by Van Reid
“The Broumnage Club in particular believes this,” said Isabelle, “according to the Pinkerton man who was hired.” It was the first bit of information she had offered to the tale.
Sundry gave a low whistle. Mister Walton leaned forward in his seat, as if to catch the Covingtons’ words more quickly.
“A you may know,” said Frederick, “legend has it that the Vikings who came to this continent were among the only Europeans ever to set foot in the great city.”
“But that still doesn’t explain-” said Mister Walton. He stopped himself, and there was silence among them as he put together what he had been told. “Of course,” he said finally. “The Broumnage Club has taken it upon itself to find evidence of Norumbega and also to destroy that evidence so that others will not find it before themselves!”
“And there you have their purpose and their method,” said Frederick Covington. “Any possible Norse artifact is a possible signpost to Norumbega, the City of Gold.”
“My word!” said Mister Walton. “It’s disgraceful. But do the Broumnagians know of your destination?”
“The existence of the artifact came to our attention only last week,” said Frederick. “Unfortunately Mr. Thole’s query reached me indirectly, and I fear there have been several links by which they may have learned of it. No”-he corrected himself-“by which they surely have learned of it. But this is the first brazenly criminal act that I have been able to connect them with, besides the vandalism of the artifacts themselves. Perhaps by this rash conduct we can set the police on them and bring their purposes to the light of public censure.”
“I have a question,” said Sundry. “How did you know that Mister Walton and I were not members of this Broumnage Club?”
Frederick looked again to his wife, then said, “Mister Walton’s friendship with Lawrence Seacost would have been recommendation enough. However, there is one element of the Broumnagians, as Mister Walton calls them, that we have discovered; every one of them is blond-haired and blue-eyed.”
“Sons of Vikings themselves, it seems,” said Isabelle, who appeared more at ease now that the story had been told.
Sons of something else entirely, thought Sundry.
“The Blond-Headed League,” said Mister Walton.
“But those men who tried to pick your pocket!” said Sundry.
Frederick smiled ruefully. “You may remember that I chose our seats.”
“And you sat yourself just behind them,” said Sundry.
“If you’re going to have an opponent, best to know where he is.”
“Did I ruin your plans then, getting them kicked off the train?”
“Not at all. It is possible that they have nothing to do with the club,” said the clergyman, but his wife looked as if she doubted this.
“It does encourage a person to look for men with blond hair and blue eyes,” admitted Mister Walton.
“It does,” agreed the minister. He was looking out the window as they approached the next station and the next settlement. It was near to three o’clock, and already the sky looked darker. “I did in fact, to begin with.” He considered Mister Walton with a very likable and clear-eyed smile. “But upon reflection I decided that I would rather miss a hundred members of the Broumnage Club than cast aspersions on one innocent blondhaired, blue-eyed man. I told Isabelle long ago that I would rather lose a hundred artifacts than spend my life mistrusting people of Nordic descent or fearing the next man named Ericson.”
“All Broumnagians may be blond,” said Mister Walton, “but all blond men are not Broumnagians. Very right, of course.”
“Ericson was the name of the Pinkerton agent,”said Isabelle, and it was obvious that her reference to this organization was meant to underscore what she deemed to be the seriousness of the matter.
“Then you did hire a Pinkerton,” said Sundry.
“I would not have myself, but some people with common cause and deeper pockets hired him, and it is from his investigations that we acquired our little knowledge of the group. With a name like Ericson, you can imagine that he took a private concern in the matter.”
“Should we be making such a beeline for Skowhegan?” wondered Sundry. “They must be watching us.”
“I don’t know,”said Frederick. “If they knew to go to Mr. Thole’s home, they may know now to go to Skowhegan. They may have discovered the general vicinity of the artifact and have been looking through Mr. Thole’s photographs for clues to its specific whereabouts. Certainly they are out there, and if they don’t know what town the artifact is in, they can’t know that we’re not leading them on the wrong track.”
Mister Walton could not help smiling.
“It is a little,” began Frederick, “circuitous, is the word we used earlier?” He glanced out the window. “It will be too dark once we are settled at Skowhegan. Tonight perhaps we can visit your friend.”
“Perhaps,” said Mister Walton, “while you and your wife are dining, Sundry and I should visit him.”
“Certainly,” agreed Frederick. “They would be watching me most of all, I suspect.”
16. Calling Capital Gaines
“What do you think of this business?” asked Mister Walton when Sundry pulled up in the hired sleigh before the door of the Wesserunsett Inn. Glancing at the second story, they counted the windows and sought the illuminated panes that represented the Covingtons’ room, listening, in the brief silence that followed Mister Walton’s query, to the stream from which the inn had adopted its name.
The horse seemed anxious to be traveling the snowy roads, and Sundry steadied the animal before giving his employer a hand up. “I think that I do not trust to the better nature of the Broumnage Club.”
Mister Walton nodded; he situated his hat safely upon his head, his bald pate flashing briefly in the light that spilled from the lower windows of the Wesserunsett. “HI thought I could, I would talk the Covingtons out of this expedition. The trespass and the destruction at Mr. Thole’s trouble me the more I think on it.”
“Mr. Covington seemed angry but not very daunted,” offered Sundry. He had only to give the reins the smallest shake to encourage the horse down the road.
“Mrs.
“Mrs. Covington perhaps understands better the possible danger.” Mister Walton gave his friend an odd look and said, “I hope our recent experiences with kidnappers and brigands haven’t made a cynic of me.”
Sundry smiled at the contradiction in Mister Walton’s words. “Not to worry,” he said, almost chuckling aloud.
The portly fellow was looking ahead and did not detect the humor in Sundry’s voice. “I will be glad to have Capital with us, if he will come.”
Traveling more or less parallel to the stream, they were not far from the center of Skowhegan when Mister Walton began to watch for a row of giant pines, beyond which appeared a lane. The old farmhouse down this road was one of the earliest built in the area; it occupied the side of a knoll out of the prevailing wind and was surrounded by great maples and oaks.
It had been a small house once, but had been much added to, so that its wings looked like the products of rambling second thoughts; it appeared cozy withal, with the glow of a fire warming the parlor windows. Silence carried the air, with hardly a breeze to bend the column of smoke rising from the main chimney. Beyond the house was a large barn, and beyond this, a moonless night over acres of field.
Sundry hitched the horse, and they clumped up some rickety steps to the side door nearest the glowing window and had barely knocked before the door was opened and a crackly voice declared, “Evening!”
“Who could it be? “Who could it be?” came a high-pitched voice from within.
The man at the door turned about on his heel and said, in something lower than a shout, “You be quiet,” though there was nothing very harsh in the command.
“Who could it be? “Who could it be?” continued the other.
“Mr. Capital Gaines?” said Mister Walton, with obvious pleasure coloring hi
s own voice. He doffed his hat, as if the sight of his bare head might better identify him to the man.
The man at the door leaned forward, got the breath of cold air upon his face, thrust steam into the air, and, after a brief glimpse toward Sundry, set his eyes on the bald pate and glimmering spectacles. “Come in, come in!” he said; he hadn’t identified the visitors, but it was cold outside, and he couldn’t think of anyone he didn’t want to see. “Come in, come in!”
Mister Walton and Sundry entered the hallway; Mister Walton bent forward in a courtly bow, and when his head came up, the man at the door had a good look at that pleasant countenance and bright eyes. “Toby Walton!” declared the fellow. a small man of about sixty years, Capital Gaines had retained much of the figure of his youth and the animation. He had only a little hair at the top of his own head, but his beard was neat, and trim, and silver. His eyes were active and bright, and immense schemes were obvious behind them. His voice had not grown more mellifluous with years. “By gum, if it isn’t!” Mister Walton let out a hearty chuckle, and they shook hands with real vigor. “Toby Walton! By gum!”
“How have you been, Mr. Gaines?”
“Toby, I’ve told you a hundred times, ‘Call me Capital!’ I’m going to begin thinking you don’t like me!”
“Good heavens!”
“Toby Walton!”
“Capital”-Mister Walton tried again-“how are you?”
He was born Robert Augusta Gaines (for generations his family had named their people after the places they were born), and as a child he had often been reminded that his interior appellation was of feminine form, which was no great matter to him; as long as anyone could remember, everyone had called him Capital. There wasn’t very much he hadn’t done in the way of making money, for he started with very little, cutting ice down in Richmond, and ended with quite an abundance, running a lumber mill, opening a store or two, and sharing in the fortunes of several ships.
Between the little and the abundance he had indulged in some small adventures and a large one, which was the Civil War. He had reached the rank of major but hadn’t particularly liked killing Confederates and didn’t particularly like being remembered for it, however efficiently he had accomplished the task.
Because of the tradition concerning middle names in the Gaines family, one had only to trace their genealogy to find out where they had been. Fallowing Capital’s fathers in this manner, one backtracked to Kittery, to Portsmouth, and Falmouth, then to Montego Bay, and finally to Skye, where the tradition was first invented.
It was claimed that James Monte go Bay Gaines, born in 1 719, first acquired King Philip, the large colorful parrot that, in 1896, was still in the possession of James’s great-great-grandson. (It was from this creature that Mister Walton and Sundry had heard the high-pitched call of “Who could it be? Who could it be?”)
Several years previously Capital Gaines had grown rather sick of making money; in other words, he had already made enough to set several people up in more than comfort for as long as he could reasonably expect to live. Taking with him his companions and employees (once army subordinates) Mr. Noel and Mr. Noggin, he moved to Skowhegan, where Capital was able to indulge his great love of the outdoors and wander the neighboring forests, riverbanks, and lakeshores more or less at will. Here also he had done his best to relinquish the bachelor’s life by courting a widow at a neighboring farm, though without the famous “Capital” fortune.
Some would have thought that the softening hand of a woman might have benefited the rooms through which they passed and most particularly the parlor (more properly a den), where Mr. Noel and Mr. Noggin waited to greet Mister Walton and meet Sundry. The den was a monument to every art that carries man from his hearth: Fishing rods and trophy catches hung upon the walls, and a crowd of snowshoes and a pair of skis leaned in pickets in a corner; a shotgun held the place above the mantel, and Capital had to find another corner for a pair of rifles that occupied an old overstuffed chair; a leather harness was draped over the sofa where someone had been oiling it; and three pairs of boots stood before the fire.
At least of an age with Capital, Mr. Noel and Mr. Noggin were as confirmed-looking a brace of bachelors as Sundry had ever seen; their clothes were clean but well worn, their hair clipped to a practical length with no thought to fashion or appearance. They smelled of leather and gun grease and woodsmoke. They were shaven merely as a matter of habit.
“I remember Mr. Walton, don’t you, Mr. Noggin?” said Mr. Noel.
“I do, Mr. Noel,” said Mr. Noggin.
Mr. Noel was tall and angular, with a large nose and doleful brown eyes; he had great, wide hands. Mr. Noggin was more of a height with Mister Walton and either more fond of the trencher than Mr. Noel or more affected by it; he had scant blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a way of gesticulating whenever he spoke.
If they all were bachelors, they yet lacked nothing in courtesy, and chairs were quickly found for their guests. Mr. Noel hied off for the teapot and victuals despite protestations from Mister Walton and Sundry.
“It seems to me a spread is in order, Mr. Noel,” said Mr. Noggin.
“I just made bread this afternoon, Mr. Noggin,” said Mr. Noel.
“Open a new jar of peach preserves,” called Capital after the man when he had disappeared into the kitchen. “Make them ourselves,” he said proudly, and that was a sight Mister Walton and Sundry both would have paid to see.
“Mr. Noel says it will storm,” said Capital Gaines. “There was talk in the papers,” said Mister Walton.
“It’s my elbow,” said Mr. Noel, but no further explanation of this weather-predicting joint was tendered.
“The Covingtons are adamant about finding the place tomorrow, however.”
“These other fellows are that eager,” said Capital.
“Eager enough to ransack Mr. Thole’s home, top to bottom.”
“The picture looks from a height,” said Capital, holding one of Mr. Thole’s photographs before him. “Look at the tops of trees beyond. The boulder itself seems to be in a clearing or above the woods.”
Standing on a slope-in the image-was a large glacial boulder, on the side of which was etched a column of figures three or four wide. The rock took up the foreground of the picture, though there were some birch trees below it and more trees in the unfocused distance. Capital knew nothing of Viking runes and would not have recognized a Norse alphabet from hen scratch, but he remarked how clear were the markings on the boulder. “They chalked these markings, I’d guess.”
“Mr. Thole did when he discovered them, yes,” replied Mr. Walton. “He keeps some in his pack evidently, to mark his trail. It was admirably shrewd of him.”
“It’s very strange that I don’t recognize anything. I’ve traveled those woods backward and forth, or so I thought.”
“It isn’t the old Council Hill?” wondered Mr. Noggin, his hands making the shape of a mound before him. “I’ve heard tell, but never seen it.”
Capital considered the photograph again and let out a low noncommittal sound. “I think you are right, Mr. Noggin,” he said at last. “It may be the Council Hill.” Mr. Noggin beamed.
“You know where this is then?” asked Mister Walton, but Capital sat back in his chair and was in deep thought, pulling absently at his beard.
His attention surfaced briefly. “These folks-the Covingtons-insist upon coming with us?”
“Honestly,” said Mister Walton. “Mr. Covington is the only one who can positively identify the writing-”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Covington will not allow him to go without her.”
“Really?” This put Capital in mind of something. “I can get them there. I don’t have sufficient sleigh for us all, but the widow does-”
“The widow?”
“Do you want me to go down and ask her for it?” wondered Mr. Noel.
“What?” said Capital. “Not at all. I owe her a visit, I think. What time is it? I should hurry ove
r tonight. You gentlemen will forgive me, we’ll need a larger sleigh.”
“The storm doesn’t worry you?” said Mister Walton.
Capital shook his head. “There are camps we can reach, if need be.” He was fired suddenly by the entire notion or perhaps simply by the opportunity to visit “the widow,” and he found his boots by the fire. “Won’t she be abed?” wondered Mr. Noggin.
“Well,” drawled Capital, “I don’t know about that.” Mister Walton was amazed at the energy with which his friend donned his boots and jacket.
“I believe she might be abed, Mr. Noel,” said Mr. Noggin.
“I don’t think the notion is a constraint, Mr. Noggin.”
“Ahrr!” came a voice from the corner, and Mister Walton was a little startled. “Ahrr! Tide’s out!” King Philip seemed agitated by Capital’s haste; the parrot paced the bar on which he was perched, looking for all the world like a little ruffian with his shoulders hunched as he walked his seagoing gait. “Ahrr!” he screeched again. “Tie the line and tether the boat! Tide’s out!”
“My friend Mr. Thump would find him a kindred soul,” said Mister Walton with a laugh.
“Tide’s out! Ahrr! Ahrr! Tide’s out!”
BOOK THREE
December 5, 1896
17. Lovely Dark and Deep
“There’s weather coming,” came Capital Gaines’s high-pitched voice when he lit down from his sleigh. It was the very first thing he said, before “Hello,” or “How do you do,” or “It’s me.” “I went down to the telegraph office to see what was the latest, and there’s a blizzard been crossing the White Mountains since last night, and it’s just touching Portland, even as we speak. How do you do, I’m Capital Gaines.” He offered his hand to Frederick Covington.
After Mister Walton had happily introduced the older man to Isabelle and Moxie, Capital looked up at the sky and repeated his assertions regarding the weather. They considered the atmosphere, which was clear for the most part and gave no sign of things to come. truly delayed and our mysterious opponents have time to catch up with “It’s all the more reason to go today,” said Frederick, “before we’re us.” It was the first time that Mister Walton and Sundry had seen Covington without his clerical collar, and standing outside the Wesserunsett Inn, the minister looked like a rough-and-ready sportsman, with his boots laced to the knees, and his faded trousers and his old winter coat. He had a brown tweed cap and a pack at his feet like a guide.
