by Van Reid
DANIEL PLAINWAY
OR
THE
HOLIDAY HAUNTING
of the
MOOSEPATH LEAGUE
Also by Van Reid
CORDELIA UNDERWOOD
— or —
The Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League
MOLLIE PEER
— or —
The Underground Adventure of the Moosepath League
MRS. ROBERTO
— or —
The Widowy Worries of the Moosepath League
FIDDLER’S GREEN
— or —
A Wedding, a Ball, and the Singular Adventures of Sundry Moss
MOSS FARM
— or —
The Mysterious Missives of the Moosepath League
PETER LOON
DANIEL PLAINWAY
OR
THE
HOLIDAY HAUNTING
of the
MOOSEPATH LEAGUE
Van Reid
Camden, Maine
Published by Down East Books
An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
www.rowman.com
Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB, United Kingdom
Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK
Copyright © 2000 by Van Reid
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015949213
ISBN: 978-1-60893-522-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60893-523-9 (electronic)
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
To maggie
All I write is first written for you
CONTENTS
from the Eastern Argus, October 22, 1896
PROLOGUE
November 27–December 2, 1896
1. THE EMPTY HOUSE, Thanksgiving 1896
2. A VOICE BEFORE DAWN, November 28, 1896
3. HOW THE NEWS WAS READ IN GILEAD, December 2, 1896
BOOK ONE
December 3, 1896
1. NOT TO BE CONFUSED
2. MEETING THE CALEB BROWN
3. THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COME ASHORE
4. THE ASSEMBLED LEAGUE
5. THE HAT AND THE HACK
6. THE COVINGTON GOAL
7. THE MEMBERS WERE DISARMING
8. THE PORTRAIT AND APPLE PANDOWDY
BOOK TWO
December 4, 1896
9. SEVERAL PEOPLE RECENTLY MET
Daniel’s Story (1874–1891)
10. A TALE FROM OTHER SEASONS
11. INCIDENT ON A TRAIN
Daniel’s Story (1877–1891)
12. THE QUIESCENT INCARCERATION OF TOM BULL
13. STARTLING CIRCUMSTANCES AT THE ABODE OF MR. THOLE
14. EMULATING THE CHAIRMAN
15. THE REASON WHY
16. CALLING CAPITAL GAINES
BOOK THREE
December 5, 1896
17. LOVELY, DARK AND DEEP
18. JOHN 19:27
19. THE UNDISCLOSED MOTIVES OF ROGER NOBLE
20. FRANTIC WHISPERS AND POINTED DISPATCH
21. BEYOND THE FOREST OF FALLEN TREES
Daniel’s Story (May–June 1891)
22. STONES IN THE LAKE
23. SPEECH AT MIDNIGHT
24. THE TOR
25. OTHERS LOST THEIR HATS AS WELL
26. THE BANKS OF LAKE GEORGE
Daniel’s Story (July–November 1891)
27. THE SPAN BETWEEN TRAINS
28. MORE SENSE OF A LETTER
29. NUMBER TWO IN A SERIES OF THREE
30. ADVICE DID NOT COME CHEAP
31. THE OX AT PLOW
32. THE THIRD CRASH
BOOK FOUR
December 6, 1896
33. GIFTS
34. ADVANCED USES FOR A HAT
Daniel’s Story (November 1891–April 1892)
35. THE LAST OF THE WAWENOCKS
36. THE BATTLE OF THE SMOKING PINE
37. CURIER AND THEREFORE
38. -ATHIANS AND -ASHIANS IN FLUX
39. SEVERAL PARTIES NOT NECESSARILY LOOKING FOR ONE ANOTHER
Daniel’s Story (April 1892–April 1893)
40. TWO HEARTS
41. TWO MORE
BOOK FIVE
December 7, 1896
42. BETWEEN TALES
43. UNCLE FRANCIS NEPTUNE
44. THE RUNE AND THE WORM
45. BETWEEN GRANDFATHERS
46. UNFINISHED KNITTING
BOOK SIX
December 9–18, 1896
47. SEVERAL ATTEMPTS AT TYING UP LOOSE ENDS
48. BUT SOME WERE DOUBLE-KNOTTED
49. AND WE WERE SO SURE THAT WAS THE ANSWER
50. MUTUAL CONCERNS
51. PERSISTENCE
BOOK SEVEN
December 21–22, 1896
Daniel’s Story (Mid-December 1896)
52. LULLABY
53. SOMEONE COMING BACK
54. PARLEY’S PLAN
55. EXPECTED SENTRIES SLEEP
56. A SOLSTICE CAROL
57. WHAT THEY DIDN’T KNOW INSIDE
58. MORE ON SEVERAL RELATED POINTS
59. ONE FINAL SCOUNDREL
60. ONE POSSIBLE ANSWER
BOOK EIGHT
Christmas Eve–Christmas Day 1896
61. THROUGH THE KITCHEN DOOR
62. TWO MYSTERIES
63. HAT IN THE RING
64. CONFESSION IN A CHRISTMAS KITCHEN
65. LIGHTLY I TOSS MY HAT AWAY
66. SPHERES IN TRANSIT
67. NUMBER SIX IN AN ONGOING SERIES
EPILOGUE: THE OCCUPIED POCKET
New Year’s Day 1897
AUTHOR’S NOTE
DANIEL PLAINWAY
THE
HOLIDAY HAUNTING
of the
MOOSEPATH LEAGUE
from the Eastern Argus
(Portland, Maine)
October 22, 1896
A MYSTERiOUS PORTRAiT
THE SEARCH FOR A KIDNAPPED CHILD
A GUNFIGHT ON THE SHEEPSCOTT
NEW MYSTERY!
READERS ARE ASKED TO HELP
by Peter Mall
Shore dwellers in Wiscasset and Edgecomb were certainly wakened one night last week when a series of gunshots rang out over the otherwise quiet waters of the Sheepscott Riverof the Sheepscott Riverof the Sheepscott River—gunshots that marked the end of a strange and fearsome pursuit.
Readers may recall a small item in this journal, nearly two weeks ago, which related the disappearance of a boy of about four years. As it happened, other events, including the search for the schooner Loala, eclipsed the news of the child, the more so since little was known about him and no relations came forward to play the part of the bereaved and anxious family.
It is perhaps a mark upon our own selves that any tale of a lost innocent could so quickly and completely vanish from the public consciousness, and certainly a doubl
e badge of honor to those who have taken it upon themselves to secure that child from the brutal circle into which he had fallen.
First among these is Wyckford o’ Hearn, known to Port-landers as the Hybernian Titan for his exploits upon the baseball field. It was Mr. o’ Hearn who rescued the child, known now only as Bird, from bad company in an ancient cellar hole beneath Commercial Street.
Since then several people have acquitted themselves gallantly by taking on the boy’s guardianship, though criminal elements gave every indication of wanting the child back among themselves. In particular Mr. Matthew Ephram, Mr. Christopher Eagleton, and Mr. Joseph Thump, who are known to our readers as the charter members of the recently formed Moosepath League, jeopardized their own safety by disdaining the gang’s nefarious intent and whisking the boy from harm’s way.
Many adventures, which may someday be described, followed fast upon the heels of this flight, culminating in the kidnapping of the child and a gunfight upon the Sheepscott River during the night of the 14th. Sheriff Piper of Lincoln County and Colonel Taverner of the United States Customs Agency led the final pursuit, which was punctuated with exchanged shots. One Adam Tweed, known among the denizens of the waterfront as something of a thug, was apprehended after he deliberately and with malice aforethought threw the child into the cold night waters of the Sheepscott.
The child, as has been mentioned, was rescued anew, and Tweed himself was brought down by a very timely shot from Mister Tobias Walton of Portland, who is also the chairman of the aforementioned league. Tweed’s wounds were not fatal, however, and he is now in the custody of Wiscasset’s jailer, pending trial.
Mr. O’ Hearn was among the wounded as well, but after some worrisome moments, he appears to be on the path to recovery, and patrons of the game in Portland can look forward to hearing the crack of his bat once again.
The authorities still have an interest in speaking to a man named Eustace Pembleton, who is greatly involved in this matter and who is believed to have escaped from their net on Wednesday night. One Tom Bull, something of an instrument to Pembleton, was captured on the morning of the 15th, along the eastern shore of the Sheepscott near the Boothbay town line. Bull, who was perhaps not born with that name but acquired it by dint of his size, gave a fearsome struggle, and ten men were required to subdue him.
Those involved on the law’s side of the chase are simply glad to have the little boy back in the arms of safety.
In securing the child from his kidnappers, however, a new mystery has been discovered. Among a thieves’ cache found near the fort on Davis Island in Edgecomb was a portrait of a young woman who bore so strong a resemblance to the little boy, that no one who looked at the two together could deny a relationship between them. Indeed, Mister Walton is sure that the portrait is a likeness of Bird’s mother, and he has, at his own expense, commissioned an etching based on that picture, the results of which the reader will find printed in conjunction with the present article.
It is hoped that by disseminating the unfortunate lady’s likeness in this manner, some soul will recognize her and come forward with information regarding Bird’s parentage and birthright. Any such intelligence will be kindly forwarded to the editor of the Eastern Argus, and a happy sequel may yet be added to this child’s curious and harrowing tale.
PROLOGUE
November 27-December 2, 1896
1. The Empty House Thanksgiving 1896
It had snowed for an hour or so that morning, and the large, wet flakes still coated the windward side of trees, lined the bare branches of oak and maple, and formed a speckled fleece over the evergreens that guarded the carriage drive to the Linnett house.
On the way home from Fryeburg, Daniel Plainway pulled the horse and trap up before the stone columns at the end of the drive. He and his sister had been celebrating Thanksgiving with friends, and the snow had actually made it safe to leave later than they had planned, as the road glowed in the dusk, and the tracks of other wheels and horses described the way in dark lines and pockmarks before them.
Martha Bailey complained just a bit (in a wordless groan) when her brother stopped before the Linnett property. They had just crossed the town line into Hiram, and she looked forward to a fire in her own hearth; but to tell the truth, she was snugly wrapped in several throws, and the soapstones, warmed in their host’s kitchen oven, still radiated comfortingly beneath the quilts at their feet.
“Do you mind if l take a turn up?” asked Daniel. The expression on his face was almost childlike, though not untouched by a self-realizing humor.
“No,” she said. “You’ve been thinking about it since we came the other way this morning.”
His chuckle was almost unheard as he shook the reins and the brown mare turned her head between the tilting columns.
The house itself was not visible from the road, and the ancient pines lining the drive hid the gray sky and darkened the atmosphere beneath so that one trusted to the instincts of the horse. There were several turns in the way, and one dip over a tiny running brook before they came to the first row of hedges and the manse itself rising out of the knoll ahead of them, amorphous in the shadows. Not half a mile away was Clemons Pond, glazed with ice, a dark presence in the fields beyond and below.
A they neared the house, a small breeze stirred the hedges.
“Oh, hurry,” said Martha. “This place gives me the chills.”
He passed her the reins, untangled himself from the throws, and climbed down. The wet snow gathered on his boots and crunched in the stiffened, uncut grass. Martha could see footprints appearing behind the man more easily than she could see the man himself, giving her the shuddery impression of an invisible being approaching the house.
The steps to the porch complained of Daniel’s progress; the key sounded dully as he turned it. The air within, when he opened the door, was colder than the November evening. He had known the people here, had handled many small legal businesses for the Linnetts in his capacity as a lawyer, but had spent most of his time among these walls as a guest and a friend.
Daniel stopped in the hall and peered into the gloom of the parlor, remembering the lights and the voices. Nell often played the piano in the evening when they gathered here, and everyone but Linnett himself sang, he being too concerned for his local fame as an old grouch. It had been an undeserved reputation for the most part, until the last year or so, and even then his great rage was the product of a broken heart.
Daniel Plainway was not sure that he believed in ghosts, but he didn’t think he would be frightened if he met one here. There’s more to be feared from the living than the dead, his parents had told him more than once. He looked up the dusty stairway and thought of Nell descending there: a child, a young woman. She had been dear to Daniel’s heart, like a lovely cousin who brings the holiday with her.
The holidays he remembered best of all: the grand Thanksgiving feasts, the Christmas candles throughout the house, filling the rooms with light on the eve before like the very grotto at Bethlehem. Old Ian Linnett never tired of his annual Yuletide jest: On the night of the winter solstice (Doubter’s Day, he called it) he would arrive with a tiny spruce-barely three feet high—and teased everybody by announcing that this was the tree; as soon as he had cajoled the laughing and complaining crowd to decorate the whimsical thing, the real tree would make its entrance upon the backs of sturdy men, and Linnett was never satisfied unless it scraped the ceiling in the front hall.
Daniel craned his head back to look at the ceiling where daylight might have revealed the scars left by the topmost branches of long-forgotten trees.
Standing in the door to the front room, across from the parlor, he did not need a light to discern the shapes of furniture covered in sheets and throws or to remember that Nell’s portrait was missing from its place above the hearth. Other things were missing from the house these past three years. He was pretty sure he knew who had taken them. “If I had just seen it all coming,” he said aloud, and he shivered to th
ink that perhaps his voice was unwelcome there.
Then he heard it again, a soft sound like a young woman’s voice, but as from some irrevocable distance, and almost the notes of a simple melody; no doubt the wind was in a chimney or playing against a cracked eave.
Daniel closed the front door and locked it, feeling a small regret for having come here again. He stood on the porch and thought, It’s almost as if I still believe they’ll all be here. After the gloom of the house the strange patterns of snow on the lawn seemed to give off a light of their own. He could see Martha, waiting patiently in the carriage. It was important that he not appear melancholy when he returned, which meant just a moment more to regain his bearings.
He stepped around the corner of the house and looked over the pond. Everything seemed frozen, pitched in a single moment of discovery, and the sensation was so strong within him that he was startled to see the footprints leading from the back of the house.
The kids have been up here again, he thought as he walked the side lawn. Well, as long as they don’t harm anything.
But there was something about the footprints that did not suggest a youngster had made them. There was only the one set, for one thing, closely spaced and weaving slightly, and they came from the house, and stopped at the edge of the pond. Daniel had thought that he would be fearless in the face of a phantom, but the prints touched him with an apprehension that rose to a vague dread as he followed the tracks to a place overlooking the water. The impress of a body marked the snow.
Old man Linnett had come from the back of the house with that same halting, weaving gait. He had collapsed and died in this place more than three years ago; Daniel could almost vouch for the exact spot.
