by Scott Jäeger
In reply to his cue, the man straightened his stoop a little and stepped forward.
“A moment, Mr. Mills,” she interrupted him. “I expect Mr. Sloan’s valet will want to handle his bags.”
The three of us paused to look around, but were disappointed when no such person appeared.
“I’m traveling alone, Mrs. Caddock.”
“Ha, I should have known. Coat could use a brush, eh? But surely this one bag can’t be all of your luggage, Mr. Sloan?”
* * *
The driver made a clucking noise and we jostled off. Our gig proved to be a cramped affair, Mrs. Caddock and I sharing the one bench like old friends. If I had brought a trunk I would have had to walk alongside. To avoid further conversation, I endeavoured to study the architecture, which was, I hoped, unique to Arkham. Every visible structure was out of true, as if a giant hand had riffled the rooftops, and the buildings, once shoved askew, had been too weary to right themselves.
Unfortunately, the dour and silent woman I had known as a child had become dour and garrulous. She embarked on an extended account of the family’s, and by extension her own, misfortunes. In addition to Uncle Eamon’s long illness, silver had collapsed, rental properties had flooded, and tenants disappeared. The departure of each of the estate’s employees was unfailingly followed by the news that said employee would not be replaced, and the burdens of the story's heroine grew until the entire staff consisted of herself and a part time groundskeeper.
Still, once I had accommodated myself to sharing the narrow wooden board I was, thanks to the uniformity of Mrs. Caddock’s droning, able to relax into semi-consciousness for much of the journey. I was on the cusp of real sleep when I heard the angry shout A woman will prattle on! causing me to start upright in a fluster. Luckily, the exclamation had sounded in my mind alone.
As it happened, my waking coincided with Mrs. Caddock improbably reaching a point of interest in her monologue: I would meet a female cousin currently lodging at the estate, some unfortunate adopted into the family by Uncle Eamon.
“No one knows quite what to make of her. Supposedly, she lost her mother to the influenza. Weak blood,” she said, pointedly. “But do you know what I think? In one word, carpetbagger. I’ll be counting the spoons every night until she leaves.”
With this pronouncement Mrs. Caddock was content to sit quietly. I was careful not to indicate any interest, lest it encourage her to speak further, but her distaste for this mysterious houseguest was cause for optimism. Perhaps my visit would not be as tedious as I feared.
While I was unconscious, the urban disfigurement of town had given way to long grass and scrubland which had at one time been cleared for agriculture but now lay fallow. Soon after, my family’s holding came into view, the setting sun softening neither the dreariness, nor the impression of ruin. The estate’s south wall, now a pile of mortarless stones, seemed more coincident than a deliberate attempt at security.
Mills levered himself down from his seat to shift the gate, choosing to walk his nag the rest of the way up the hill. The dilapidated three-storey Georgian loomed into view. Once my summer refuge from school and duty, its pleasing forest green had faded to military drab, the façade settling into a frown of discontent in caricature of the Sloan fortune.
We clattered to a stop and I stepped down, bag in hand, the coachman assisting Mrs. Caddock when it became obvious I would ignore her throat-clearing sound. Mr. Mills knew well enough not to expect any sort of gratuity from her, and circumstances forced me to disappoint him as well.
“Your old playground, eh Mr. Sloan?” the housekeeper said as the front steps brayed their annoyance at our passage. “Come on now, your uncle will be delighted.”
I stopped in the parlour, momentarily confused.
“Mrs. Caddock, I don’t know why I didn’t inquire earlier, but Uncle never did say exactly why he was so eager to see me.”
“He’s been very ill, Mr. Sloan.” She stared at me, not kindly, before adding, “As I mentioned several times already.”
* * *
“WHAT!”
The old man’s throaty exclamation greeted me at the door to his room. It was all the same as I remembered: the hideous fleur-de-lis wallpaper, the bureau that once towered above me, and the sea trunk so scratched and battered it might have been the flotsam of a shipwreck.
“It’s Isaac, Mr. Sloan, your nephew,” Mrs. Caddock said as she hauled the velour curtains shut. “You invited him here, for pity’s sake.”
“I have no nephew,” he said querulously. “No, don't let him in!”
Ignoring his protest, she propped his withered frame into a sitting position and beat his pillow like a chicken-thieving hound. He sat under his own strength for the time being, clutching the blanket in both hands, and turned to where I stood in the doorway. The stink of sweat and unhappiness lingered under the carbolic, pushing back as I forced myself forward. I did my best to hide my shock at his decline.
“Uncle Eamon, what are you playing at?” I said with faltering jocularity. He was white and wasted, lost looking on the expansive mattress of the four-poster. “It’s me, Isaac. You can’t be serious that you don’t remember me.”
My uncle sank back to his elbows, gradually laying flat again, as if impelled against his will.
“Mrs. Caddock, if you’ll excuse us?” Her mouth hung open briefly as if to object to my request, but folded instead into the scowl that long practice had engraved on her face.
“Now what is the matter, Uncle? I hear you’ve been ill.”
“Ill?” His eyebrows arched in a semblance of humour. “Yes, you could say I’ve been ill. Dying would be more accurate.”
“I would have come sooner, but my affairs have been in total disarray.” I wanted to reassure him I hadn’t come asking for money, but instead added feebly, “It’s so good to see the estate again after so many years.”
“Many years, right.” He cut his eyes at me suspiciously. “You've still got the scar, have you?”
“I don’t imagine I’ll ever lose it, lest I lose the whole limb.”
“Let's have a look.”
His expression went suddenly canny as I rolled up my left sleeve to show the rippling scar betwixt wrist and elbow on the inside of that arm. To me it was as significant as it was ugly, for the same fire that made it killed both my parents. It marked the division between the boy Isaac Sloan and the man. All I recalled of that night was shivering in terrific pain, crying as only a child cries, and my father’s brother, strong and calm, holding me.
It must have been meaningful to Eamon as well, for as the papery skin of his palm came to rest on the scar, his face finally unclenched like a fist to an open hand.
“Welcome, my boy,” he said, growing teary, “welcome.”
My uncle tired quickly, and after little more conversation I lay down, still shod, in my old room, until the smell of boiled beef and cabbage summoned me downstairs again. As Mrs. Caddock allowed no one at table before the meal was served, I was fidgeting in the drawing room when a dark-haired girl appeared from the hall, dressed in a battered linen skirt and a lime-coloured blouse almost respectable enough for dinner. The appearance of a houseguest like this was, in that place, as unexpected as a songbird in a root cellar.
“Hello,” I exclaimed. “No one announced you. I mean, Mrs. Caddock never said we had a guest. For dinner.”
“All right, all right,” Mrs. Caddock interjected. Bustling into the room and immediately between us, she produced a feather duster and began to assault a lithograph of Massachusetts countryside. “Mr. Sloan has just this instant arrived and you’re fluttering about him like a jackdaw. I imagine he has plenty to keep his mind occupied with Mr. Sloan the elder taken sick.”
Without acknowledging her, I extended a hand to my uncle’s guest, who clasped it warmly.
“I am Isaac Sloan.”
“The famous nephew, of course. Georgine, sir.”
“My pleasure. I heard a rumour that we are cous
ins, except that Uncle doesn't have a daughter.”
“Adopted daughter,” she replied. “Though I suppose he does call me that. Daughter, I mean. I’m more what you’d call a ward.” After an awkward pause, “I don’t mean to presume, sir.”
“No, it’s not presumptuous at all. And you mustn’t call me ‘sir’. Make it Isaac, please.”
An uncharitable harrumph met this comment from the creature dusting what would become the sole clean article in that room. I stared at Mrs. Caddock for several seconds until she absented herself.
“Has Mrs. Caddock made your stay here pleasant?” I asked, keeping most of the acid from my voice.
“She’s a bit of a grouch, but with everything that’s happened I guess she has a right to be cranky sometimes.” Uncomfortable silence rose up again, as relentless as damp, and Georgine parted a gauzy curtain to look out at the grounds. “I’ve heard you used to come here as a boy. How grand the estate must have been. I’m sorry, I seem to have a knack for finding rude things to say.”
“It’s not so grand as it used to be,” I said, “but I see no reason why it must be so dismal. I’m glad you’re here, Georgine. This house needs a bit of cheer.”
A bellow from the next room forestalled yet another silence. Dinner was served.
“Will there be wine, Mrs. Caddock?” was, naturally, my first question.
There would be no wine. The housekeeper despised any drink stronger than black tea, and in all things adhered strictly to her own opinion, the one idol she held above Christ. The food proved as flavourless and grim as the company was delightful, though the housekeeper did put her personal stamp on the event, periodically finding a reason to stomp through the room, to slam down a tray or throw open, then later drag closed, the windows.
As I struggled with the meal, I let Georgine have the run of the conversation, which centered around her affection for my uncle and Arkham. When the housekeeper had tired of pestering us, the girl began to quiz me on the mundane household duties which kept Mrs. Caddock so harried. In her poor and troubled childhood Georgine had not been afforded any education in sewing, cooking, and the like, but her appeals in these areas to Mrs. Caddock had been rebuffed.
“Of course the poor dear is so busy,” she whispered. “I would like to help her, but she hasn’t the time to teach me. It’s just her and the groundskeeper now. Did you know your uncle used to have a staff of six here, full time?”
“Yes, I believe I heard that mentioned at some point. Can you tell me, how long has it been since Eamon sat at table?”
“I can’t remember exactly. It’s been more than a month, two months perhaps?” We sat for a minute in the lee of this unhappy fact. “Your uncle treats me very kindly. Did he tell you he was friends with my mother before the War?”
“No, we’ve hardly had a chance to catch up. How did they meet?”
“She never mentioned it to me when she was alive, but Mr. Sloan knew mother from her singing days. He had seen her in a cabaret in Port– Now, what was it? I’ve a terrible memory for names. It was a port in Spain. And by a lovely coincidence, the two of them met in the meat market in Arkham.”
This revelation set rusty wheels grinding to life in my head, and I studied her sharp nose, flat cheeks, and narrow chin. The high forehead could be that of a Sloan, but nothing else. Oblivious to my speculation, she continued chattering happily. Georgine inspired in me a euphoric calm, a sensation, I apprehended, not unlike that of laudanum. I felt my right eyebrow twitch, and as swiftly as that serenity had filled me, it drained away.
“You’ve gone pale,” she said. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s not you, Georgine,” I said, reaching to pat her hand but stroking the tablecloth instead. “It’s nothing at all.” Excusing myself with what grace I could muster, I headed for the thankfully empty kitchen, where I acquired a glass and pitcher of water. I had been about to congratulate myself on my steady hands when, with the stealth of a seasoned assassin, Caddock ambushed me in the hall. Seeing no quick route around this obstacle, I pressed my lips together and nodded, beads of sweat pricking up on my scalp in perfect serried ranks.
“I know any man with the name Sloan isn’t going to be fooled by her easy charms,” she said, tossing her head in the direction of the dining room.
“My uncle’s quite taken with her, obviously,” I replied. “The old man’s not quite as conservative as he puts on, eh?”
“What are you implying?” she asked, and to my smirk said, “Don’t play the fool. Georgine isn't his daughter. She’s no New England girl, more like a gypsy I’d say.”
“Maybe she is,” I said, striding past. “What of it?”
I returned to my chamber and, turning the lamp’s wick up for more light, changed into the dressing gown in which I had woken the day before. All was well, or so I told myself. My anxiety flared again however, when I saw that my valise had shifted its position slightly. Also, all of its buttons had been fussily fastened. The snaps resisted my clumsy fingers, maliciously I was sure, as I opened the case to confirm a terrible fear. My little brown bottle was gone.
“Mrs. Caddock,” I called from the top of the stair. Worry was creeping into my voice as I called a second time, and rolled the drinking glass in my hands. She appeared from an unused guest room on the first floor, her expression one of high spirits.
I jogged downstairs, and though I hadn’t yet articulated my complaint she produced my beloved bottle from her apron pocket and placed it on the bannister between us, empty.
“I know what this is,” she said smugly, going so far as to rock slightly on her heels. “We don’t have narcotics in this house, Mr. Sloan, lest they are accompanied by a script. And we both know you have no script for that.”
I do not say this proudly, but if that glass tumbler hadn't shattered in my hand I would have struck her full in the face.
* * *
I paced the perimeter of my room for an hour, watching it shrink with each turn, but however much I debated myself I knew my problem would have no remedy before morning. When the room had become too small to orbit any longer, I cinched the sash of my robe and went to look in on my uncle. He would probably lie awake nights, I thought, with mortality lurking so near.
“Uncle?” A half-dozen candles lit the room, flames dancing in cheerful disregard of the man’s deathbed. “I’m not disturbing you?”
From the mound of pillows where he lay like a discarded marionette, he gestured me in. I shifted a great wingback chair close to the bed, and to the bottle of imported whiskey on the bedside table. Seeing my interest, he waved once more and I poured myself a generous portion. I gulped it down, sloshing some of it in my lap.
“Are we both invalids now?” he said, gesturing at my nightgown. “A man your age should be out tomcatting around on a Friday night, not spending the evening with an old shut-in.”
“I’m not likely to find a woman out in Arkham at this hour,” I replied with a laugh.
“No? Depends where you look, I warrant.”
He sipped his whiskey, and I drank mine more carefully.
“How about a story?” he said. Eamon had spent much of the 1870’s and 80’s in the merchant marine, both in war and peacetime, and in better days had never tired of recounting his adventures before a leaping fire in the parlour. That fire was no longer used, in order to save on the cost of fuel. “Did I ever tell you about the pirates we encountered off the coast of Spain? Fearless!”
“No, I don’t believe you did,” I replied, arranging myself within reach of the whiskey. “Let’s have it.”
“In the days before the Spanish-American War,” he began, growing animated, “the Andalusian coast was absolutely lawless. Our captain, Jules Bromm, was widely known and feared. Everyone knew him on sight, for a great curving slash from one side of his mouth gave him a demonic grin. He was a good friend sober, but a dangerous man when in his cups.”
Uncle Eamon launched into a tale of his service under Captain Bromm, of
swindlers and pirates, exotic ports and dangerous horizons. Both the story and the liquor relaxed me, yet he clutched my arm as a drowning man clutches a spar.
“Didn’t you have firearms?” I asked, when he spoke of sailors armed with long knives and clubs.
“Guns have their uses, but on a ship’s deck the fight is too close for rifles, and a good pistol was too pricey for a sailor. Now hist! There was a seagoing Arabic cult which harried us for months. The madmen got the drop on us outside of Circo, a pretty little place just north of Cadiz. I’ve always wanted to go back there.”
He fell silent for a minute.
“You called them a cult?” I prompted him.
“They were moon worshipers,” he spat, as if this bespoke the foulest sort of degenerate. “I don’t take issue with Arabs generally. They are fierce traders, but no worse men than some with paler skin. But this group was by turn traders and pirates, and rumoured to be slavers besides. Ruffians thought they could work magic,” he added with a mutter.
“Anyway, we had gone off course, alone and far from port, and were stopped on a sandbar. The bastards boarded while we waited on the tide, most of us asleep. They made too much noise on their approach though, and we beat them back, all except their devil of a captain. He was a towering Easterner, with a goat somewhere in his lineage. He took a special disliking to me, and would’ve been my end if Bo’sun Longbottom hadn’t given him a haircut.”
His words stumbled to a halt then, as they frequently did, and he cocked his head as though listening.
“What is a bo’sun?” I asked.
“Bo’sun is short for boatswain, a petty officer. What a lubber you are, my boy.” He laughed in a forced sort of way. “That particular bo’sun saved my life more than once.
“Longbottom played the game with a cavalry saber, a leftover of his days as a United States Marine. With that saber he took the villain’s head clean off, and every pirate and sailor stopped mid-fight to watch that head, for while it rolled, and for minutes yet after it stopped, it tracked Longbottom’s every move with undying yellow eyes!
