The Pariah (21 page)

Throughout the house, there was a smell of staleness and closeness, as if the windows hadn’t been opened for twenty years. Yet there were always noises, squeaks and hangings, as if unseen people were moving from room to room, opening and closing doors. There may have been nobody here but old man Evelith, his alleged granddaughter, and his Indian man-servant, but it sounded as if there were a score of other people around. Once, I even thought I heard a man laughing.

The Indian took us along an uncarpeted corridor, with a polished boarded floor, and then into an ante-room, sparsely furnished with English-looking antiques and a broken celestial globe. Above the empty fireplace was an oddly incompetent painting of five or six cats, American shorthairs by the look of them.

‘Mr Evelith will be with you by and by,’ said the Indian, and left us.

‘Well ,’ said Edward, ‘we’re in. That’s an achievement in itself.’

‘It doesn’t mean to say that he’s going to let us look at his library,’ I said.

'That Indian’s kind of weird,’ said Forrest. ‘He looks so
Indian.
I haven’t seen a face like that outside of an 1860s photograph album.’

We made nervous small talk for a while, and then the ante-room door opened, and a girl came in. We all stood up like hayseeds at a Wyoming wedding, and nodded our heads to her, and chorused, ‘How do you do, miss.’

She stood by the door, one hand on the knob, and looked at us in remote and unfriendly appraisal. She was quite petite, no more than five-feet-two, with a thin, sharply-cut face, large dark eyes, and straight black hair that fell brushed and glossy halfway down her back. She wore a black linen day-dress, simply cut, and yet it appeared from where I was standing that she wore nothing underneath. Her shoes were black and shiny with dagger-like toes and extravagantly high heels.

‘Mr Evelith has asked me to escort you into the library,’ she said, in a clipped Bostonian accent. Edward raised an eyebrow in my direction. This was definitely class. But what was she doing here, shuttered up in Tewksbury with an eccentric old hermit and an Indian dressed like William Randolph Hearst? Especially if she
wasn’t
Evelith’s granddaughter.

The girl disappeared, and we had to hurry to follow her through to the next room. She led us across a hallway, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors, and as she passed one of the unshuttered windows, and the gray afternoon light fell through the fine linen of her dress, I saw that I had been right. I could even see a mole on the right cheek of her bare bottom. I knew that Forrest had noticed, too, because he loudly cleared his throat.

At last we were shown into the library. It was a vast, long room, which must have taken up nearly half of the upper floor of the house. At the far end of it, there was an arched window of stained-glass, and the coloured light which strained through its amber-and-green panes illuminated the serried spines of thousands and thousands of leather-bound books, as well as huge bound volumes of prints and paintings.

Seated at a wide oak table in the centre of the library, with open books spread all around him, sat a white-haired old man, with a face that had shrunken like a monkey’s from age and lack of sunlight. It was still possible to recognize him as an Evelith, however - he had the same oval features as his portrait downstairs, and the downward-drooping eyelids that had distinguished his forebears.

He had been reading with a magnifying glass. As we came in, he laid it down, and took off his spectacles, and examined us long-sightedly. He was wearing a worn-out white shirt, a black cardigan, and black fingerless mittens on his hands. I thought he looked rather like an irascible crow.

‘You had better introduce yourselves,’ he said, dryly. ‘It is not often that I allow visitors to interrupt my work, so I had better know who they are.’

‘I’m John Trenton; I’m an antique dealer from Granitehead. This is Edward Wardwell, and Forrest Brough, both from the Peabody Museum.’

Duglass Evelith sniffed in one nostril, and put his spectacles back on his nose. ‘Does it take three of you to show me a writing-case?’

I laid the Herrick writing-case down on the table. ‘It’s a fine piece, Mr Evelith. I thought you might like to take a look at it, at least.’

‘But that isn’t why you came? Not the
principal
reason?’

I looked up. The girl in black had stepped away from us, and was standing with her back to one of the bookshelves, watching us closely, almost as closely and almost as carnally as the Doberman had watched us. I couldn’t tell whether she wanted to rape us or bite our necks, but the look in her eyes was certainly intent, and unswervingly avaricious. In the shadows, her black dress had become opaque again, but the thought of her nudity beneath it was curiously erotic; and somehow dangerous too.

Edward said, ‘You’re right, Mr Evelith. We didn’t really come here to show you this case, although it’s a very rare antique, and I hope you take some pleasure out of seeing it.

'The real reason we’re here is because we very badly need the use of your library.’

Old man Evelith sucked at his dentures, and said nothing.

Edward went on, uncertainly, ‘The point is, Mr Evelith, we have a very tricky historical problem, and even though the Peabody has quite a stock of literature and charts and so forth, it doesn’t have the relevant material we need to solve this problem. I was hoping - we were all hoping - that we might find it here.’

There was a very long silence, and then Duglass Evelith pushed back his chair, and stood up, and walked slowly and thoughtfully around the other side of the table, running his hand along the edge of it to keep his balance.

‘You realize what a massive impertinence this is?’ he asked us.

‘It’s not really an impertinence, Mr Evelith,’ I put in. ‘There are hundreds and possibly thousands of lives at stake. There are some souls at stake, too.’

Duglass Evelith stiffly raised his head, and stared at me with one keenly-focused eye.

‘Souls, young man?’

That’s right, sir. Souls.’

‘Well , now,’ he said. He approached the writing-case, and touched the initials on the top of it with his chalk-dry fingertips. ‘Well, now, this is indeed a very fine case. Herrick’s, you say?’

‘Henry Herrick, Senior. The twelfth juror at the Salem Witch Trials.’

‘Hm. Appropriate that you should bribe your way into my library with such an item. How much do you want for it?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing? You’re not a madman, are you?’

‘No, Mr Evelith, not mad. What I mean is I don’t want money for it. All I want is access to your books.’

‘I see,’ said Duglass Evelith. He had opened up the lid of the writing-case a little way, but now he closed it again. ‘Well, that isn’t too easy a request for me to grant you. I’m working here, you see. I’m trying to finish my history of 17th-century religion in Massachusetts. The definitive work. I estimate that it will take me another year to finish, and I daren’t waste a minute. I could be writing now, you see, instead of talking to you.

Supposing I were ten minutes away from finishing my book when I died? Wouldn’t I regret this conversation then!’

‘Mr Evelith, we know exactly what we’re looking for,’ said Edward. ‘If your library is clearly indexed, we shouldn’t have to disturb you for more than a day or two. And we could always come at night, when you’re asleep.’

‘Hmm,’ said Duglass Evelith. ‘I never sleep at night. I take three hours during the afternoon; and that I find quite sufficient for my needs.’

‘In that case, may we please come here during the afternoons?’

Duglass Evelith touched the writing-case again. ‘This really belonged to Henry Herrick?

You have proof?’

‘There are three short letters in it, in Herrick’s authenticated handwriting,’ I told him.

‘What’s more, one of the accounts of the Witch Trials specifically mentions “Herrick’s letter-box.” ‘

‘I see.’ Old man Evelith opened the case up again, and let his hand stray over the silver-topped inkpots, the sand-shaker, and the ivory-stemmed pens. There was even a piece of green sealing-wax, which must at the latest have been Victorian. ‘You certainly tempt me,’ he said. ‘I could find considerable inspiration in an item like this.’

The girl in the black dress said, ‘Perhaps your visitors would like some sherry, Duglass.’

Duglass Evelith looked up at her, surprised; but then nodded. ‘Yes, Enid. Perhaps they would. Sherry, gentlemen?’

We accepted, rather uncomfortably, but then Duglass Evelith beckoned us down to the far end of the library, by the stained-glass window, and offered us a seat on a large dusty leather-upholstered sofa. When we sat down on it, it made a loud ripping noise of escaping air, and clouds of dust surrounded us, like the clouds of battle. Duglass Evelith eased himself into a brocade armchair, right opposite us. The green light from the stained-glass window illuminated his face and made him look as if he were dead and mouldering already. But there was plenty of intelligence and animation in his eyes, and when he spoke he was both novel and alert.

‘I should like to know, of course, what it is that you’re looking for. I may be able to help.

In fact, if you are looking for anything at all that is here, I am certain to be able to help. I have spent the past fifteen years cataloguing and indexing this entire collection, as well as adding to it, from time to time, and selling off some of the less worthwhile prints and books. A library is a living thing, gentlemen. It should never be allowed to become complacent, otherwise its usefulness will atrophy; and its information become inaccessible to anyone without a pick or a jack-hammer. Of course, you don’t really understand what I’m talking about, not at the moment, but when you start to use this library, if I agree to let you, you will discover at once how
human
it is. It lives and breathes, as I do; it is at least as alive as Enid and Quamus.’

‘Quamus? That’s your Indian manservant? The one who showed us in?’

‘Indeed. He used to work for the Billington family, years ago, out of New Dunwich; but when the last of them passed away, he came here. No introduction, you know. Just appeared on the doorstep, with his suitcase. Enid thinks he’s a wizard.’

‘A
wizard!’
laughed Forrest.

Duglass Evelith gave a twisted, unamused smile. ‘Stranger things have been known, round and about this part of Massachusetts. Magical country, of its kind. At least it used to be, before the old families died out, and the old ways were all but forgotten. The first settlers, you see, had to learn what the Indians already knew, that to survive in this country you had to come to terms with its gods, and with its spirits. They didn’t have any trouble, of course, accepting the existence of such things. In those days, in the 17th century, they believed without reservation in God and his angels; and in Satan and his demons. So to believe in a few more supernatural forces wasn’t a difficult mental jump for them; not like it would be today. They had to rely on the Indians a very great deal, especially in those first hard winters; and many of them came to know the Narragansett intimately. Some settlers, they say, were more adept at summoning up the Indian spirits than the Indians themselves. It was said that the Billing-tons could do it; and one of the Eveliths was supposed to have had a hand in it, too.’

‘Mr Evelith,’ said Edward, very anxious that we shouldn’t be sidetracked, ‘what we’re actually trying to discover, not to beat around the bush, is the exact location of the wreck of the
David Dark.
‘

At that moment, Enid came into the library with a small silver tray of sherry. She came click-clacking over to us, and handed it around. For one strangely tantalizing second, she leaned across in front of me, and I glimpsed her small bare breast through her dress. I accepted my sherry from her with a smile, but the look she gave me in return was cold - cast out of pure indifference.

When she had gone, and closed the library door behind her, Duglass Evelith said, in a phlegm-thickened voice, The
David Dark!
What do you know of the
David Dark?

‘Only that she used to belong to Esau Hasket, who had christened her after David Dark the evangelist preacher,’ said Edward. ‘Only that she set sail from Salem in a terrible storm in 1692 and was never seen again. At least, that’s what the history books say. But they also say that every single reference to her was cut from every single logbook and broadsheet, and that Esau Hasket forbade anybody ever to mention her again. And the inference is that she foundered, quite soon after leaving Salem, and was driven
back
into Salem Sound by a strong northeasterly wind, and finally went down off Granitehead Neck.’

Duglass Evelith sucked in his cheeks, and regarded us thoughtfully. ‘She sank over 290 years ago,’ he said, choosing his words with care. The likelihood of there being anything salvageable left of her is rather less than slim, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Not if she really did go down where we think she did,’ Edward argued. ‘On the west side of Granitehead peninsula, the bottom is very soft mud, and if the
David Dark
behaved like every other sinking ship of the period, which we have no reason to doubt that she did, she would have plunged into that mud right up to her waterline, maybe higher, and buried herself within a matter of weeks.’

‘Well ?’ asked Duglass Evelith.

‘If that happened, then the
David Dark
will still be there. Preserved, right up to the orlop deck at least. And that means that whatever she was carrying in her hold will be preserved, too.’

‘You know what she was carrying?’

‘We’re not sure,’ said Forrest. ‘All we know is that the people of Salem were in a hell of a hurry to get rid of it; and that it was contained in a specially-made copper vessel, or could have been.’

Edward said, ‘We’ve been diving in the area, looking for the wreck, for over a year now.

I’m sure it’s there; I’m convinced of it. But unless we can find some documentary evidence of where she might have gone down, it’s going to take us the rest of our lives to locate her. It’s not even worth doing echo-soundings until we have a pretty exact idea of where she is. There are so many small boats and so many heaps of trawl nets down there, we’d forever be picking up likely-looking signals, and of course we’d have to dive down and investigate all of them.’