Mrs. Tidings nodded sweetly. “Very well, Mr. Feltwright,” she said. “Going in to meet that fellow Snave, I suppose?”
Hercules frowned. “No,” he said. “Not at all.”
“No? Then—going to post a letter to your aunt, perhaps.”
“No letters,” said Hercules.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Tidings. “Well, then…”
“Never mind,” said Hercules. “It’s business. Nothing interesting.”
Mrs. Tidings gave up. “Very well,” she said, a little reproachfully. “You’ll need an umbrella.” And she brought him one, a large black one with a curved horn handle. “Try to stay dry,” she advised. “It’s a bad night.” And then she added hopefully, “Shall I wait up for you?”
“Certainly not,” he said hastily, trying hard not to sound rude. And he hurried out the door.
The rain made waterfalls all around him as he went down the dim path and through the gate, and pounded on the black bowl of the umbrella as if it wanted to come in out of itself. But Hercules Feltwright didn’t mind. In fact, he enjoyed it. A big umbrella was the coziest thing in the world—he had always thought so—and the harder it rained, the cozier it was. He grasped the horn handle firmly and turned down the road toward the village. His feet in their aging socks and loose, buttoned shoes were wet almost at once, but he didn’t mind that, either. He sloshed along quite happily in the streaming dark, thinking of what he was going to say to Alfresco Rom, and listening to the splash and rattle of the rain in the trees along the road.
After a while he began to talk out loud to himself. “I’ll say, ‘See here, Rom, you’ve got to help me.’ No, that won’t do. I’d better say, ‘Mr. Rom, I need your assistance.’ And then I’ll say, ‘Willet Goody believes his father is still alive. Willet is very unhappy. In my capacity as his tutor, it is my responsibility to look after his mental well-being.’ No—that sounds pompous. Better put it simply. ‘It’s bad for the boy to go on worrying about his father in this fashion and we’ve got to help him. You must know something.’” Here his thoughts began to wander a little. “The horse never came back…clank…nobody in the coffin at all…and she was never even sad…Midas Goody has a big nose…clank…why did it go clank?…oof!” He tripped over a tree root in the dark and barely saved himself from falling by flipping the umbrella over and catching himself with it as if it were a cane. Of course, he was soaked from head to foot at once, as the rain seized him at last; but he stood unheeding for a moment, leaning on the umbrella and thinking about Goody Hall while water filled his hat brim and began to form a little pool in the inverted umbrella. Then he swept it up over his head again, paying no attention as the pool spilled down the back of his neck. “I’ve got to find out,” he said to himself. “I’ve got to be absolutely sure about Midas Goody. And then I’ll know how to help Willet, one way or the other.” And he splashed off, stern and determined.
The cottage of Alfresco Rom and his daughter Alfreida stood at the very edge of the village in a little grove of dripping birches. Hercules might have missed it altogether if it hadn’t been for a small white sign tacked to a post at the roadside. “Séances!” the sign announced with enthusiasm. “Inquire Within.” Hercules turned off the road and waded through an enormous puddle up to a small porch, where he furled the umbrella and rapped on the cottage door. Alfreida opened it almost at once and peered out. “Why, hello there, dearie,” she said. “Come on in out of the rain.”
Hercules stepped inside and found himself standing in a small room brightly lit with candles and crowded with odds and ends of elderly furniture. Everything was draped and dramatized in bright colors—beaded cushions were tossed here and there, and large wild scarves were spread across the backs of chairs and over the tops of tables. There was a tall pot of dried flowers standing inside the fireplace, and another on the floor beside a sagging sofa upholstered in worn but by no means discouraged red plush.
Alfreida didn’t seem at all surprised to see him. She made a cordial gesture toward the sofa and said, “Sit down, dearie. I’ll make a pot of tea.”
“I’m wet,” said Hercules unnecessarily. Water was running from him everywhere, and a puddle began to form around his feet.
Alfreida looked at him and shook her head. “Imagine that!” she said. “Never mind. Nobody’s going to bother over a little rain water here. This is home, you know, not Goody Hall.”
Hercules looked around at the odd but friendly room and nodded in a pleased kind of way. “That’s true!” he said, and sat down. The sofa groaned under him and he stood up again hastily. “You see,” he explained, “I came to see your father. Do you think he’d be willing to talk to me?”
“I don’t know, dearie,” said Alfreida. “I’ll ask him.” And she opened a door at the back of the room and disappeared through it.
Hercules sat down again on the sofa, carefully, and waited, wriggling his feet. His socks had drooped into the tops of his shoes and were forming soggy lumps under his toes, but he wasn’t thinking about his socks. He was thinking about Willet. After a few minutes, during which, all unaware, he had set up a rhythmic squish-squish by rocking his feet inside the wet shoes, he heard a grumbling voice and Alfresco Rom stumped into the room. The old man wore a very alarming scowl and the first thing he said was, “What’s that squishing noise?”
Hercules, feeling suddenly timid and foolish, traced the trouble at once to his own feet and stilled them. He cleared his throat and stood up. “Mr. Rom,” he began, “I need your assistance.”
Alfresco’s scowl deepened. “Well?” he rasped. “What is it?”
Hercules cleared his throat again. “Well, you see, sir,” he said haltingly, “it’s about Willet Goody. Willet thinks…that is, Willet has been telling me…” And then, all in a rush, with his eyes shut and wondering whether Alfresco would strike him down with the poker: “Willet claims his father isn’t dead at all—that there’s nobody in the tomb—and he worries about it all the time—and that isn’t good for him—and I just thought maybe you could tell me something that would…help.” It was out, and after a moment he opened his eyes to see whether Alfresco had picked up the poker yet.
But Alfresco was only standing there scowling at him out of narrowed black eyes. “Why does the boy think his father isn’t dead?” he growled.
“Well—because—it sounds a little silly, maybe, but it isn’t silly, Mr. Rom, when a child has worries like this—he thinks so because Mrs. Goody was never even sad, and the horse didn’t come back, and most of all, the coffin went clank.”
“The coffin did what?” said Alfresco, scowling more than ever.
“It went…clank,” said Hercules, and somebody giggled nervously. It took him a moment to realize that he had done the giggling himself. He blushed and cleared his throat for a third time. “Look here, Mr. Rom, I only thought if you were there when it happened, you might be able to tell me something that would help.”
“I was there,” said Alfresco. The scowl remained about his mouth but his black eyes were suddenly bleak, remembering. “It was a bad business. I carried the coffin down into the tomb myself, me and a couple of fellows who were passing by on the road. Wasn’t anybody else there except for the women. And the old parson. He’s gone now.” The bleakness left his eyes and he scowled so deeply that his moustache quivered. “I’d just as soon help that boy, but there’s nothing I can do. You’d better go.”
At that moment Alfreida came back into the room carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups. “Don’t go yet, dearie,” she said to Hercules. “The tea’s just ready. Sit down, Father, and have a cup of tea.”
Alfresco stood there staring at Hercules. The bleak look had come into his eyes again, and he rubbed the back of his neck with one worn old hand. “There’s nothing I can do,” he repeated, a little uncertainly. And then he closed his eyes. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” And he turned and stumped out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“I heard it all,” said Alfreida comf
ortably. “Sit down, dearie. I heard it all while I was making the tea. My father doesn’t like to talk about Midas Goody. He’d have left that work out there long ago if it weren’t for the fact that it’s really his garden. He made it all. Wasn’t a thing there but a field before the Goodys built that silly house, and my father did all the clearing and planting. He loves that garden. Here’s your tea.” She sat back and stirred her own cup. “He won’t tell you anything,” she said. “But remember what I said to you yesterday—if you want to know something about somebody who’s dead, you ought to ask me.”
“You?” said Hercules.
“That’s right, dearie. If you want to know how Midas Goody died, I’ll call him back for you and you can ask him yourself.”
Hercules Feltwright took a sip of tea. “Here I am,” he thought, “sitting here calmly drinking tea with a round little woman in the middle of a rainstorm and in a minute we’re going to talk to the dead.” The notion made his stomach feel hollow. “Well!” he said out loud with false heartiness. “There’s an idea!”
Alfreida put down her cup, stood up, and began walking around the room blowing out candles. Hercules took a large swallow of tea and nearly choked. “What are you doing that for?” he quavered.
“Can’t have a séance in broad daylight,” said Alfreida cheerfully. She left two candles burning on a small table which she placed in front of him, but the rest of the room was lost in shadows. “Sit there and enjoy your tea,” she said, “while I get ready. I’ll only be a minute.” And she left the room.
Hercules sat there on the sofa in the dimness and listened to the rain drumming on the roof. He was very conscious now of his wet socks. He rocked his feet. Squish-squish. “Good grief!” he said to himself miserably.
Then Alfreida was back, and he felt a wild desire to giggle again. She was wrapped in a long dark robe of some sort that made her look rounder than ever, and on her head she wore a turban in violent shades of green and orange, with trembling yellow fringe. But her face was composed and confident. She pulled up a chair opposite him and from under the robe produced a small crystal ball on a wooden base, which she set on the table between them. “You’ll have to be very quiet, dearie,” she warned. “I can’t go into a trance if there’s noise.” She placed her stubby fingers around the ball and closed her eyes.
There was a long, long minute of silence. The rain continued, harder than ever, and the candles flickered. Hercules folded his hands to keep them from shaking and watched the shadowy face before him. Suddenly, so suddenly that he jumped, her hands fell away from the crystal ball and lay loose and relaxed on the tabletop. She drooped a little in the chair and then her eyes opened and looked directly at him, but he knew at once that she wasn’t seeing him at all. Her mouth opened slightly and she made a strange sort of noise, somewhere between a laugh and a moan. Hercules felt the short hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle and his throat went tight and dry.
When Alfreida spoke, it wasn’t with her normal voice at all. She looked right at him with empty black eyes and she said gruffly, “Well, what do you want?”
Hercules tried to answer, swallowed, tried again, and managed to squeak out: “I want to speak to Midas Goody!”
“Somebody here wants to speak to you first,” said the gruff voice coming out of Alfreida’s mouth. There was a brief silence and then a new, higher voice spoke.
“If you’re going to go around quoting me, for pity’s sake do it properly!” said the new voice waspishly. “If there’s anything I can’t abide, it’s to be misquoted.”
Hercules Feltwright’s mouth dropped open. “What?” he goggled. “Who’s that?”
The voice ignored his question. “You actors are all alike,” it complained. “Always trying to improve on the play. ‘Where the sea bucks,’ indeed! ‘Where the bee sucks,’ you ninny!”
“I—I’m sorry,” said Hercules. He simply could not believe what he was hearing, and yet—there it was. He was certainly hearing it.
“Where the bee sucks,” said the voice from farther away, and then there was another, longer silence. Hercules sat red-eared, badly shaken by this last voice, and watched Alfreida’s face nervously. At last, just as he was deciding with relief that there wouldn’t be any more, the gruff voice suddenly returned. “Midas Goody?”
“Yes,” said Hercules, forgetting the other voice. He thought of Willet and began to hope.
“When did he cross over?” the gruff voice inquired.
“Cross over? Oh! Er—five years ago. He fell off his horse,” said Hercules, feeling eager and helpful.
Again there was a long silence. Hercules rocked his feet. Squish-squish. Then the gruff voice was back again. “No,” it said firmly.
“No?” said Hercules.
“No,” said the voice. “Nobody here by that name from that time in that manner. Nobody.”
Hercules sat forward. “But if he isn’t there, then he isn’t…”
“He hasn’t crossed over yet,” said the voice. “If he had, he’d be here. He isn’t here. So he didn’t cross over.” The voice began to fade. “He didn’t cross over,” it repeated faintly, and then it sighed and faded away altogether. Silence again. At last Alfreida’s hands, lying on the table, began to twitch. Her eyes closed. A deep shudder shook her and then suddenly she was herself again. The séance was over.
Alfreida sat up briskly and took off the turban. “Whee-ooo!” she said. “Well! How did it go, dearie? Did you talk to Midas Goody?”
Hercules stood up slowly and started for the door. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “He wasn’t there.” He picked up the umbrella.
“Well now!” said Alfreida, standing up. “What do you know about that?”
Hercules peered at her. Her black eyes mocked him and the gold tooth winked. He stepped out onto the little porch and opened the umbrella. The pouring rain roared in his ears. “Thank you,” he said vaguely. And then he looked at her again, possessed by sudden doubt.
Alfreida came to the door. She raised her eyebrows. “What’s the matter, dearie?” she said with false concern. “Don’t you believe what you heard?” And then she gave him a taunting laugh and shut the door firmly between them.
Hercules stood alone on the little porch and listened to the rain. “I wonder,” he said to himself. “I wonder if I do believe it.”
Chapter 9
There’s something about spring—or, at least, spring in the morning after a good night’s rain—that makes a problem seem less troublesome. Hercules Feltwright stuck his head out of his bedroom window and sniffed. The morning sky was washed clean of clouds and the lilac bush looked especially vigorous. An early-rising bee circled briskly among the blossoms. In the yard below, the iron stag was studded with shining drops of rain water where the sun had not yet touched it. “This is the kind of day,” said Hercules to himself, “to get things done in. If I knew what to do, that is.” He pulled in his head and began to dress himself. One thing was clear—he knew what not to do. He would not tell Willet about the séance. Not yet, at least. He wanted to think about it first. After all—a séance! That voice, complaining about actors. What kind of a thing was that, anyway? He wasn’t at all sure he believed in it, with the morning sun streaming in through the window.
After breakfast—and a neat turning aside of several questions from Mrs. Tidings—it was time again for lessons. “The thing is,” said Hercules to Willet, “I don’t know how much you’ve learned already. And I have to find that out before I know what to teach you.” Willet looked at him expectantly. “So,” said Hercules, “we’ll start with spelling. I want you to go all through the house and write down a list of the things you see. You know, like chair, table, window. And then I’ll check it over and see if you’ve spelled them all correctly.”
“All right,” said Willet. “Where shall I begin?”
“Well,” said Hercules, “why don’t you begin upstairs? That’s as good a place as any.”
Willet went off happily and Hercule
s sat down in the parlor to think about the séance. But somehow, concentration seemed difficult. He turned his head uneasily, wondering why, and found himself looking into the world-weary eyes of a small marble statue that stood on a delicate little table at his elbow. The statue was of a superior-looking gentleman in a toga who lounged on a sort of stool—or perhaps it was a tree stump—looking bored and graceful. Hercules caught himself trying, involuntarily, to arrange his legs in their baggy trousers to match the position of the statue, and stopped at once in annoyance. “If this house had its way,” he thought, “it would make me over into a regular dandy.” He turned the statue around so it couldn’t watch him any more, and settled down again to think. But the room in which he sat was very elegant. It pressed on him. It insisted. And before he knew it, his thoughts had drifted into another fantasy like the one at the gate on the very first day. The room filled with shadowy ladies of fashion in bobbing headdresses and he himself, in immaculate evening clothes, stood carelessly among them, smoking a large cigar. “Yes, yes,” he heard himself say, “it’s a great burden to be so wealthy, but what can one do?” And the ladies of fashion all murmured sympathetically.
“Did you say something?” asked a voice. The scene vanished with the silent pop of a soap bubble and he found that Mrs. Tidings was standing in the doorway looking at him curiously.
“No, no,” he answered hastily, collecting himself. “I was just…thinking.”
Mrs. Tidings came into the parlor and began whisking at the tops of things with an enormous feather duster. “This is a fine room,” she said companionably. “But then, I suppose you’re accustomed to fine rooms.”
“Oh no, not at all,” he said, thinking guiltily of his penny-saving aunt. Very deliberately, he reached inside his shirt and scratched loosely at his stomach. It was the un-finest gesture he could think of at the moment.
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