It was just another typical day at the lab, according to the previous chapter, where the Aficionati worked on their latest project of killer drones. After a successful experiment on a live human subject (now deceased), several scientists seemed to be running into each other in this long, otherwise empty hallway, comparing notes, posturing with age-old power rituals, and gearing up for various sexual harassment complaints (in other words, like any other day at the office in America). In the men's locker room, then, Agent Krahang had another confrontation with the self-assured Dr. Piltdown when an alarm went off and Krahang's new assistant burst in with news there's been a security breach.
CHAPTER 18
When Tom was a child, when there'd been more of a yard (unless it was just because he was smaller then), the edge of these woods, encroaching nature, had always been a magical zone, the boundary between something open and visible, easily known, a world where he felt safe, and someplace darker, invisible, more mysterious. It was the realm of creativity, that kingdom where his imagination slipped away from the adults, especially his father's watchfulness, and allowed him to roam free and unencumbered, limited only by the turning paths. He could face the sunrise and look toward the house – they always called it “The Cabin” – to see the adults' world, notice if anyone there was watching him or was even aware of him. Then he could turn his head to look between the branches of the trees and into the denser bushes and disappear.
This morning, however, was different, despite the fine weather, when there were no adults around to watch him or even care, and he debated the wisdom of going to the Stones on his own. Regardless of using two canes for better balance, he didn't feel secure in his own safety on uneven ground, not yet. Plus he was worried – no, more like “concerned” – and needed time to think, and what better place was there to think? Maybe the pond, but the climb down was steep, the return too risky.
There were Burt's stories from those idyllic summers – his memories now colored them “idyllic”; he wasn't so sure, back then – which in hindsight lacked too many important details other than they'd been, mostly, scary. Some were tales Burt heard from the adults talking by the fireplace after all the younger kids had gone to bed. Others were stories he'd been sure Burt made up, maybe from watching too much television, tales of ghosts and “unexplainable events” which scared him and thrilled him, but also kept him awake at night.
Maybe the reason he wanted to reconnect with them now was more out of historical curiosity, finding himself in possession of a house – cabin... – and living in a place that just might be haunted. If he could sit and think at the pond, maybe he could hear Burt's voice more clearly and find some explanation.
To Tom as a child, Burt's stories were comic books come to life – the ones about ghosts and unexplainable events, not the ones his mother preferred for him about Disney characters like Donald Duck. To Tom the adult, some simple logic was behind it: creaking floorboards and windy nights, not centuries-old curses and restless spirits. Later, in high school, when he'd read The House of the Seven Gables, he wondered if Burt hadn't read it, too. Maybe some older cousins had made up things “in the style of Hawthorne.”
Hawthorne.
A cloud passed overhead and momentarily hid the sun. Everything turned chilly.
Had he made the connection before – the author and Phillips T. Hawthorne, alias “Pip,” a.k.a. “Trazmo”? He chuckled at the coincidence.
What he was searching for were connections that weren't coincidences between Burt's old stories, the family legends, and Mrs. Danvers' stranger.
Mrs. Danvers couldn't've imagined a ghost: she saw it walking, heard it walking, talked to it and it talked to her. There'd been nothing non-corporeal about it and she'd been perfectly matter-of-fact describing him. She also had a long association with the cabin, herself; wasn't her mother supposed to be one of the ghostly suspects? It's likely Mrs. Danvers knew the stories – legends – Burt's family had talked about when the children weren't supposed to be listening. Why shouldn't she make the associations his imagination had so easily leapt to?
There were so many stories from those summers, he'd never sorted through them or thought to categorize them; in the hindsight of adulthood, none of them were believable, yet he'd believed all of them. Tom considered Burt, older and, besides, a direct cousin of the Norton Family who'd inherited everything from Cousin Emaline, the expert. Over fifty years had passed since that summer he'd turned 12, so he didn't expect he could remember much of them. Maybe, by sorting out the different types of stories, he could remember enough.
Last night, then, starting with “family legends,” Tom began a Venn Diagram with different circles for “household legends” and for “woodland stories” like those involving the Standing Stones or the woods around the pond, stories which might include family or might not, and see which ones and especially which characters ended up in the center.
Easily the most memorable were those centered around Cousin Emaline's husband, Jeckelson Hyde. Nobody in Uncle Max's family'd ever seen him. Few cousins mentioning Emaline ever talked about him, as if he'd never existed. No photographs of him had been left lying around when Max inherited the cabin after Emaline died, adding to the mystery. In several old family albums, they found numerous photos of her famous cousin, the opera singer Lilian Nordica, Edwin Norton's granddaughter. Did anyone notice how there were no wedding photos of Emaline and Jack?
Jack Hyde – rarely Jeckelson, never Cousin Jack – was described as “a negative character” which, Tom was led to think, meant he was entirely black-and-white, not quite grasping the nature of a photograph's reverse image. Tall and thin, dark haired and pale complected, his most evident feature, aside from the wheelchair, was his piercing green eyes. It never occurred to Tom until now, if none of Uncle Max's family had ever seen him when he was alive, how did they know what he looked like if there were no photographs?
There were probably Norton Cousins who'd grown up with Emaline who would have attended their wedding, who'd known them in the early years when they lived, almost completely isolated, in Cornelius Norton's woodland retreat. There were no doubt those who'd heard about Hyde's tragic accidents and passed the stories down to their children and grandchildren.
The spooky stories were the ones that left the strongest imprint, the sightings of a man matching the description of Jack Hyde prowling around the grounds, peering in windows, inexplicably free of his wheelchair. None of them ever involved Hyde being seen inside the house, only hunting around outside, maybe looking for something or someone. One story described Hyde's wheelchair rolling over the cliff at the Standing Stones. Emaline left him to enjoy a peaceful afternoon, but when she'd returned shortly, the wheelchair was gone; presumably, the brakes failed.
If that wasn't enough to deal with – she became increasingly reclusive, family summers dwindled to only a few cousins on occasion – Great-Grandmother Margaret caught wind in the village of rumors about an illegitimate son, Edward, born to Emaline's former maid Hetty Poole, let go after her husband's death, innuendos identifying Jack as the boy's father.
There were rumors that went around among the Nortons about a “bad-news tomboy” everybody called Jake who was born Jacqueline Poole; wasn't her father this same Eddie Poole who'd disappeared before World War I? To make things worse, in 1938, the Nortons were concerned Jake, in her mid-20s, “had eyes for” Max's younger brother, Robert. She ended up marrying Max's father Hiram's gardener, a man named Mr. Henry. Burt had heard somewhere he, too, “had eyes for” Robert, though neither he nor Tom knew what “had eyes for” meant.
What did any of these details have in common with Mrs. Danvers' stranger? Was it a coincidence her intruder had “piercing green eyes” just like Jack Hyde? Plus she'd called him a “daguerreotype come-to-life.” She only said the stranger reminded her of someone but she never mentioned a name, never said “it was Jack Hyde.” On the one hand, had she ever seen a photo of Jeckelson Hyde to know what he might have looked like? Had any of the Nortons ever described the ghost haunting the surrounding woods?
Besides, Tom reminded himself, this stranger, seemingly real enough, spoke to Mrs. Danvers, told her he was looking for a box Kerr said he'd left behind and wanted him to retrieve it for him. With Burt's stories on the one hand, there was the reality that ghosts, on the other, weren't real. Who was he?
Never stepping more than a few feet down the path, he looked back to see the view from this vantage point – the windows in the kitchen, others over toward his study, the upstairs bedrooms. It still amazed him this was his, a place recalled fondly from childhood and now, in his old age, his home. Unfortunately, along with it came memories of ghosts and legends that, as a child, never bothered him because in a week or two he would leave; but now, he shared this home with them. It began to cloud over again and the wind became chilly: it was, after all, April and this passed for normal. If he wandered too far and it started to rain, he'd catch cold. As a boy, he'd only ever been here during the summer: what would it be like in the depths of winter?
Tom walked slowly across the lawn along the back, then turned around toward the driveway though the kitchen door was closer. He'd peered into his study, half-expecting to see Mrs. Danvers' stranger browsing around. It was Thursday, so if Mrs. Danvers wouldn't be in again until tomorrow noontime, he shouldn't see anyone inside, should he?
He went in, didn't find any intruders rooting about (he'd let out a sigh of relief), got another cup of coffee, then noticed the clouds were gone, the picnic table again in full sun.
It felt wonderful, basking in the sun like a lizard. Why waste it? It was such a pleasant change from his home in Marple with all its unpleasant memories beyond Aunt Jane's old backyard. He hadn't dwelt on it much, but that too had associations with his childhood, alongside his inheritance after his aunt's death. Now here he was in a new home, with its different flashbacks, sometimes turning a corner to find Burt as a child ready to head outside with Mippy, his little Boston terrier tagging along.
Sitting in Aunt Jane's backyard was pleasant if you could ignore the cemetery beyond that stone wall, or didn't look over at the decrepit farmhouse that belonged to the Ripas which loomed next door. And that was even before all that business last fall with Amanda's death, the fire, his stroke. He'd needed to escape.
He drummed his fingers on the table and checked the time on his phone too frequently in the past few minutes. Yes, he was impatient; yes, he wished he'd told Cameron to call earlier. If he'd had Cameron's number, he'd just call him, but he didn't, so he sat waiting and hoping he'd call soon. If that business with the intruder wasn't enough, now there's this business with that video he found on-line in the middle of the night when he was trying to take his mind off everything.
Sorting out Burt's tales before he'd put them into his would-be Venn Diagram, Tom decided to look for some music videos to distract him, not that he was a big fan of background music. It was late at night, it had been raining (again), and he was still spooked by every little sound he heard. The music wasn't meant to “accompany” his mental focus – did he really want to reminisce about Jack Hyde's ghost at 2am? – but he thought maybe it would cover up all these little nighttime noises.
The video came up as a random recommendation, an orchestral piece maybe 15 minutes long by some 20-something Missouri-based composer whose name, Dexter Shoad, sounded like it came out of a John Steinbeck novel. It wasn't being well played – the orchestra lacked good intonation and any sense of conviction – but the piece itself showed promise.
At one point, he found himself putting the notepad aside, listening more attentively to the music despite the conductor's bland interpretation. A lot of new pieces, especially by young, inexperienced composers (often those by old, overly experienced composers) made excellent background music, but something about this piece grabbed Tom's attention and he wasn't sure why. He'd never heard it before, nor the composer's name; never heard of this Allegro Conservatory where the lad's a star pupil. Tom recalled what it was like to be a conservatory's 20-something star pupil.
(How much would it have helped his career if one or two of his works the Faber Orchestra read through during those “new music workshops” had been uploaded onto some 1970's equivalent of YouTube? He'd write better stuff later – that's the point of being a student – but kids these days had it so much easier.)
Presumably this was one of those reading sessions, a quick, cursory rehearsal and then plowing through it without it breaking down, never enough time to iron out ensemble problems or intonation or interpretive issues. Yet there was something about it that struck him as... well, all he could think of was it sounded “oddly familiar.” Lots of students in this period of their lives where they'd absorb anything they liked could be accused of being “derivative.” Was this kid guilty of imitating something Tom found familiar but couldn't place?
He'd listened to the video with fresh ears, accompanied by nothing more than a fresh cup of coffee, no other distractions, putting aside any connections Jeckelson Hyde and the stranger had with his reality. With any luck, the original would pop up in some back corner of his brain and march forward to identify itself. It wasn't until he'd listened to this one bit over and over again that he was finally able to place it.
“That's me! It's from that thing I wrote in... – a long time ago!”
It wasn't just an odd occurrence of a vaguely similar handful of notes – there are only so many to go around. As extensive as this was, no, it was much more than spinning out a motive that took up time and space. All of it was familiar, taking on more of a quotation – basically, plagiarism.
It was what he'd called the Main Theme for that new piece he'd started to work on back in the early-1980s, originally the opening for a piano trio that morphed into another orchestral piece. But he didn't need another orchestral piece that wasn't likely to get performed and it wasn't working as a piano trio. So, with some sadness, given temporary life as a cello sonata out in Iowa that fateful spring, he set it aside. But he never came back to it, found the right fit for it.
If he'd never finished it, and certainly never published it – it never sounded quite right again after he'd gone through a dreaded middle-aged Style Change – how could he prove to anyone it was his? He'd quite proudly played it for a few friends at the Colony, but how'd this kid ever find out about that?
Then it hit him – “gobsmacked” was the word coming to mind. There were other bits that sounded familiar, too, not his. They were from pieces these other friends had shared with him, as well...
Still drumming his fingers on the table, urging Cameron to call, he decided to go inside and get lunch ready: that's when his phone would ring (whatever these days they called a phone “ringing”). Reluctant to leave the warmth of the sun, he wondered what surprise Mrs. Danvers might have left him for lunch today.
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
It had been an unsettling night after the break-in at the Doylestown Historical Society's new (and not yet completely unpacked) Basker Hill Annex at the new (and not yet completely renovated) Shoscombe Place Center. When Mr. Vole, its myopic proprietor, had returned home, he was kept awake much of the night by a fearsome headache. Given the state of affairs with boxes and cartons piled everywhere (the word “willy-nilly” had come to mind, yet another embarrassment), it was hard to tell if anything had actually been stolen or misplaced.
With his assistant, young Helene Kennesen, out sick most of the past week, the finer details of sorting and re-filing, gradually emptying these myriad boxes and cartons, was in a precarious state approaching chaos. His finding something Dr. Kerr wasn't sure even existed was a stroke of luck, what with the place's temporarily chaotic state.
He valiantly plodded onward first with this box then, after a break, the next one, but the whole time, between his lack of sleep and general aches, he realized he was so painfully slow, he really could use Ms. Kennesen's help, deciding he would call to ask her when she might be able to return. “Such a bad time to become ill, poor girl, missing most of the packing up, the move, and now the unpacking.” Generally reliable and a dedicated assistant, Helene wasn't the type to shirk responsibilities.
Things became a little more unsettled this morning after he'd reached Dr. Kerr who hadn't answered his phone the night before, and discovered not only had he not stopped by and taken the file with the daPonte Letter in it after all, he was, as he put it somewhat euphemistically, “out-of-town on an unrelated assignment.” He hated to suspect his friend, a truly scholarly individual like Dr. Kerr, and an honest one at that: had he been so impatient as to break in and steal it. “But who else?”
After hanging up the phone (whatever people today called disconnecting a phone call), Vole sat there in a state of shock. “So, if Dr. Kerr didn't have it, well, then... where was the letter? That would mean someone else must have it and if someone else has it that means they'd attacked him. But why?”
With another box out of the way and another small section of shelving filled with manila folders and old leather-bound books, Vole continued thinking about who could've broken in especially without waking up Norbert. He wondered if Helene felt a bit better, had come in and then started in on some re-shelving before giving up. If she did, why was the only thing not where he'd left it last night that file from the Trappe Bequest? She wouldn't know Vole wanted those few delicate pages to be photocopied, right?
“Hmm...” He stopped in his tracks, carefully gloved hands frozen in mid-air over the next box. “Now that's something to consider.” Norbert would've challenged someone he didn't know: he hadn't yet met Ms. Kennesen. “Had one of the young moving men perhaps come back in, passed the Norbert Test, and taken the file? But why?”
If Dr. Kerr was right and the letter was Lorenzo daPonte's, it could prove quite valuable, especially if it mentioned Mozart. Knowing how cutthroat the world of rare documents could be, Vole felt uneasy. It occurred to him, stopped him quite figuratively in his tracks, if Dr. Kerr was aware he might be in danger?
He'll consider this later, after he's talked with Ms. Kennesen. He remembered taking her home that time her car was in the shop. Since she's unfamiliar with Basker Hill's location, perhaps she's gotten lost?
After a few more unsuccessful tries, Vole decided he'll just take a longer lunch break and drive over to Ms. Kennesen's apartment to check on her. Maybe she's at a doctor's appointment and unable to answer her phone (she should've called him back by now). Maybe, he thought, she's had a set-back and needs help. It's unfortunate she lived completely across town, closer to the downtown office but now quite a commute to the Shoscombe Center. In rush hour traffic, he figured it would probably take a half hour.
He pulled into the parking lot at her building, a wing of some garden apartments on the edge of a park. “Pretty, in springtime.” Her place was on the second floor around the back. He called her phone again as he approached her door at the end of the hallway – he could hear it ringing.
He disconnected the call with a sinking feeling about this, then grew suddenly weak-kneed when he saw the door slightly ajar. He didn't notice any signs of forced entry: had the lock been picked? An archivist by profession and a big fan of TV crime shows, he immediately pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Peering cautiously through the crack, he could see the place had been ransacked. Should he enter or call 911 first?
“Hello...?”
He really should wait for the police. But what if Helene needed help?
Pictures and posters that once hung on the wall were scattered around the floor. Books had been flung off the shelves. He was grateful whoever broke into the archives hadn't done anything like this. But why do it to Helene's things? What was it they're looking for? And more importantly, he worried, where was she?
“Helene?” He called out timidly, looking past the living room into the kitchen. Was he being unprofessional? So he corrected himself. “Ms. Kennesen, are you here?” That was when he saw the misplaced chair.
That chair with the empty restraints hanging limply from its arms and legs was bad enough but when he saw the bloodstains on the tiles, he nearly fainted: “What had they done to her?”
He called 911 and gave them the particulars. “Please tell the police Ms. Helene Kennesen, my assistant, has been found missing.”
“'Found missing'? What d'you mean, 'found missing'?” Sgt. Sweeney was the same officer who'd responded to the “alleged burglary” at the Shoscombe Center the night before. “Has she been found or is she missing?”
Outside Ms. Kennesen's apartment, Vole, worried more about his assistant than a matter of simple semantics, tried to explain it again.
“When I called, she didn't answer; I came to see if she was okay or needed help – she's been off sick since last week – and when I arrived, I discovered the door was ajar.”
Thinking that, too, might sound confusing, since he now had no great respect for Sweeney's general intelligence, he explained, “By that, I mean it was partially open, not that it was 'a jar,' literally – and when I went inside I discovered – that is, I 'found' – she was missing. I'm afraid that's all I meant, officer.”
Sweeney, who had no great respect for the old man's smart-alecky superiority, pressed his lips together wondering if he'd just been called a moron. “And I notice you're wearing gloves, professor: why is that?”
“I'm not a professor, Sergeant,” Vole explained. “I'm a research historian working as the director of the Shoscombe Center's archival library.”
He stopped himself before adding, “as you would know had you been paying attention last night,” but caught himself in time.
“Gloves...?”
“A professional habit, handling old manuscripts to protect them from various skin...”
“You're wearing gloves here because...?”
“Well, I didn't want to contaminate the scene since it clearly looked like a crime scene with all the books on...”
“Or you didn't want to leave fingerprints behind?”
“Well, no, I didn't want to touch anything, not knowing what happened or if the intruder was still inside – oh, dear...”
“'Oh, dear' what, professor?”
Vole peered over his shoulder through the half-open doorway, as various crime scene people examined the room.
“I'm... it hadn't occurred to me 'what if' the intruder... were still inside.”
Sweeney duly noted the shift to the subjunctive. “Would you say, in general, Miss Kennesen is usually such a sloppy house-keeper?”
“I've never been here before. As my assistant, she's very neat and methodical.”
Then he wondered what, if any, might be any potential connection between this and last night's break-in at the Shoscombe Center.
“Definitely missing, Sergeant,” one of the other officers told him, peering out from the doorway. “No sign of her, I'm afraid.”
Sweeney checked his watch, jotting down, “def-i-nite-ly... misssss-ing,” he said, dotting the 'i's.
“To answer your question, no, I'd doubt it. What could you possibly have there that'd make someone do this to her?”
“Do what to her? Is she okay?” Vole tried to hide his alarm.
“Well,” Sweeney said as he flipped his notebook shut, “for one, toss the place.” He pointed his pencil toward the apartment.
Vole tried not to turn around, thinking of that chair with its restraints and what looked like blood on the floor. “And for another...?” His shoulders sank even lower at the thought of it.
“Just for the record, Professor Vole,” Sweeney continued, ignoring that last bit, “can anyone vouch for your whereabouts earlier this morning?”
His whereabouts? Vole straightened his back slightly. “I was alone in the archives, mostly; there were workmen upstairs who might've seen me come in or when I left for lunch. And there was Norbert.”
Sweeney did remember Norbert, the Center's security system.
“Oh, and I phoned a friend – I'd have to check the time. 9:00?”
“If you'll wait around, professor, you can give your statement to Officer Lovett...?”
Alas, Vole thought, regarding Ms. Kennesen and any clues as to her whereabouts, his mind was utterly and completely a void.
= = = = = = = =
©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
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