by Van Reid
“Is Mr. Flyce still on the train?” asked the little girl.
“He’s just outside,” said Sundry. He went to the door and tried to sense what was happening beyond it. The angry words had diminished, and Charles was saying something in a low voice that Sundry could not quite catch, even when he pressed his ear to the door. When he did return to the front room, Sundry shut the door behind him, as if in respect for the dead and the mourning. The crowd awaiting him looked alert and anxious. “If someone would get that chaise turned around,” he said, “we will be leaving.”
“Not yet, Mr. Moss,” said Charles Normell. “We have an important task for you here, and you are not going anywhere till we have had use of you.”
The faces before him were implacable—apprehensive yet unyielding. Sundry recalled what his father had often said: that there was no more dangerous dog than a frightened one. He was a little frightened himself. He was not getting past these people, and certainly not with a child in his keeping. It was time to discover what they wanted of him.
“What am I dowsing for?” he said.
Charles Normell’s head rose a fraction of an inch. Others seemed surprised. Mrs. Droone stood by the front door, and she reached out to swing it open even as the crowd parted for Sundry and Charles.
“Come,” said the big man, “and we will tell you.”
45. One Why hut Not Another
With the moon on the ascent and lanterns lining the walk from the summerhouse to the pond, Sundry thought the night well lit—and well populated with the distinctive face of the Normell on the one side, and that of the Droone on the other. There were a hundred people or more—middle-aged men and women standing in conference, parents with their children and young men with their hands in their pockets. Those near the end of the line leaned forward to peer up the human corridor.
Maven was still on Topper, looking more surprised than frightened, and Sundry gave him a significant look—one that Sundry hoped would indicate the need to beat feet and rouse the neighbors. Maven leaned forward to see Sundry’s face more clearly and almost fell out of the saddle.
“Help the gentleman down,” said Charles to the crowd in general. Someone took hold of Topper’s halter, and two or three men pulled rather than helped Maven off the horse. Charles stepped up to Sundry’s shoulder and surveyed the hushed crowd. “Our troubles began down by the pond, Mr. Moss. Your friend can stay here. Come with me.”
Mrs. Droone walked behind them, and the crowd came next. Patches of moonlight grew broader as they approached the water; from across the pond, Sundry heard peepers and frogs, but the near shore was oddly silent. The boats had not been entirely abandoned, but their lanterns were extinguished, and the figures left along the gunnels were faceless in the relative dark.
Reaching the very edge of the water, not far from that imaginary line that must divide the Normell Acres from those of the Droone family, Charles took a lamp from someone and held it over the ground ahead of him. “It began here,” he said. “Or at least what we know of it.” Charles looked at Bridey Droone. “Or at least what I know of it.”
“Keep something in reserve, Charles,” said the tall woman.
The large man ignored this. “Four days ago,” he continued, “a member of our family—a Normell—disappeared, and also a Droone. Two young women, Beatrice Normell and Adina Droone, disappeared that morning, and the last we know of them was here in the sand.”
“Footprints,” said Sundry, though he could not see any in particular that told the tale.
“Ending here at the edge of the water,” said Charles.
“There has been foul play, Mr. Moss,” said Mrs. Droone.
“Has there?” said Sundry.
“Their footprints ended here,” said Charles again. “The boat that one of them escaped in was found on the opposite shore.”
“And the footprints on the opposite shore?” inquired Sundry.
“It’s a grassy bank on that side.”
Sundry looked across the water and considered the places where the pond was dark with the shadow of the farther bank and the trees. The moon washed one tall elm in its cold glow, and the spectral image of this tree’s crown made something like a face in the water. “But foul play?” said Sundry.
“It is our belief,” said Mrs. Droone, “that my granddaughter was murdered by Beatrice Normell, that the murderess dumped the body overboard, weighted down with stones, and escaped across the pond in the boat.”
“It is our contention,” said Charles, “that my niece was murdered and similarly disposed of by Adina Droone.”
“Did either of them have reason to be out slaying their neighbors?” asked Sundry, and when he received what amounted to puzzled looks, he added, “Aside from one being a Normell and the other a Droone.”
“We older folk,” said Charles, “practice what might be termed a guarded truce between us, but the younger people sometimes become hotheaded.”
“Beatrice,” said Bridey Droone, “and, to be truthful, Adina both were quick-tempered.”
“They were zealous in their devotion to family,” said Charles.
“They were reckless and wanton in their anger,” corrected the woman. “I myself have told Adina to curb her tongue and her actions.”
“I am thinking she didn’t pay heed,” said Charles.
“I am thinking that you should have so instructed your niece.”
“It’s a matter for the law,” said Sundry.
“It is a matter between Normell and Droone,” said Charles.
Sundry took in those faces lit by Charles’s lantern. “It’s a matter for the law,” he said, “and that’s the end of it.”
“The law, Mr. Moss,” said Mrs. Droone, “is not so fond of either of us.”
“To tell you the truth, ma’am,” said Sundry, “you haven’t gone a long way toward winning my heart. If the law likes neither of you, then you can count on it being impartial. I can only guess what you want me for, but hiding a crime from the law is a crime itself.”
“We have reasons for separating from the law, Mr. Moss,” said Charles Normell, “and from society in general.”
“Yes, well, divided you fall, you know.”
“Mr. Moss!” spat Bridey Droone. “We are not amused by your attempts at levity.”
“Mrs. Droone, I should think you’d be pleased if I found anything amusing at this point.” Sundry leaned forward just a trace, leading with his left shoulder like a man who is ready to take a poke at someone. The image of a young woman’s body tangled in the weeds and rot at the bottom of this pond had shaken him, but he was resolved to show nothing but anger and dissent. He leveled an eye on the tall woman, who didn’t move but looked less indignant and more uncertain. “Perhaps,” said Sundry, “it’s time you tell me what you think I can do for you and then why you think I would be disposed to do it.”
“You are a dowser, Mr. Moss,” said Jeffrey Normell, who had fidgeted his way to the fore of the crowd.
“I told you I’d taken a lesson or two from my uncle,” corrected Sundry.
“I sense that you are modest about your abilities, sir.”
“I assure you, my abilities are at best modest.”
“We wouldn’t trust someone who came in here boasting of what he could do,” said Mrs. Droone.
“Then I’ve taken the wrong tack, haven’t I.I thought you folk were the potent dowsers.”
“And so we are,” said the woman, but quickly and almost as if Sundry might doubt it.
“But what would finding water have to do with your problem?” he asked.
“As you very well know,” said Jeffrey, “dowsing is efficacious for more than discovering water.”
“I’ve heard of the odd fellow searching for gold and silver with a dowsing rod, but I don’t know that any of them is rich.”
“It’s searching for something in the water, as well as finding water itself, that is the dowser’s strongest suit,” said Charles.
“I was afra
id you were going to say that,” said Sundry, and he was, though he didn’t look it.
“We need you to find the body,” said Charles.
Sundry looked out over the dark surface of the pond, and a curious presentiment about what was out there, or perhaps where, touched him so that his heart flinched. “It does seem like shipping coals to Newcastle.”
“We can’t do it,” said Mrs. Droone.
“And why is that?”
“That should be only too apparent.”
“It’s not that we can’t”, said Jeffrey, as if he were correcting a student, “but that neither can allow the other to attempt it.”
“Because you don’t trust one another?”
There was no immediate reply, but the Droones and the Normells did each regard their opposites with obvious distrust.
“There seem to be so many ways out of this,” said Sundry, “that there must be something more.”
Charles Normell and then Mrs. Droone blinked at him. “Whoever found the body first could hide it from anyone else,” said Charles, and Jeffrey added, “There are ways of preventing the next person from finding anything, Mr. Moss.”
“A spell, you’re saying,” said Sundry, barely withholding a note of scorn. It was the first plain suggestion of anything like true witchcraft or magic, and several people in the lamplight started.
There were those, however, who did not flinch, and Jeffrey actually smiled, saying with a graceful indicative gesture, “It’s like brushing footprints from the snow.” Pleasure touched his round face, as if he were calling upon a cherished memory.
They’re as odd as owls, thought Sundry. He hadn’t realized how close the night had grown. Sweat stood out on his brow, and he chanced revealing his nerves by producing a handkerchief and brushing it over his forehead. “So you mean for me to go out in a boat and dowse the pond for a body?”
“There are springs and currents under there that might shift an object all around,” said Jeffrey. Something about his statement disconcerted Charles, and he raised the back of his hand toward Jeffrey, who pulled his head back like a pigeon.
“We will send someone out with you to row,” said Mrs. Droone.
“A Normell and a Droone,” said Sundry.
“Several of us will be observing from other boats,” said Charles, recovering himself. “It is that simple.”
“Simple doesn’t describe.” With a raised eyebrow Sundry challenged Mrs. Droone to make something of his levity, however little of it he actually felt. They had explained the reason they needed his assistance, but still had not touched on why they thought he would offer it—or, in other words, What would they do if he didn’t? Taking stock of the frightened faces in the crowd, he suspected that this came under the heading of “questions you may not want answered.”
“Mr. Moss?” said Mrs. Droone.
Something else had just occured to Sundry. “If you don’t trust one another,” he said to the woman, “how is that you let a Normell go looking for someone and not a Droone.”
“There is a Droone out looking now,” she said.
“Someone you trust?” asked Sundry of Charles.
“My nephew, Burnham,” said the woman sharply.
“And is he zealous in his devotion to family?” said Sundry. “Or maybe he’s smart and won’t come back.”
“Your friend, Mr. Moss,” said the woman with a nod up the shore toward Maven. “And the boy.”
It was as blunt a threat as had been offered, and perhaps it was time for Sundry to tell them that several people knew where he and Maven were (three, at any rate). Caution suggested that he keep this to himself a little longer and, to be truthful, he may have sinned in his fear of appearing fearful. He was fearful, even if he did not show it—of the crowd, which was so strange and so intent, and of what lay at the bottom of the pond. “Let’s have done with it,” he said.
The crowd let out a collective breath, but Charles said, “Not yet,” and Mrs. Droone pronounced, “You will be more assured of success in the hours immediately preceding and following sunrise.”
Sundry doubted it. “You will be able to watch me more closely with daylight on the way,” he corrected. He shrugged. “It’s the best time to go fishing,” he said with a grim expression.
“It’s a very similar phenomenon,” said Jeffrey.
Sundry let it go. “In the meantime, my friend can go for the proper authorities to deal with Mr. Burne’s body.”
“No,” said Charles.
Mrs. Droone’s face was set in hard lines. “We’ve gone this far, Mr. Moss,” she said. “We would not care to have your search interrupted.”
“We suggest you take the time to rest up from your day,” said Charles.
“You’re not separating us from the boy,” said Sundry.
Charles Normell and Bridey Droone considered this and one another.
“Take their horses up to the old house,” said Charles to one of the Normell men standing near.
“We’ll take his horse,” said Bridey Droone. “You are showing him hospitality enough,” and when Charles only frowned in reply, she added, “It’s the least we can do.”
“You see?” said Sundry dryly, though suppressing a shiver. “A little levity is a wonderful thing.”
46. Moths Through a Window
Melanie sat by the wall, her hand in her father’s open palm, and wondered, as countless minds have, what drives a moth to the flame that will sear its wings. Shadows trembled on the ceiling as two insects battered the lantern glass across the room, and she felt a pity for them.
Sometimes her father’s hand trembled against hers, and perhaps only she could have felt it. The skin about his fingers was loose, as if his bones had shrunk, but his palm had a pleasant roughness about it, a signal to his daughter of what had been his working life on the day that she was born and in the days before their family had been carried away by influenza.
It was another derelict soul who told her, months ago, that her father had been the assistant to a chief mason, on his way to becoming a master of his craft. A spark of grace had touched Burne Ring from a clear blue sky—or a clouded one. He had been a chief in the making and there were homes within sight of Philbrook Morrell’s grand ballroom windows that Burne Ring had helped build, though they were not visible from the black room—from either black room he had recently inhabited. His daughter had seen their lofty chimneys from the waterfront roofs.
Burne’s hand trembled against hers, and she could sense movement outside the house that seemed part and parcel with the beat of moth wings on the glass of the lantern across the room. She had heard some of the conversation from the front of the house and was worried that the Normells and Droones wouldn’t let them leave. She was hungry but nurtured something stubborn that was ready to refuse anything from these people.
They had lacked sympathy for her father’s apparent death, and Mr. Normell provided the bright flame of rum when the doctor said small beer. Melanie had decided not to like them very much. She was glad that Mr. Moss was here and sorry that he had to be, but she understood the force that brought him to Dutten Pond. Hadn’t it brought Daniel Boone to the Congo to rescue his children from pirates? And hadn’t it brought Wilma of the Mountains to Lake Moosehead, where she warned the Micmacs of the Mohawk army on the warpath? Timothy had told her so.
She left the bedside to blow out the lantern, and enough of the waxy moon found its way upon the braided rug so that she could find the nearest window sash and raise it, shuddering in its frame, till it banged against the jamb. She had not known how to lift a window until she came to live at the Faithful Mermaid, so all things seemed to have their reason. The night air cooled her face, and after a short while she felt something patter, almost like gratitude, past her cheek. She leaned over the sill and wondered why no one had come to investigate. Peering into the night, she saw the glimmer of many lanterns paling the trees from around the front of the house.
As the moths beat into the night, she had
a terrible thought. She went back to her father and leaned over him, listening for a breath or sensing for a heartbeat. She held her mouth open, her eyes wide, and in the same moment that she caught a whisper of movement in his chest, she understood what surprising opportunity had revealed itself.
It was night but moonlit, and she had piloted darker places. It was lonely, but not as lonely as her sojourn among the drunks and transients, the broken men and hungry looks in the darker corners of the Portland waterfront.
The little clutch was at the other side of the bed, and she pulled from it several strange garments, which she laid on the counterpane. Melanie had been feeling less like Mailon in the past week or so, but perhaps not this much less. Mrs. Spark had given her a complete lesson in female attire, and especially the underthings, but the little girl had been more puzzled than enlightened. She thought it odd that she could live among people, half of them women, and not understand more of what was expected of her. She dared not dawdle; she did not want to be caught in the middle of her transformation, even by Mr. Moss. The thought in fact horrified her, and she felt a profound and previously silent modesty. Almost in panic, she hurried.
The clothes seemed peculiar and vulnerable, and she felt peculiar and vulnerable in them. The slip and petticoat were like a breath of wind, and the dress hardly more. It was not a cold night, but she was glad that the clutch produced a light coat to cover it all. The shoes were troublesome, more like slippers than proper footwear. In the guise of a boy she had traveled many a city mile in bare feet or barely shod; but in recent days she had worn a pair of Tim’s old brogues, and she decided that these were more appropriate to an adventure. Even had she been aware of the incongruity of boy’s shoes beneath a girl’s dress she would not have changed her mind.
She put Tim’s cap back on but thought better of it. The cap and the boys’ clothes went into the clutch, and the clutch went under the bed. She went to the mirror on the dresser, where a shadow looked out from the glass; she ruffled her hair and made faces, hoping to squeeze more sight out of the darkness. It was hard to reconcile herself with the silhouette in the mirror; it made her satisfied and perplexed and daunted all at once, and if she had been old enough to think very far upon the subject, she might have been thankful not to have had much time, just then, to think about it at all.
