved recently, and there was no sign of a skull.”
“What happened to it?”
Grandfather says nothing. He simply sits and smiles at me over the flickering lantern.
“That’s the mystery?” I guess. “That’s what I have to find out?”
“That’s the beginning of it.”
“Don’t I get any other clues?” I ask, not even knowing where I should start without something else.
“You’ll get clues as you go along.”
“How will I find them?”
“That is the first thing you have to discover.” Grandfather stands up. “Now, I think it’s time for bed. You have a busy time ahead of you. Perhaps you should introduce yourself to Nero Wolfe. I always find that a few pages of a good story in the evening helps me sleep.”
* * *
I unpack my few clothes in my tiny room and carefully place the Rex Stout book on the shelf at the head of the bunk. I have a small batterypowered lamp that doesn’t give much light but is enough to read by. I undress, crawl into my sleeping bag and lie there, thinking.
The day has been much more interesting than I had expected. Grandfather acted a bit strangely at his cabin, but lunch was good. The encounter with the possible bear was exciting, and I am getting over my horror at the cabin’s primitiveness. And now I have a mystery to solve. It isn’t a real mystery—Grandfather has set it up and will be looking out for me and will help if I get stuck, but I’m excited at the idea. This is going to be a better game than Sam’s monster battles on a table.
My mind turns to my first problem—the clues and where to find them. Since I have no idea where to start, I guess that the first clue must be hidden somewhere in the cabin. I promise myself I’ll look for it first thing in the morning.
I yawn. How come sitting in a car all day, doing nothing, can be so tiring? I reach up for Fer-de-Lance. A few pages will be good before I go to sleep. I prop myself up against the cabin wall and begin reading.
The book is a pleasant surprise. It’s a bit oldfashioned, but it’s an easy read and I find myself being drawn into Nero Wolfe’s world and the crimes he is a genius at solving. After twenty pages I find my eyelids drooping, but I force myself to finish chapter 2.
At first I think the small square of paper at the beginning of chapter 3 is an old bookmark, but then I see the writing on it. Begin at the beginning. The third along. Check the empty space at the front.
I turn the paper over, but there’s nothing else. Someone has obviously written a note as a reminder, but it might have been seventy years ago. I place Fer-de-Lance back on the shelf. Then it strikes me. I’m supposed to find clues, and here’s a cryptic note in the book Grandfather has given me and made sure I brought with me.
I’m excited and pleased that I have discovered the first clue but totally confused as to what it can mean. Begin at the beginning is simple enough, but the beginning of what—Thomson’s death, his burial, his body being dug up years later? And what, or where, is the third along? I suppose if I work those out, the empty space will make sense.
I puzzle over the clue for a while, but I’m too tired to think straight. I tuck the piece of paper on the shelf with the book and curl up in the sleeping bag. The bunk is surprisingly comfortable, and I only have time to think that this week might turn out to be fun after all before I fall asleep.
SEVEN
I wake up late to the sun streaming through the tiny window of my room, stretch, drag on a pair of board shorts and a Foo Fighters T-shirt and go though to the main room. The door to Grandfather’s bedroom is open, so he must already be up. I head outside. The journey to the outhouse is much happier in bright sunlight than in the dark with thoughts of bears running wildly through my head. There’s no sign of Grandfather, but the Jeep’s here, so I assume he must have gone for a walk. I head back in and dig out some cereal and orange juice.
As I eat, I try to work out the meaning of the first clue. I’m not having much luck until I notice the satellite image from Google Earth pinned to the wall beside the door. I go over and peer at it. The red-circled cabin is definitely ours. I can even see the outhouse and sagging porch. I also notice something I missed the last time I looked—each of the lots along the lakeshore is numbered. Ours in number one, because to one side of us there’s nothing but trees. On the other side is cabin two. It’s much bigger, fancier and newer than ours, and I can’t help feeling a pang of regret that Grandfather didn’t reserve something like that for us. The next one along, number three, is just an empty lot—there’s no cabin. Number four is another fancy cabin but much smaller than our neighbor. Number five—my eyes swing back. Number three doesn’t have a cabin on it. It’s an empty lot. An empty space.
I feel a surge of excitement. Our cabin is at the beginning of the row, and the third along the row is empty. Have I solved the first clue? Didn’t Grandfather say he met Jim the fisherman on an island? What if it was one of the islands I saw from the beach and Jim had a cabin nearby—a cabin that burned down, leaving the lot empty? That would make it the beginning of Grandfather’s involvement with the missing skull.
It’s worth checking out. I scrawl Gone clue hunting on a scrap of paper and set it on the table. I consider a sweatshirt, but it’s already warm outside, so I slip on my runners and set off. At first I try to head straight through the trees, but the fancy cabin next door is surrounded by a wire fence taller than I am. There’s a gate in it, but it’s firmly locked. I peer through and see a wide deck above an immaculate lawn that stretches down to the water line, where an impressive dock juts out into the lake. There’s a red aluminum boat tied at the end of the dock. I walk along the fence until I get onto the dirt road that runs parallel to the shore.
From the road, our neighbor’s is even grander. The wire fence gives way to a high stone wall that’s only broken by an imposing wroughtiron gate. I can see a curving drive leading up to a carved front door surrounded by tall pillars that make the place look like an ancient Greek temple. A gold-lettered sign by the gate announces Shore Mansion Resort Wellness Retreat. Your Destination for Relaxing in Style. Oddly, the sign has no phone number to call if you happen to be rich enough to afford to stay here. I suppose they don’t want just anyone to call.
Lot three is totally different, completely overgrown with willows and dense underbrush. There’s no obvious path, so I push my way through as best I can. As I get closer to the lakeshore, the undergrowth thins and I find myself in a clearing. At the widest point, there’s a low mound, covered in a tangle of prickly gooseberries. Beside it is a pile of old timber that looks as if it might once have been a building.
As
I approach the mound, I see the ends of blackened logs sticking out. Could this be the remains of Jim’s burned cabin? If it is, then the pile of timber must be the collapsed remains of his shed.
“What you doing here?” The voice makes me jump. I spin around to see a figure stepping out of the trees.
“N…nothing,” I stammer. “I’m staying along the shore and I was just exploring.”
“Shouldn’t go exploring on other people’s property without permission,” the man says, stepping forward. He’s big, well over six feet tall and broad across the shoulders. His head is shaved, and he has a long black beard. He’s wearing camouflage pants and a plaid shirt, and his nose is bent to one side, making his face look offcenter. He’s frowning at me, and I have a strong urge to run. “This is private land.”
“It can’t be,” I blurt out. “This is a provincial park.”
The man looks momentarily uncertain, but he soon recovers. “Some of this land’s been owned since before the park came. You wouldn’t go wandering around the fancy place next door without an invite, would you?”
“No,” I admit. I decide I’ve got nothing to lose by getting straight to the point. “Did this used to be Jim Davis’s place?”
“What makes you think that?” the man asks, tilting his head and peering at me.
“Someone I know met him once and told me Davis had a cabin around here that burned down.” I look over at the pile of rubble.
The big man glances over as well. “So what?” he says.
“Nothing, really,” I say. I don’t want to tell this guy about the mystery I have to solve. “I was just wandering around and got curious.”
“Curiosity can get you into trouble,” the man says.
“Sorry,” I say and turn to leave.
“You’re right,” the man says. I turn back. “This was Jim Davis’s place. He lived here all his life. That was his favorite spot.” The man points over to the island close to the shore. “That rocky point at the end of the island. Jim used to sit there for hours, drinking tea, cooking fish and just watching the water. Maybe your grandfather will let you canoe over and take a look.”
