“Enough,” I said as I stopped to stare out the window for what felt like the hundredth time.
I needed distracting and recalled the book in the library about witchcraft in Maine. It was the perfect time to give it a try. Maybe witches would be more interesting than smugglers.
Kelvin joined me in the library and I built a small fire. We settled into an armchair and put our feet up on the ottoman.
The font was hard to read and the print dense, the prose turgid. But the subject was sensational enough to encourage me to the labor of reading. It was nice to learn in the preface that no one had ever been executed for practicing witchcraft in Maine. Since the book began on this hopeful note, I thought that maybe I was ready for a bit of sensational reading though the wind was clearly rising outside and we would be having another storm.
However, it turned out that this claim of forbearance was a slight misstatement. There had been two executions in what is now Maine when it was still part of Massachusetts. The name of one of the persecutors caught my eye.
I should have closed the book at this point, but I got caught up in the story of Colonel Sands and the black witch. She was seventeen and beautiful, but never given a name, which is typical, as women were so often dismissed historically. The accused creature lived with her aunt in a cabin where the black rocks of the island set a guard against the white man’s coming, or so the rather bad poem immortalizing the trial said.
Brought before the heartless colonel, who had probably been having an affair with the accused witch and was trying to deny the connection, the usual accusations of broom-riding and crop-killing ensued. The poor woman was gagged throughout the proceedings so that she would not lay hurtful spells upon the witnesses—and not mention her affair with Sands. Not so amazingly, she was found guilty and judgment was passed: Thou shalt be bound in thine own house on the evil island, and we will burn the shameful whole to ash and you with it.
Fortunately, our ancestors were not barbarians. The burning was mere poetic license and anyway, why destroy a perfectly good cabin that someone else could use as soon as the aunt was gotten rid of? They decided to hang her instead. As the noose was placed around her delicate neck, she uttered a last curse: Jonathan Sands, listen to these words, the last my mouth shall utter. In the spirit of the only true and living God I speak thee. Tremble, for you will soon die. Over your grave they will erect a stone that all may know where the bones of the cowardly Jonathan Sands are moldering. But listen, all ye people, that your descendants may know the truth. Upon that stone will appear the imprint of my raised hand, and for an eternity after your accursed names have perished from the earth, the people will come from afar to view the fulfillment of this prophecy and will say: 'There lies the man who murdered an innocent woman.' Remember these words well, Jonathan Sands, remember me.
And sure enough, Sands died in an accident shortly thereafter and his widow erected a granite headstone over his grave. Almost at once a handprint appeared, obscuring Winston’s name. The stone was replaced, but again a mark in the shape of a hand blotted out his name. This time they left the stone alone.
If it had been me, I would have come up with a better curse. I mean, if you are calling down the wrath of something all-powerful, let’s do a good and thorough job of cursing. You know, think of Job and all his afflictions. But I guess you do what you can and maybe this was all she could think of in what had to be a very stressful moment.
The rest of the book was less exciting. Other women were “questioned” for being witches, but this was the only execution in the islands. There seemed to be a real suspicion among the Puritans for people who lived on the northern frontiers and tiny islands off the coast who might have had dealings with the Indian tribes who were known conjurers and sorcerers and who regularly had congress with demons. People like my ancestor, Abercrombie Wendover. I could only sigh over the ignorance of these long-dead Puritans and pity them for their irrational and unnecessary fears.
I had thought that the story was out of my head by the time I made dinner and went to bed, but my dreams that night were troubled. I dreamed of a headstone with a bloody handprint on it, but the stone did not belong to Colonel Sands. The slightly obscured name read Kelvin Wendover.
The next morning I woke with the intention of discovering where Kelvin was buried. I would pay my respects, bring some flowers. Then I was going up to the attic and tearing it apart. There had to be some pictures, some paintings, some diaries, or personal mementos of my ancestors.
However, the best laid plans of mice and men and all that. I had just climbed out of the bathtub when there was a knock on the door. I scrambled into my borrowed clothes, which were inclined to stick on the damp patches and roll annoyingly in the hardest to reach locations.
Expecting it was Ben, or perhaps Harris, I was shocked speechless to find Jack, a pair of crutches and a duffel bag sheltering on my doorstep.
“Dear God!” I said before being enveloped in a hug. A cool wind rushed over my bare feet as I was pulled onto tiptoes.
I started laughing, partly from shock but partly from relief.
“You smell like mothballs and look like Katherine Hepburn,” he said.
“What are you doing here? How are you here? You must have left right after we got off the phone.”
“Almost,” he admitted, letting me back far enough to look at my face. “I have been so damned worried since I talked to you. Do you know how crazy you sounded?”
“I’ve been worried too,” I admitted. “But, Jack, it’s just gotten even weirder and more awesome since then.”
“Weirder?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you, but come in first. Have you had breakfast?” I bent to take his duffel. It was heavier than my little suitcase.
“Not as such. I ate things in airports,” he said, looking around with wide eyes as he came through the foyer and into the front parlor. I knew he was impressed. I was still impressed and I had had several days to get used to the house. “Wow. This is like something from a museum—only more real. More lived in.”
“I know. Wait until you see the kitchen. The stove is a hoot.”
“I’m glad you are taking it so well. You sounded rather stressed when we talked the other night.”
“I was stressed. But that’s when I thought maybe I had ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” He stared at me.
“Yes, but I was wrong. It’s much better than that. So, who brought you over to the island?” I asked, setting down his duffel at the foot of the stairs and leading the way to the kitchen. “There’s no ferry today.”
“Um—someone called Bryson Sands gave me a lift. He was coming to pay a call on your novelist neighbor. I gather they have a weekly poker game.” Jack thumped along behind me. He wasn’t hurrying and I didn’t blame him. There was a lot to see.
“Really? That is interesting. Bryson is one of the two brother police officers that are the law on the islands. He’s the more personable of the two. Here, sit on the settle and I’ll make some breakfast. Do eggs sound okay? I have lots of eggs.”
“Sure.” Jack lifted his cast up onto the bench and sighed with pleasure.
There was a meow at the back door and I let Kelvin in. The cat paused with one paw raised, studied Jack for a moment, and then decided that he was okay, even if he and his leg were taking up the whole settle. Kelvin came forward, rubbed once at Jack’s undamaged limb, and then sauntered off to the pantry for a midmorning snack.
“So, you don’t have ghosts?” Jack asked, staring at the cat. I was pretty sure that he was thinking of the similarities between Kelvin and the cats in some of the paintings. It was kind of disturbing until you realized that many cat characteristics bred true generation after generation—especially on an island with limited mating possibilities.
“No—at least they aren’t what’s been getting me up nights.”
“That’s good, I guess. What has been getting you up?”
I couldn’t contain my smile.
“Smugglers.”
Jack stared at me, not smiling.
“Smugglers? Like … smugglers?”
“Yes, smugglers are using my secret tunnel and sea cave to store illegal Canadian whisky. Or they were. They’ve been emptying it out night after night. I think it would be clear by now, except their winch broke. They’ll need to bring in another.”
Jack exhaled slowly.
“Maybe you should start at the beginning. You have a secret tunnel and a sea cave?”
“I do. I found them yesterday while I was cleaning the basement.” Eggs forgotten, I perched on the very end of the settle and started telling Jack about the tunnel and the ins and outs of whisky importation laws.
Jack let me talk. I was fairly organized in my presentation so he didn’t need to ask a lot of questions.
“So, you don’t know who the smugglers are?”
“No. I have possible suspects—”
“Like your neighbor and the lawyer?” he guessed.
Yes, but I didn’t like hearing this expressed aloud.
“And the police. At least, Ben says they have to know that the chowder house and other places are serving illegal liquor.”
“But…. You’re sure it’s illegal? I mean, with the islands maybe belonging to Canada it could be legal, right?”
“It’s a gray area,” I conceded. “I think it’s been unofficially decided that the lighthouse is Canadian but the rest is American. And for sure, anything that goes to the mainland is illegal.”
“Wow. So what are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. At least, I don’t know if I’ll tell anyone in an official capacity.”
“Not tell?” Jack asked. He appeared baffled and disapproving.
“How can I when the local law is probably involved? And anyway, I suspect that my great-grandfather was in it up to his eyebrows. I bet it’s why my grandma ran away.” I didn’t bring up the curse. It sounded stupid when a believer told the story. It would be worse if I explained it.
“So? Your great-grandfather is dead. He can’t be prosecuted so what has this got to do with you reporting this? If you are worried about Bryson and his brother being involved, go to the ATF. The government will care, believe me. They don’t like leaky borders and people smuggling anything over them.”
“But….” I found I couldn’t explain about the pressure of family history I was beginning to feel. Telling Jack I didn’t want to tarnish the Wendover name seemed stupid, but the feeling persisted anyway. “Well, there is also the matter of not offending the neighbors.”
“What?” He sounded incredulous.
“I want to live here, Jack. That means getting on with the locals. Smuggling whisky is kind of a tradition in these parts. Sending my neighbors to jail would not endear me to the community. Besides, word has gone out now that Kelvin—Great-grandpa Kelvin—is dead and a new person lives here now. If they wanted to deal with me, I would have been approached already.” Probably. “Instead they are moving everything off the island in the dead of night—which is kind of thoughtful, if you think about it the right way.”
“Are you crazy?” he asked, and then proceeded to explain my advanced insanity.
I nodded sympathetically while he lectured and went to fix him some eggs and toast, hoping breakfast would calm him.
“You aren’t listening, are you?” he finally asked.
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re—what are you doing?”
“I don’t have a toaster, so I have to do the bread over a flame. It’s tricky—harder than doing marshmallows.”
“Tess, what are you thinking?” he sounded despairing. “I’ve never known what you’re thinking. From day one you were a closed book. And I can’t help but feel a little responsible about this.”
“Whatever for?” I asked, surprised.
“We didn’t part on the best terms and before I could make things right I went and broke my leg. Next thing, I hear you’re in Maine, on some island, and have smugglers in your basement which you don’t plan to do anything about. So, I ask again, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that I am so glad to see you,” I said earnestly, trying to reassure him. “It’s like I’ve been visiting some foreign land, which I guess this is, and nothing feels quite right. It’s—it’s mostly wonderful here but not what I’m used to. I mean, for one thing, absolutely everyone knows more about my family than I do. That’s weird, isn’t it? So it is great to see a familiar face. One I know I can trust. One that isn’t superstitious either. We have a lot of superstitious people around here.”
I put toast on the plates and scooped up the scrambled eggs from the frying pan.
“Let’s go into the breakfast room. It’s nice. The dining room is a little overwhelming.”
“Okay,” he said, finally relaxing. I was pretty sure that Jack hadn’t given up on trying to persuade me to do something about the smugglers, but he was willing to bide his time while he won me over with reason. “And then I want to see your tunnel and the cave. It sounds like something out of Stevenson.”
“Or the Hardy Boys,” I agreed, carrying both plates while Jack dealt with the crutches. “It’s really amazing. We need to go before high tide though, or we won’t be able to make it all the way to the cave.”
“The eggs are great,” Jack said a few minutes later. “I hadn’t realized I was so hungry.”
“It’s the sea air,” I said without thinking. “It gives you an appetite.”
Jack put his fork down.
“Tess, you don’t think that, lost in the euphoria of inheriting this insanely beautiful house on a romantic island with an exotic neighbor and smugglers in the basement, you maybe aren’t overestimating your chances of happiness living here?”
“What am I, Nostradamus?” I sighed, ashamed at being snappish, especially when Jack had come all the way to see me. “Maybe. But it is insanely beautiful and romantic. People are ready to accept me too. I can be a Wendover from Little Goose. And it isn’t like I’ve been happy in Minnesota, not since—well, ever. We just weren’t a good fit. Too many people take intelligence as an insult—a trick that I’m playing on them. I know this is a small town too, but it feels very different.”
Jack looked sympathetic.
“Anyway,” I accused with a grin, “you’re leaving town too. What makes you think you’ll like living somewhere else either?”
“Okay—pax. I’ll suspend my hasty judgment about your island. Let’s go see your secret tunnel.”
“There are some stairs, can you manage them?”
“Sure, if I go slow.”
Chapter 11
I had a bad moment, watching Jack negotiate the basement stairs. I tried to talk him out of exploring the tunnel, but he was adamant. Perhaps he wanted to assure himself that I wasn’t hallucinating. I have to admit, my story was a wild one.
We made it to the bottom steps without incident and I went to the cupboard and pulled out my nail that was serving as a bolt. I opened the door slowly. I wasn’t being theatrical, just cautious. A shriek from the hinges would have added to the eerie atmosphere, but the door and the cupboard’s back panel opened without a sound.
“This is definitely designed for privacy,” Jack said softly.
“Alcohol was illegal back then,” I pointed out, also just above a whisper. “A smart man would plan things carefully.”
The hidden staircase was solid enough but creaked under our combined weight as we torqued it from side to side with each cautious step. I was able to walk quietly, but Jack’s crutches made a certain amount of noise. That shouldn’t have bothered me since logic said we were alone. Still I wished that we were able to be a little quieter. The distant slushing of waves couldn’t mask the sound of our approach.
The tunnel slope wasn’t terribly steep and it wasn’t slippery, but I could see that Jack was tiring by the time we reached the cave. As I had expected, everything was still in place though much of the whisky smell had
dissipated.
“Amazing. I feel like I’m in a Hardy Boys adventure—The Mystery of the Smugglers’ Cave or something.”
“No, The Secret Stairs,” I countered. “The other is too much of a giveaway for a title. It wouldn’t do to step on the punch line.”
Jack grinned and I remembered why I had agreed to date him.
Things got suddenly darker and a strong gust of wind whirled into the cavern. It carried the smell of storm.
“Here we go again,” I muttered.
“Hm,” Jack grunted and started for the mouth of the cave. “This isn’t exactly the safest place for docking. I wonder—yes. Here’s a ring. They could tie a boat off here if the tide were high enough.”
I looked down at a circle of heavy iron just inside the cave that had rusted the same shade as the rock it was bolted into.
Another blast of wind hit us. We crept out a little further on the ledge and looked out of the fissure at the sky, which was frankly apocalyptic. All it needed was a funnel cloud to make it the perfect backdrop for a disaster film. The waves heaved and the rising wind slapped us around in an unfriendly manner. The birds nesting in the cliffs were shrill with unhappiness. Lighting struck near Goose Haven, followed almost immediately by thunder.
Jack whistled as he ducked back inside.
“It does this every night,” I said, though truthfully this looked more dire than usual. “Let’s go build a fire and break out the whisky.” I started to laugh. “Which is probably smuggled. I’ll make some split-pea soup for dinner.”
“Well, it’s a safe bet that your smuggler friends won’t be around this evening.” He sounded relieved. “No sane person would be out in this.”
“Probably not,” I agreed and then shivered. It was mostly the growing cold, but I had one of my rare flashes of imagination about what it would be like to be out on the water on such a night. I’d rather face a houseful of ghosts then step a single toe into a boat during a bad storm. I hoped the smugglers were as sensible.
More lightning and a prolonged scream of wind raced past us. I said a silent prayer that the house kept its grip on the tilted island. After all, it wasn’t New Year’s Eve and there was a Wendover—or at least a facsimile thereof—in residence. We should be safe.
The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) Page 10
