Case Closed (5 page)

Harold convinced her to leave well enough alone, since his mother still gave them financial support. Evelyn worried that Harold was weakening and might tell his mother everything. And money kept getting tight, so she killed Harold for the insurance money. Which, to her bitter disappointment, she never received.

• • •

Afterward, Frank drove by every now and again during his off hours to visit Mrs. Sarton, who treated him like a favorite grandson. She had fewer locks on her doors, had returned to dressing stylishly, and had started dating a gentleman who treated her courteously.

“I'm in no rush to remarry,” she told Frank. “I've already spent years hunting for a husband I already had.” She paused. “What is it they say? Always in the last place you look.”

The Haunting of Carrick Hollow

I reached the end of the drive and pulled the buggy to a halt, looking back at the old house, the modest structure where I had been born. At another time, I might have spent these moments in fond remembrance of my childhood on Arden Farm, recalling the games and mischief I entered into with my brothers and sisters, and the wise and gentle care of my loving parents. But other, less pleasant memories had been forged since those happier days, and now my concerns for the welfare of my one surviving brother kept all other thoughts from me.

Noah stood on the porch, solemn-faced, looking forlorn as he watched me go. It troubled me to see him there; Noah had never concerned himself overmuch with formal leave-takings—only a year ago, he would have all but pushed me out the door, anxious to return to his work in the apple orchards.

Upon our father's death six months ago, Noah had inherited Arden Farm. From childhood, we had all of us known that Noah would one day own this land, and the house upon it. The eldest sons of generation upon generation of Ardens before him had worked in these same orchards. In our childhood, I had been the one whose future seemed uncertain—no one was sure what useful purpose such a bookish boy could serve. Now Noah spoke of leaving Arden Farm, of moving far away from the village of Carrick Hollow.

At one time, this notion would have been nearly unthinkable. Noah had always seemed to me a steadfast man who did not waver under any burden, as sturdy as the apple trees he tended. But then, as children, we never could have imagined the weight that would come to rest on him—indeed, on everyone who lived in our simple New England village.

I pulled my cloak closer about me, and told myself I should not dwell on such matters. I turned my thoughts to my work. When I first returned to Carrick Hollow after medical school, I wondered if my neighbors would be inclined to think of me as little Johnny Arden, Amos Arden's studious fourth son, rather than Dr. John Arden, their new physician—but my fears of being treated as a schoolboy were soon allayed. I attributed their readiness to seek my care to the fact that the nearest alternative, Dr. Ashford, an elderly doctor who lived some thirty miles away, was less and less inclined to make the journey to Carrick Hollow since I had set up my practice there.

Now, driving down the lane, I considered the patients I would visit tomorrow morning. Horace Smith, who had injured his hand while mending a wagon wheel, would be the first. Next I'd call on old Mrs. Compstead, to see if the medicine I had given her for her palsy had been effective.

A distant clanging and clattering interrupted these reveries. The sounds steadily grew louder as I neared a bend in the road, until my gentle and usually well-mannered horse decided he would take exception to this rumbling hubbub. He shied just as the source of this commotion came trundling into view—an unwieldy peddler's wagon, swaying down the rough lane, pulled by a lanky, weary mule.

My horse seemed to take even greater exception to this plodding, ill-favored cousin in harness. The peddler swore and pulled up sharply. I have never claimed to be a masterful handler of the reins, and it took all my limited skill to maneuver my small rig to the side of the narrow lane, which I managed to do just in time to avoid a collision. The mule halted and heaved a sigh. And there, once my horse had regained his dignity, we found ourselves at an impasse.

This was obviously not, by the peddler's reckoning, any sort of calamity. After profuse apologies, but making no effort to budge his wagon—which now blocked my progress completely—he chatted amiably for some minutes on matters of little consequence. He then ventured to offer to me—a gentleman he was so sorry to have inconvenienced—several of his wares at especially reduced prices. “Far lower,” he assured me, “than any you could find by mail order catalogue. If you will only consider the additional savings in shipping costs, and how readily you might obtain the goods you need! Consider, too—you may inspect any item before purchase! You will find only the finest quality workmanship in the items I offer, sir! And you must own that buying from one with whom you are acquainted must be seen to be superior to purchasing by catalogue!”

“Pardon me,” I said, a little loftily, hoping to stem any further flow of conversation, “but we are not at all acquainted. Now if you would be so good as to—”

“But we are acquainted!” he said, with a clever look in his eye. “You are Dr. John Arden.”

I was only momentarily at a loss. Sitting at my side, in plain view, was my medical bag. Any local he had visited might have told him that the village physician, Dr. John Arden, had urged them not to buy patent medicines or to be taken in by the claims of those who peddled tonics.

“Forgive me, Mr.”—I squinted to read the fading paint on the side of his wagon—“Mr. Otis Merriweather, but I cannot agree that knowing each other's names truly acquaints us.”

He grinned and shook his head. “As near as, sir, as near as! You've been away to study, and were not here on the occasion of my last visit to Carrick Hollow. You are young Johnny Arden, son of Mr. Amos Arden, an apple farmer whom I am on my way to see.”

“Perhaps I can spare you some trouble, then,” I said coolly. “My father has been dead some months now.”

He was immediately crestfallen. “I'm sorry to hear it, sir. Very sorry to hear it indeed.” I was ready to believe that his remorse was over the loss of further business, but then he added, “Mr. Arden was a quiet man, never said much, and little though I knew him, he struck me as a sorrowing one. But he was proud of you, boy—and I regret to hear of your loss.”

I murmured a polite reply, but lowered my eyes in shame over my uncharitable thoughts of Mr. Merriweather.

“And Mr. Winston gone now, too,” he said.

My head came up sharply, but the peddler was thoughtfully gazing off in the direction of the Winston farm and did not see the effect this short speech had on me.

“Do you know what has become of him?” Mr. Merriweather asked. “I'll own I was not fond of him, but he gave me a good deal of custom. It seems so strange—”

“Not at all strange,” I said firmly. “These are difficult times for apple growers—for farmers of any kind. Have you not seen many abandoned orchards in Carrick Hollow? Indeed, we aren't the only district to suffer—you travel throughout the countryside in Rhode Island, and you must see empty farms everywhere. Scores of men have left their family lands and moved to cities, to try their luck there.”

“Aye, I've seen them,” he said, “but—but upon my oath, something's different here in Carrick Hollow! The people here are skittish—jumping at shadows!” He laughed a little nervously, and shook his head. “Old Winston often told me that this place was haunted by  . . . well, he called them
vampires.
”

“Winston spoke to you of vampires?” I asked, raising my chin a little.

He shifted a bit on the wagon seat. “I wouldn't expect a man of science to believe in such superstitious nonsense, of course! But old Winston used to prose on about it, you see, until my hair fairly stood up on end!”

“Mr. Winston was always a convincing storyteller.”

“Yes—but nonsense, pure nonsense!” He paused, and added, “Isn't it?”

“I never used to believe in such things,” I said.

“And now?”

“And now, perhaps I do.”

Merriweather's eyes widened. He laughed again, and said, “Oh, I see! You pay me back for guessing your name!”

I smiled.

“Here, now!” he said, “I've left you standing here in the lane, taking up your time with this idle talk—Otis Merriweather's all balderdash, you'll be thinking.” He cast a quick, uneasy look at the sky. “Growing dark, too. Hadn't realized it had grown so late. I hoped to be in the next town by now, and I'm sure you've patients to attend to. Good day, to you, Doctor!”

With a snap of his reins, he set the mule into motion. Soon the clattering, jangling wagon was traveling down the lane at a pace that made me realize I had underestimated the homely mule.

My own vehicle's pace was much more sedate. I wondered how much faster the peddler would have driven if he had known how much I knew of vampires. I had long made it my business to make a study of the subject. I knew that tales of vampires had been whispered here and there in New England for more than a hundred years, just as they had been told in Egypt, Greece, Polynesia and a dozen other places. The New England vampire has little in common with those which caused such panic in Turkish Serbia and Hungary in the last century—no fanged creature attacks unwitting strangers here. No, our Rhode Island vampires have always more closely resembled ghosts—spirits of the dead who leave their tombs in the night, to visit their nearest and dearest as they dream. Our vampires are believed by some to cause the disease of consumption—it is they, we are told, who drain the blood of living victims into their own hearts, and who thereby cause their victims' rapid decline. The Ardens were never among the believers of such superstitions, never held with any talk of vampires. Indeed, how clearly I remembered a winter's night five years ago, when I assured my youngest brother there wasn't any such thing.

• • •

“Mr. Winston said that Mother will come for me,” Nathan said. “Will she, Johnny?”

“Pay no attention to him,” I said, smoothing his fair hair from his damp forehead. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks ruddy, but he was far too frail for a six-year-old boy. His cough was growing worse. He needed his sleep, but Winston's talk of vampires had frightened him. I tried to keep my anger at our neighbor's thoughtlessness from my voice. “Mother loved you, and would never harm you, you know that, Nate. And she's up in heaven, with all the angels. You must not worry so. Just try to get well.”

“But Mr. Winston said—”

“Mr. Winston is a mean-spirited old busybody,” I said with some exasperation. “He only means to frighten you, Nate.”

Nathan said nothing, but frowned, as if making a decision. After a while he took hold of my hand. “I'm glad you've come home, Johnny,” he whispered. “I know you wish you were away at school—”

“No, Sprout, I could not wish to be anywhere else if you need me.”

He smiled at the nickname. “You'll stay with me tonight, won't you?”

“Of course I'll stay with you,” I said, and reached into one of my pockets. “And see here—I'm armed—look what I've brought with me!”

“The slingshot I made for you!”

“Yes, and I've gathered a few stones for ammunition,” I said, winking at him. “So you're safe now. Only get some sleep, Sprout. I'll stay right here.”

He slept soundly. Noah came in to spell me, even though I protested I would be fine. “I know,” he whispered, “but please go downstairs to see to Father, Johnny. Try to talk him into getting some sleep.”

Downstairs, my father stood near a window, looking out into the moonlit night. I thought he looked more haggard than I had ever seen him. The previous year had taken a great toll on him, and when Nathan fell ill early in 1892, Father could barely take care of himself, let alone a small boy with consumption. So I came home from the private school for which my godfather had so generously paid my tuition; my instructors had been understanding—my family, they knew, had suffered greatly of late. Even though this was not the first occasion upon which I had been called home, my marks were high and I was well ahead of most of my classmates in my studies; the headmaster assured me that I would be allowed to return.

I found my father greatly changed—indeed, Arden Farm itself seemed changed. Winter was the time he usually pruned the trees, but now as I stood next to him at the window, I saw the sucker branches reaching sharply into the winter sky, casting strange shadows everywhere.

“Half my orchard has been felled,” he remarked, and I knew he was not talking of the trees, but of the toll consumption had taken on his family. “First Rebecca, then Robert and Daniel. Last month, your mother—dearest Sarah! I've said prayers and made my peace with the Lord. And still he wants more. Is this my God?”

“Noah and I are healthy,” I replied, trying to keep his spirits up. “And Julia is with her husband in Peacedale. She's well.”

From the other room, we heard the sound of Nathan's cough. “Now my youngest!” my father said.

“Noah and I will care for Nathan. He'll get better.”

But neither of us could easily hope that Nathan would recover. Too many times in the past year, consumption had robbed us of those we loved. Ten-year-old Rebecca's cough started early in 1891, and her illness progressed slowly at first. She rallied in the spring, and we thought all would be well. But in August, the cough came back. She was soon coughing up blood—we knew she would not live long after the blood started. By the end of the month, she was dead.

Robert and Daniel, my older brothers, took ill the week before Rebecca's funeral. Mother wrote to me less often, her time taken up with care of them. When she did write, her letters were filled with news of neighbors who had also taken ill, or of the advice given to her by Dr. Ashford. “He tells me to give to them fresh air, to keep them clean, to change their clothes often,” she wrote. “I confess to you, dear John, that I am quite worn down—each day, I take them outdoors, read to them, and try to keep their spirits up. This is the most difficult of all my duties. They miss Rebecca, and they know their own symptoms are identical to hers. Still, I will do all I can to keep my boys alive. God keep you safe, John!”

But despite all her efforts, by October, I came home again—for Robert's funeral. And thus I was there, three days later, when Daniel told us he had dreamt of Rebecca and Robert.

“They were here, sitting on my bed. They weren't sick. They said I had helped them to get better.” Two days later, he passed away during the night.