The dark fantastic (24 page)

"People," said the other shortly, and stood up, stretching his legs. He was a tall man, dressed genteelly but rather funereally in black. His saturnine expression and cryptic reply led the drummer to wonder if he might be the local undertaker.

He inquired respectfully, "Live around here?"

The gentleman said, "Yes," and rubbed a clear spot on the steaming windowpane, as though looking for someone down the muggy street. "Tm a lawyer," he added curtly.

The drummer looked properly impressed, but before he could frame a suitable comment the hotel manager, who was also clerk and occasional bartender, came in to light the lamps and announce that supper was being served in the dining room. The lawyer inquired if the hack had come up yet from the station.

"No, Mr. Huse." The tone was deferential. "I've been keeping watch. If you care to go in to supper I'll call you the minute the hack reaches the square."

Otis Huse nodded his acceptance of this courtesy and went into the dining room. The drummer, to whom any companionship was manna from heaven, promptly followed.

There was a sprinkling of local patronage in the hotel dining room on account of the rain, which prevented country people from getting home. As Otis Huse looked about him he was glad he had the drummer in tow, for the garrulous fellow would insure him against the danger of being joined by some acquaintance. He was in no mood tonight to give more than a nod to people he knew.

So when their supper of spareribs, boiled cabbage, fried potatoes, and apple pie had been put before them, Huse thawed sufficiently to listen to the salesman's chatter. He suddenly realized the talkative stranger might be able to give him information.

"You've been out through the county this month?"

"From Bridgeport to Mullen's Mill. Never missed a crossroad."

"Did you stop at a place called Timberley?"

"Sure. The store just beyond the second tollgate."

"There's a farm by that name too."

"I know. But I don't call at private houses. Peddlers do that. I'm strictly wholesale." The drummer drew himself up a bit as he reached for the salt shaker. "I know the farm though. Belongs to a man named Tomlinson. From what I hear, he's somebody in these parts."

"What do you mean—by what you hear?"

The drummer looked cagey. "Oh, nothing. Only Wither-spoon—he's the Timberley storekeeper—warned me Tomlinson was not the sort of gent you carry tales about."

"Tales?" The lawyer's pale eyes kindled with interest. "You mean there is gossip about the Tomlinsons?"

The drummer glanced about the room, discreetly noting the diners. They were farmers mostly, as was evidenced by their weathered faces and the gusto with which they attacked the rather frugal fare provided by the house. At a near-by table a gaunt, loose-jointed fellow in a coonskin cap was stolidly eating his way through a double portion of everything on the bill of fare. Recognizing him, the drummer pointed him out, saying, "There's the party who was doing the most talking."

Otis Huse cast an obhque glance as directed and identified Henry Schook.

"What sort of talk was he spreading?"

"The damnedest cock-and-bull story you ever heard." The drummer dropped his voice. "It seems Tomlinson's wife claims that somebody has been throwing bricks through a certain window of their house, trying to frighten her."

So it was true, thought the lawyer. The letter had not exaggerated. Could Henry Schook have written it? Hardly.

He said aloud, "Some youngster with a grudge against the lady. She used to teach the Timberley school, you know."

"I said it was a young one too," agreed the drummer. "But down at the store they're saying no one is throwing the bricks. They've watched, it seems. Tomlinson's wife has reported bricks falling inside the house when there was never a soul in sight to throw 'em."

"Do they question the woman's sanity?" asked Huse dryly.

"Oh no. She's considered the most intelligent female in the district. But about this window—it's a bedroom window, downstairs"—the drummer leaned across the table impressively—"and they say it's the room in which Tomlinson's first wife died."

The lawyer moistened his lips. This was what he had been waiting for. Now he knew for a fact that the letter was worth investigating.

"Are they trying to make something of that?"

"Are they! Listen. You know George Tunney—has a workshop here in Woodridge—buggies, light spring wagons, coffins, and pumps?"

The lawyer's nod duly accredited this witness.

"Tunney's just installed a new pump in the kitchen at Timberley. And he had a lot to tell. He went so far as to say there'd been something funny about the first Mrs. Tomlinson's death.

But I think he's just sore because Tomlinson sent to Indianapolis for her casket instead of giving him the job." The drummer grinned at this professional pique on the part of local industry.

"But there are others," he went on, "farm hands, boys around the livery stable, plenty of people talking about the queer doings out at Timberley. Haven't you heard any of it?"

"I would be the last person to hear such things," said Otis Huse. Then he added carelessly, "Was there any talk about a girl out there who's said to be a witch?"

"Sa-a-a-ay! How do you know about that?" The drummer looked startled. "I never told you. That's the thing Wither-spoon warned me to keep under my hat. He said Tomlinson would stop at nothing short of violence to keep down talk about that little girl."

The lawyer looked bitter. "And what does Tomlinson say to this superstitious talk about his dead wife?"

"Nothing. He pays no attention to it."

The hotel manager appeared. "The hack is in, Mr. Huse. Lucius Goff just went into the academy."

Otis Huse pushed back his chair without another word and hurried away. Before a waiter could clear the vacant place Henry Schook stalked across the room, combing his mustache with thumb and finger, and slid into the chair opposite the drummer.

"Howdy, Mr. Jenkins, remember me? Schook's my name. Heard you telling Otis Huse about the queer pranks out at Tomlinson's. You didn't know, did you, that you were talking to the first Mrs. Tomlinson's only surviving relative?" And with a gratified feeling of having punished the outlander for poaching on his preserves, the local news dispenser fell to upon the lawyer's untasted supper.

Behind the drawn blinds of the academy Otis Huse faced Richard Tomlinson's three friends with much the same sense of gratification. It was Lucius Goff whom he had wanted to see, but he considered it a stroke of luck to find John Barclay and Doc Baird with him. He came immediately, almost insolently, to the point.

"Which one of you sent me an anonymous letter?"

There were three prompt, matter-of-course denials.

"Why should you think one of us sent it?" frowned Lucius. He was dripping like a wet hound in front of the stove and inclined to be truculent.

"Because the subject of the letter was Richard Tomlinson."

The three friends were instantly alert. John Barclay said, "An anonymous letter is usually written by a coward. Since the writer hadn't the nerve to sign his name, I take it the letter was not friendly to Richard. It couldn't have been written by one of us."

"On the contrary," said Huse, "the letter was written by a friend of Tomlinson who waxed almost maudlin in his attempt to save a fool from his folly."

"What folly?" demanded the blacksmith.

"The folly of circulating lies about ghosts in order to conceal the mischief of that wicked girl."

Three glances encountered uneasily.

"Ghosts!"

"Who said anything about ghosts?"

"what mischief are you talking about?"

The lawyer's keen eyes darted from face to face. "That is something you should know better than I. You visit at Timberley. I do not. You doubtless have heard about Tomlinson's wife and the bricks she claims are being thrown at her."

Yes, they had heard about Judith's bricks.

"You must also have heard what Tomlinson is saying about the origin of those bricks."

No, this they had not heard.

"He is saying that the spirit of Abigail Tomlinson—my cousin—is tormenting his second wife."

At this statement, even the friends of Richard looked aghast.

"I don't beheve it." said Doc Baird.

John Barclay said, ''Richard would never say such a thing."

Lucius Goff asked, "Is that what the anonymous letter contained?" 

"It is."

"And you thought one of us wrote it?"

"Frankly, Lucius, I suspected you. You've always been interested in that devihsh cult of spirit rapping. I thought perhaps you had gone too far and got frightened by Tomlinson's gullibility. But now I'm convinced that the writer of this letter is more sincere than any of you; I mean, sincere with me. I'm going out to Timberley and get the truth of this matter."

The schoolmaster rose from his desk, almost in panic. "Mr. Huse, I beg of you, discount this whole business as the idle gossip of a country neighborhood." But even as he was wondering how he might get word to Richard, Lucius leaped blithely into the breach.

"You say you are going out to Timberley?"

"I am," said Otis Huse.

"May I ask when?"

"Tomorrow, if the weather permits."

"Then if you've no objection, I'll ride out with you. I've a birthday gift to take to Miss Ann."

The rain had stopped, but the streets were a churning mass of thick clay mud when the two men set out from Wood-ridge the next afternoon. Otis Huse kept good horses, and they were soon on the gravel road, where the buggy wheels gradually shed the mire of the town. But travel was slow and the day far spent by the time they turned down the lane between the poplars. An overcast sky warned that the storm was not over. Huse remarked carelessly that they might have to stay the night.

The house looked dignified as ever. Lucius scanned the premises, searching for signs of disorder. There were none to be seen. Even the heavy rains had not disturbed the tranquil tidiness of the place.

"There's the window the bricks went through, purportedly." Huse pointed with a flick of his whip to an east window in the south wing. It had been closed against the rain. The glass pane was intact. There had been no bricks, evidently, since the rain started.

"The downstairs bedroom," murmured Lucius thoughtfully.

"The room in which my cousin died," said Huse darkly, "from causes that were never satisfactorily determined."

"She died of membranous croup, didn't she?"

"That's what Caxton put on the death certificate, but he told me himself he found no phlegm in her throat." It was all too plain that the lawyer was seeking to inject a sinister note into the circumstances of Abigail Tomlinson's death.

They rang the bell on the front porch. After an interval the door was opened by Richard's wife.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Won't you come in?" The greeting was as cordial as though they had been expected. Otis Huse, who had long since made up his mind he did not like the woman who had succeeded his cousin, found himself grudgingly changing his opinion.

Lucius glibly explained that they were calling to bring felicitations to Miss Ann on her birthday, and Judith, after showing them into the front room, went to call her mother-in-law.

"Oh, Miss Ann! Come in, dear. You have company."

When Ann Tomlinson appeared, wearing her black alpaca and cameo brooch, it was apparent that some sort of festivity was afoot. If she was surprised to see Otis Huse, she did not betray it. She greeted both callers hospitably and invited them to remain for her birthday supper. All the floods ever brewed by the Wabash, she said with a twinkle, could not keep the Tomlinson clan from celebrating her birthday.

Even while she chattered with her visitors, married daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren began arriving, bearing gifts of homemade delicacies; and while the men joined the group in the front room, the women repaired to the kitchen and took over the business of preparing the feast. Before long odors seeped through the covered passage that set the men at the front of the house sniffing hungrily. Lucius glanced slyly at Otis Huse, The lawyer looked somewhat disgruntled. He had not come to Timberley to make merry, but he could hardly pick a quarrel with Richard while others were doing so. Lucius began to hope that he might be got back to Wood-ridge without mentioning the object of his call.

When Richard appeared his hope seemed assured. Otis Huse might be the last person in the world whom Richard would have thought of inviting to Timberley, but when he came unheralded he was treated as a chosen guest. In the face of such hospitality Huse could do no less than respond in kind. Lucius began to relax and enjoy himself.

It was Miss Ann's party. She sat in the seat of honor, her busy hands folded in her lap as placidly as though every nerve were not twitching to know what was going on in her kitchen. It was a time of utter relaxation for Millie, who retired to the chimney corner with her snuffbox and let the young folks do as they pleased. But not for worlds would Miss Ann have betrayed to her children that she might have preferred an orderly kitchen tomorrow to playing the fine lady tonight. It was the family tradition that she must have nothing to do with the preparation of her own birthday supper, so she sat in the front room, pretending to listen to the men's talk, while she tried to figure where she would put all these people to sleep.

Cousin Lutie Simms had arrived, which meant that she would have to occupy the big four-poster in the alcove. Thorne could sleep in the trundle, which would release one of the beds in Miss Ann's room. If the weather turned bad so that Lucius and Otis Huse had to stay, they could have the downstairs bedroom. It was silly to shut that room up simply because Judith had seen a few bricks come through the window. She would speak to Richard about it when she got the chance.

But she did not get the chance because his duties as host kept Richard busy. His wife had disappeared somewhere, leaving him to ease the constraint of the lawyer's presence and to see that young Will did not get into arguments with his brothers-in-law. Will was at the age when controversial discourse was the only sort in which he was proficient.