Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1)

by Linda Watkins

  “What did you find?”

  “Did you read the second book … the one on genealogy?”

  “Part of it.”

  “And, what did you think?”

  “I don’t know. It proposes that all witches, including Maude, are descended from one supreme witch who first appeared in the literature back in the pre-Christian era. But I don’t get what that has to do with anything.”

  “It has everything to do with Maude Pritchard and your relation to her. But, read the whole book first and then we’ll talk about it. Now, where was I?”

  “You were going to tell me how you found Maude.”

  “Oh, yes. In the library in Salem there are several old diaries dating from the period when Maude disappeared. Entries in these artifacts describe a striking woman with long black hair and gypsy’s eyes. With that information, I was able to trace her and her descendants from New England, through Canada, and back to the States … Washington, Oregon, and, finally, California, where I reached a dead-end.

  “That winter, I didn’t connect all the dots … the answers were sitting right under my nose, but I couldn’t see them. It wasn’t until Cassie arrived in June that the light dawned. You see, your mother was, from all the descriptions, the spitting image of Maude Prichard and, acknowledging her lineage, things began to make sense.”

  “Did you tell her about all this?”

  “No, not at first. I figured she think I’d gone off my rocker. But, that summer, we became closer. Not like Raoul told your dad … never like that. But as friends and she, finally, confided in me about the little stone house in the woods.

  “She’d been going there for years, trying to figure out a way inside. Like you, for some reason, the easy way was verboten … there would be no breaking of that leaded glass window.”

  “I don’t understand. Surely, she knew about the tunnels. Couldn’t she put two and two together?”

  Sloane shook his head. “You need to understand. The silo frightened her. She was drawn to it, but scared of it. So, she tried to pretend it didn’t exist … that it was just a figment of her imagination. But, that final summer, its call to her became more intense and that’s why she confided in me about it.”

  “But why you? Why not my father or Hettie?”

  He laughed. “Your father is a sublimely rational man who would dismiss all this as just another one of her flights of fancy. You know, he thought she was bi-polar, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “She was aware of his conclusions about her mental health and, because of that, couldn’t tell him. And, as for Hettie, they were friends, but not close. And, she was sure Hettie would tell Ham. So, that left me … the artsy sculptor with an interest in island history and witchcraft.”

  “So, she confided in you.”

  “Yes, and she tried to show me the building, but, like you and Jeremy, we couldn’t find it. That frustrated her terribly, but, by then, I had formulated my theory about Maude Prichard and the silo and I told Cassie about it, including the fact that I was convinced she was a direct descendant of the witch.

  “At first, she didn’t believe any of it, but I showed her my evidence and, by mid-summer, she was on board.”

  “What about the tunnels?”

  “Patience, Katy, I’m getting there. She knew the tunnels existed … everyone did. And, after I explained to her why I believed Maude build the silo, it came clear that the entrance had to be from below, via a tunnel to the ocean.

  “After coming to that conclusion, we spent time doing research on the bootleggers and, finally, in an obscure volume, found a rough map that described the tunnel system they put in place.”

  He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a drawing, and placed it on the table in front of me.

  “This is what we came up with.”

  I leaned over and studied the map. There were two tunnels I could identify that went to the sea. One on the north side, starting roughly where the main wharf sat, and the other, starting on the east side of the island, at the end of an obscure road named Lonely Lane. All the other tunnels branched from these and some joined, connecting most of the trails together.

  “Which passageway is the one Maude built?” I asked.

  He pointed to the tunnel that ended at Lonely Lane.

  “The one starting here,” he answered “The bootleggers found it, but its location didn’t suit their purposes. They needed an entry close to where their ships could unload. Hence, they built this other tunnel, closer to the wharf. They also built all the connecting ones except for this one.”

  He pointed to a short tunnel that branched from Maude’s original one.

  “Where does that one go?” I asked.

  “That, my dear, goes to your stone silo. The main tunnel Maude built began where the carriage house is now located. That parcel of land was where Maude’s original home stood. Thus, she could get to both the silo … her panic room … and the shore, where she would have secreted a boat, all from the sanctity of her own home.”

  I nodded. It made sense. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to what appeared to be a large open space or room from which several tunnels branched.

  “That’s where the crime families stored the booze that was awaiting distribution. The ships from Europe or wherever would dock near the entrance to the wharf tunnel and cases of liquor would be brought to this room for storage. Eventually, they would be divvied up between the families and shipped to the mainland for sale. These other tunnels or tributaries leading away from the storage room go to each of the four manor houses.”

  “So, there’s a tunnel leading to Stormview and, from that tunnel, if one wanted to, he or she could go to the carriage house. Right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  I nodded, thinking about this and wondering if Hettie or, more importantly, Raoul, knew about this secret way to get into the place I now called home.

  “But one thing I don’t understand,” I finally said. “If all these tunnels still exist, then why hasn’t anyone explored them? One would think they would have historical importance and that one or more of the Societies in the region would be interested.”

  “You’re right. They would be and, at one time, they were. But the crime families put an end to that. They blew up the entrance to the wharf tunnel. It’s buried under tons of rock and, no one seemed to know about Maude’s original tunnel.”

  “Then, how did you find it?”

  He smiled. “Dogged research, intuition … dumb luck. Maybe a combination of the three. Sometimes I think Maude’s spirit or ghost was guiding me … leading me to all the right pathways.”

  I looked at him skeptically. “Ghost?”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I know it sounds foolish, but something helped me along.”

  “Okay, let’s leave that for now. So, you and my mother discussed all this. What did she do? Did she go into the tunnels?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “But when? I was with her most of the time.”

  “I think you were taking sailing classes that summer and, on those days, she would explore.”

  The waitress was hovering nearby and Sloane indicated to me that we had apparently worn out our welcome.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

  He paid our bill and we strolled over to one of the many municipal parks by the waterfront. We sat at a picnic table and continued our conversation.

  “The tunnels were in varying stages of repair. Some were impassable. Others were fine. The one leading to the silo was intact.”

  “Did you go inside with her?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why? Why did you let her go in there alone?”

  He blushed. “I couldn’t. You see, I have extreme claustrophobia. It stems from a time when I was just a little kid … I got stuck in the crawlspace under the house and couldn’t get out. My parents were in town and I was there all day. Ever since that time, I can’t stand small spaces. I get wicked panic attacks
that totally incapacitate me. The tunnel to the silo is small, narrow … a person would have to crawl through on his or her hands and knees. I’m convinced Maude built it that way on purpose. She was a slight woman and she engineered the tunnel to her safe house so only someone her size or smaller could navigate it. So, you see, given my size, I couldn’t have gone with her, even if I wanted to. I would have been useless.”

  “Okay, I get it. So, this means I have to go in by myself, too, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  I bit my bottom lip, not at all happy with this turn of events.

  “Tell me what my mother told you after she’d been there,” I finally asked.

  “Sure. The crawlspace to the silo was about an eighth of a mile long and, as I said, she had to go on her hands and knees to get there. At its end, was a small circular room about ten feet tall. I remember her telling me how good it felt to stand and stretch when she got there. Nestled in one of the walls was a wooden door, which opened onto a stone stairway. I think she said it was five or six steps up. At the top was a trap door. Beyond that door, was the interior of the silo. She described it to me as a small room with an ornate period desk and chair in the middle. On the desk were an oil lamp, notebook, inkwell, and quill. The stone walls were lined with bookshelves, which were packed with books, notebooks, and loose papers. Against one wall was a small cot or couch, encircled by velvet curtains. On the floor was an oriental carpet.

  “There were lots of writings … some she assumed were Maude’s, others were ancient and written in languages she didn’t understand.”

  “Do you have any of them?”

  “No, your mother told me about them, but was reluctant to remove anything from the silo. She would go there and stay for an hour or so, reading, then would come back to where I sat in the dirt and tell me what she found.”

  “Okay, but how did all of this lead to her death?”

  He sighed. “She became enamored of the tunnels. Wanted to know where each of them led. I tried to dissuade her from exploring further, but she was insistent. One of the tunnels, this one here,” he said, pointing to the map, “led to the carriage house where you and she stayed, and often, late at night, she would enter it and go off on, what she called, an adventure.”

  “Did she tell you where the entry to the tunnels was located in the carriage house?”

  “No, she never mentioned it and I never thought to ask.”

  “Pity you didn’t. It would be much easier to gain access to the tunnels that way than from the outside.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Now, as I was saying, it was on one of these ‘adventures’ that she happened to overhear something … something that troubled her deeply.”

  “What do you mean ‘overheard?’”

  “She’d use the labyrinth to sneak inside the great houses and would eavesdrop on their inhabitants. Most of what she heard was idle gossip, but one time she happened upon something serious. Something dangerous.”

  “What?”

  “She never told me what it was. But it troubled her and she wrote it down in her journal.”

  “Okay, so how does this connect with her death?”

  “On that last night, the night she died, your father called her.”

  “Yes, I know. And, he accused her of sleeping with you because that’s what Raoul told him.”

  “Yes, and that infuriated her. In the morning, she called me and told me what had happened. She was angry and planned on confronting Raoul. She meant to force him to call Ham and recant. She said that if he balked or refused, there would be hell to pay. That was the last time I ever spoke to her. Next thing I heard was that she was dead … a suicide.”

  “But she wasn’t a suicide. She didn’t kill herself. When I found her, the ceiling fan was on.”

  He looked puzzled. “So?”

  “Think. How could she hang herself from a fan that was on … that was going ‘round and ‘round? No, someone killed her, hung her from the fan, then turned it on. And, it seems fair to say, based on what we know now, the number one suspect would be Raoul.”

  Sloane nodded. “Makes sense, but why? What could she have had on him that would make him kill her?”

  “I don’t know. The answer, if there is one, is in her journal … the one from that summer. The one that now is missing.”

  Again, Sloane nodded. “Walk me back to my car. I have something for you.”

  We strolled the short distance to the lot where he’d parked. When we got to his car, he opened the trunk and pulled out a small duffel bag and handed it to me.

  “Inside,” he said, “there’s a headlamp, heavy-duty flashlight, a copy of the map to the tunnels, some muck boots I think will fit you, kerosene, some rags, and a few other tools.”

  I looked at him puzzled. “I get the lights, map, and boots, but what’s the kerosene for?”

  He smiled. “In the main tunnel, there are niches in the walls that once held torches. Some of them may still be there. You douse the rags with kerosene, wrap them around the torches, and light them. They’ll illuminate the path much better than a flashlight ever could.”

  I nodded. “And, I have to do this alone. You can’t come with me?”

  He took a deep breath. “No, I’m afraid not. In addition to my affliction, I made a vow after your mother died to never to set foot on the island again, and I don’t make vows lightly. I can’t go back. That’s all I can tell you. You have to do this alone. But, if you can, bring me the papers … anything you find. Who knows what secrets they hold.”

  I studied him for a minute. “How do I know you aren’t making a lot of this up … just so I’ll go into the tunnels and do your dirty work?”

  He laughed. “You know in your heart. This is the only way you’ll solve the riddle of her death. Find that journal!”

  We said good-bye and, after I watched him drive away, I lugged the duffel bag back to the wharf and caught a water taxi to Storm. Once back at the carriage house, I emptied the bag and studied its contents, especially the map. After practically memorizing it, I surveyed my surroundings. This would all be much easier if I knew where the main tunnel opened into my house. I walked around, pulling up carpets, looking for anything that might be a trap door. Unfortunately, I came up empty.

  Grimacing, I sat back down and looked at the map again. The entrance to the main tunnel was near the sea, at the end of a dirt road called Lonely Lane. The road was a dead-end and didn’t look like it was used much. Sloane had said the tunnel’s opening was concealed with rocks and woodsy debris to hide it from the curious, so I pulled a pair of leather gardening gloves from under the sink and added them to the other equipment.

  I gazed at the pile of stuff I would have to take with me. It was beginning to get unwieldly. The most cumbersome item was the can of kerosene. It was heavy and would weigh me down.

  I searched around the kitchen for a suitable, more lightweight container and finally settled on an empty water bottle. It was small but would have to do. I filled it with kerosene from the can, then put the tin under the sink.

  There, now everything would fit in my backpack.

  I glanced at the clock. It was getting late.

  I planned on starting this little adventure early in the morning. Since it was near the sea, I checked the tide charts. I didn’t mind getting a little dirty, but didn’t want to get drenched in the bargain.

  Finally feeling I had done all the prep work I could, I packed everything into the backpack and lay the miner’s hat, gloves, and muck boots on the chair next to my bed.

  Satisfied, I brewed a cup of tea and sat down, again, with The Genealogy of New England’s Witches.

  The Tunnels

  THE NEXT MORNING, I was ready. Anticipating a long day, I ate a hearty breakfast, made myself a sandwich, and packed it along with two bottles of water into my backpack. Assuming it might be cold and damp underground, I dressed in jeans and layers … T-shirt, then sweatshirt, over which I wore a flannel s
hirt-jacket. I rechecked everything I’d packed the night before, slipped into the muck boots, which, indeed, did fit and loaded everything into the trunk of the seldom-used car parked in the garage next to the carriage house.

  Taking time to re-study the map, finally, I was ready to head out. It was nine a.m.

  I arrived at the end of Lonely Lane at about nine-fifteen. As expected, it was deserted. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders and pulled on the leather gloves. Glancing up toward the sky, I noted it looked to be a beautiful day and, for a moment, I entertained the thought of packing this all in and going to the beach instead. But then the image of my mother dangling from the ceiling fan leapt into my mind and I knew that today would not be a day for sunbathing.

  It took me about a half-hour to locate the entrance to the main tunnel. It was, as Sloane had said, covered with rocks and debris. Taking a deep breath, I got to work.

  About an hour later, I managed to create an opening wide enough for me to squeeze through. I took off my backpack and threw it in ahead of me and, steeling myself, entered Maude Prichard’s main tunnel.

  The passage was narrower than I expected. Using my flashlight and miner’s cap, I made my way along it. After about fifty feet, it abruptly widened and I found myself staring at a long passageway, lined on both sides with niches holding long-ago extinguished torches, just like Sloane had described.

  I took a moment and removed the kerosene and rags from my pack and, after dousing them, wrapped them around several of the torches, then set them ablaze. The room lit up like a Christmas tree and I switched off my flashlight to save the batteries and put it in my pocket.

  I continued this torch lighting as I made my way deep into the interior of the island. The tunnels were cold and damp and I was glad I’d dressed appropriately. After about a half-hour, I reached a place where the tunnel branched.

  I pulled out the map and studied it. At this juncture, the left-hand pathway headed west, toward the room where the bootleggers stored their whiskey. Peering down this tunnel, I could see that it was more recent, excavated by the crime families, not Maude and her kin.