The Adventures of Gravedigger (8 page)

Sovereign City, 1793

Mortimer Quinn had never been in this region
before, nestled as it was in the indent of the eastern shore of the river. It
was no more than a day’s journey from the small market town of Greensburgh,
which in the local vernacular was often called Tarry Town.

Mortimer had stopped in Tarry Town for the night
and had inquired the woman who ran the inn as to the origins of the local name.
She told him, with great alacrity, that it had been given by the housewives of
a nearby county, based upon the propensity of their husbands to waste away
their hours in the Greensburgh tavern on market days.

Given the high quality of the spirits that
Mortimer had sampled during his own visit to the tavern, he had no doubt that
these stories were true. The people of Greensburgh were a friendly sort, though
their expression turned guarded when he’d asked for stories about his ultimate
destination.

Mortimer put little stock in this. As an insurance
investigator, he had traveled far and wide. He knew of the petty rivalries that
developed throughout the nation, as towns vied for one resource or another.
Sometimes all it took was a single slur issued by a public official to spark
off a period of disenchantment between communities that would last for
generations.

After failing to get much out of his hosts,
Mortimer had finished his drinks, engaged in a couple of out-of-tune bar songs
with the locals, and then retired to his quarters.

He rose early in the morning, as was his wont, and
bathed silently in the basin set out for his use. There was a floor-length
mirror in his room and Mortimer had studied his nude form in its surface,
counting the scars that lined his right flank. There were four of them, still
fiery looking after all this time. Some five years before, he had gone into the
mountains in search of a woman named Mary Owen. He had found her, of course –
he always found those he sought – but on the way back, he had accidentally
stumbled upon a black bear and her cub. The animal had assaulted him and left
him for dead. He’d managed to drag his bleeding form all the way down the side
of the mountain and though the scars sometimes terrified the women he took to
his bed, he was proud of them. They reflected his tenacious nature, he thought.

Mortimer Quinn was aged thirty-two and had worked
in his current capacity on behalf of The New England Insurance House for over
ten of those years. He was tall and well formed, with the sort of rangy build
that men of extreme activity sometimes have. He was neither as broad nor as
handsome as some, but the overall combination of his looks and intelligence
were usually enough to catch the eye of a single woman – and more than a few
married ones, as well.

Mortimer considered himself an upright person but
he hadn’t looked at a bible in years and his habit of fornicating with women at
every stop had gotten him into trouble on numerous occasions. It wasn’t that he
liked to leave a trail of broken hearts behind him – he genuinely found women
to be wonderful companions and, when the feeling was strong within him, he
would do nearly anything to bring a smile to the faces of those he courted. Given
how much he had lost on behalf of his job, he thought it a fair trade. He had
no stable home and was on the move virtually every day of the year. A small bit
of lascivious diversion wasn’t so bad in the light of that.

After settling his bill, Mortimer set off. By half
past lunch, he had come to a small valley nestled between high hills and
despite the fact that he was an experienced traveler, he found himself giving
pause to examine his surroundings. It was the epitome of the word peaceful: a
small brook glided through it, with just enough of a murmur to encourage
Mortimer to set down his pack and rest. The occasional chirp of a bird was the
only thing to interrupt the scene and even that only served to increase the
dreamlike atmosphere of the place.

This was the area known as Sovereign and its dark
influence was known throughout the region. Locals swore that ghouls, demons and
criminals populated the place. Stories were sometimes told about how the area
had been enchanted by an old Indian Chief, in the days before Diogenes Daye had
founded the city. Others held that a German doctor had placed a curse upon the
land during the early days of the settlement, causing all who dwelt within it
to become infused with the sins of gluttony and violence.

As Mortimer approached the place, he remembered
how one man in the tavern had told him that the residents of Sovereign lived
strange lives, filled with the sorts of events that most people would regard as
mere fairy tales.

Supporting that was the strong inclination towards
superstition that many in Sovereign were said to possess. Though none in the
tavern would dare tell the tale, Mortimer had previously read about one of the
more infamous hauntings in the area - a Hessian soldier, killed in the
Revolution, was said to still wander the area at night.

According to local legend, the Hessian had been
buried in an unmarked grave in a churchyard. Now he and an ebony horse would
ride out from amidst the graves, on a grim hunt for his missing head. It was
said that occasionally, the Headless Horseman would ride down those unlucky
enough to be caught on the roads with him and decapitate them. Whether the
Horseman hoped to somehow use these heads in place of his own, or if he simply
lashed out in anger, was unknown.

Mortimer bypassed the mayor’s office and instead
stepped into the local tavern, which seemed to be a nameless establishment.
Despite the fact that it was midday, the tavern had several men within. They
were clustered in three small groups, two of which had been engaged in small
talk. The third group was playing darts. All conversation and game play ceased,
with most heads turning to greet the newcomer.

Mortimer nodded at those closest and ambled to the
bar. The fellow behind the oak counter had weather skin, thinning hair and dark
eyes. He eyed Mortimer with undisguised curiosity, openly studying the fine
clothes and perfectly coifed hair.

“Can I help you, sir?” the barkeep asked, his
voice sounding smooth as molasses.

“Your best whiskey, if you please.” Mortimer set
his traveling sack down on the floor and pulled out a wad of paper money that
made the barkeep gasp. Mortimer set down enough money to buy everyone in the
tavern a round of drinks, several times over. “My name’s Mortimer Quinn. I was
hoping that you might answer a few questions for me.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Mortimer studied the amber colored liquid that the
barkeep poured into a cup. “Do you own this establishment, Mr--?”

“Hendricks. Jacob Hendricks. The owner is Mr.
Gumby, sir. I work here during the daytime and he’s here at night.” The dollars
disappeared into Jacob’s pockets and Mortimer knew that Gumby would never hear
of them. “If you’d like, I can leave a message for Mr. Gumby on your behalf.”

“No, no. I think you’ll do just fine.” Mortimer
downed the alcohol in one swoop and he shook his head as the liquid burned its
way down his gullet. “I represent an insurance company looking to get in touch
with a relative of a recently deceased client.”

Hendricks leaned closer, as did everyone else in
the tavern. “Somebody around here has inherited some money?”

“Yes. I’m looking for a gentleman who moved here
from Connecticut several years ago. All of our attempts to reach him have
failed so the company sent me here to investigate.”

Hendricks swallowed hard. “Connecticut? You must
mean Mr. Hale, the old school teacher.”

“Old? Mr. Hale should be in the prime of life. I’d
hardly describe him as old.”

“I meant he doesn’t live here anymore.” Hendricks
licked his lips, grabbing a dirty rag that he began to drag across the wooden
surface of the bar. Maybe you ought to ask the Mayor. He might know something
about where we went.”

Mortimer looked around the tavern, noting that no
one was looking at him any longer. He tapped the bar thoughtfully, raising his
voice. “Anybody else here know Mr. Hale? I’m looking for Samuel Hale.”

A kindly looking fellow in a worn jacket cleared
his throat. “All of us knew him, Mr. Quinn. But none of us have seen him in
nearly a year.”

“Did he resign his position as school master?”

An uncomfortable silence descended, broken only by
the sounds of Hendricks making himself busy behind the bar. It didn’t take any
of Mortimer’s investigative skills to know that he’d stumbled onto something
unusual.

“Hale hasn’t been seen in many months,” the kindly
fellow murmured. “Not since he left the party at Chapman’s. There are some who
think that the Headless Horseman got him.”

Mortimer smiled, making it clear what the thought
of the local superstitions. “Thank you for the help, gentlemen. Might one of
you point me in the direction of the town boarding house?”

Hendricks looked up again, obviously relieved that
the topic of discussion had moved on from the whereabouts of Samuel Hale. “Walk
to the end of the main street, take a right. You’ll see Miss Dietrich’s place.
She takes boarders and cooks the best breakfasts in the Hollow.”

Mortimer left the tavern and strode through the
streets, offering a smile to those he met. They, in turn, greeted him in the
way that he’d already come to associate with Sovereign: they were pleasant
enough but there was something in their eyes that set him on edge. They viewed
him with suspicion and in some cases, this verged on the border of hostility.

“Mind if I walk with you, Mr. Quinn?”

Mortimer stopped and turned. A well-dressed man in
his early twenties was approaching. He had been in the tavern, amongst the dart
throwers. His blonde hair was swept abruptly to the side and he had a beauty
mark drawn on the left side of his face, just above a set of pouty lips. That
he was a dandy was beyond repute but Mortimer didn’t mind. Some of his best
friends in the larger cities were dandies. They made good dining companions and
were frequently very astute.

“Of course you may. A guide about town would be
more than welcome.”

The dandy offered a hand. “The name’s Wilmer
Grace, Mr. Quinn.”

Mortimer smiled as they shook. “Please – call me
Mortimer.”

“Only if you refer to me as Wilmer.”

“Agreed.”

The two set off in the general direction of the
boarding house but Wilmer took Mortimer by the sleeve and steered him down a
side street.

“Thought you might want to get a look at the
schoolhouse. It’s been mostly empty since Mr. Hale vanished but the children
still congregate about it some mornings. It’s like they’re waiting for their
schoolmaster to return.”

“What do you think happened to him, Wilmer? You
don’t really believe that some specter killed him, do you?”

“Do I think it’s likely? No, sir, I don’t. There
are other, more earth-bound explanations that seem to jump to my mind. But you
won’t hear many others in this town talk about them. It’s better to think that
the root of all evil is of the supernatural sort. Then you don’t have to think
ill of your fellow man.”

“Your thinking mirrors my own,” Mortimer said. “So
are you unafraid to tell me your theories on the matter?”

“I fear nothing,” Wilmer said with a booming
laugh. A few passerby glanced at him with exasperation and recognized that his
new companion was not the most popular of citizens. “Samuel Hale was well liked
around town. He not only taught at the school but he also tutored many in song.
Given that he was a bachelor and a notorious eater, he also spent a lot of time
visiting homes in the area. His favorite stop was at the home of Katrina
Chapman. Her father is a prominent Dutch farmer and Katrina is considered by
many to be the most attractive unwed girl in the whole of Sovereign.”

“He was courting her?”

“Yes, along with most of the men in the town. His
chief rival for her affections was Irving Van Brunt, a ruffian with a quick
wit. They were quite a pair, Samuel and Irving. They couldn’t have been any
more different if they had tried. But both fancied Katrina and she encouraged
their sparring. On the night that Samuel was last seen, there was a large party
at the Chapman estate. Everyone was there, including me. Eventually a group of
people began exchanging ghostly stories. It’s a popular pastime in these parts.
Samuel recited some tales from a book on the Salem Witch Trials that he owned.
And then Irving told a harrowing story about The Headless Horseman. It greatly
unnerved Samuel – everyone could see it. When the schoolmaster left, he was
shaking from head to toe with fear.”

“And no one saw him again,” Mortimer mused. “I
take it that Irving left soon after Samuel did?”

“He did. With Samuel out of the way, Irving soon
won the uncontested heart of Katrinia.”

“I like the way your mind works, Wilmer.” Mortimer
clasped his hands behind his back as they rounded a corner and came to a stop
in front of the old schoolhouse. It was a low building, consisting of one large
room, rudely constructed of logs. “After we look around this schoolhouse and I
get settled in at the boarding house, I think I’ll drop in and ask Mr. Van
Brunt a few questions.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” Wilmer said with an
enigmatic smile.

“And why’s that? Has he moved away?”

What Wilmer said next convinced Mortimer that his
companion had developed a fine sense of the dramatic. “Irving Van Brunt is
dead. His bride woke up on the day after their wedding to find that her new
husband was missing. They found most of him out on the lawn of their home.”

“Most of him…?”

Wilmer’s eyes twinkled. “He was missing his head.”