The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

Again, Harris Ladd placed my order after consulting me, explaining to the proprietress, Abigail Sibley, that I would need a few of the store’s perishables. He recited the small list.
Twice.
This time I was feeling annoyed at his assumption that I would stay at the house long enough to need eggs and bread, but good sense came to my rescue before I spoke out loud. There probably weren’t any inns on Great Goose and certainly not on Little Goose. If I wanted a place to lay my head that night, without returning to the mainland, it might have to be in Wendover House. And come morning, I would be wanting some breakfast.

Miss Sibley nodded, smiling blankly as she rang up my purchase on an antique register with a bent dollar sign. Reminded of Ladd’s words, I began to hope that those small repairs to my house that the attorney had mentioned did not include the roof or broken windows.

After we collected my groceries from the ancient shopkeeper, who murmured something about being happy I was there, we went back to Mr. Ladd’s office and picked up my shabby suitcase. As predicted, no one had stolen it.

We walked down to the empty docks to a small motor launch and Mr. Ladd handed me aboard. I have done some boating at home so managed to climb in with a bit of grace and stow my small bag under my seat while he cast off.

Little Goose was clearly visible from the waterfront and looked close enough to swim to, but the sea was not entirely calm and a quickly dipped finger assured me it was numbingly cold. Clearly I could rid myself of any notions about swimming in the frigid waters. That was okay. I had not packed a bathing suit.

The trip took only ten minutes and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The wind was brisk but the sun made it pleasant and I was getting very curious about the slanted island where my family had lived.

“Who lives here now?” I asked, raising my voice. This had also been absent from Ladd’s luncheon lecture.

“There is a writer named Livingston. He writes some kind of spy books. He’s from away.” The attorney sounded disapproving. I wonder if it was
a contempt
of novels or for people who had the misfortune to be born elsewhere.

“Benjamin Livingston?” I asked, surprised and maybe just a little
starstruck
. He was one of my favorite novelists.

“
Ayuh
.
He isn’t terribly personable and always seems busy. Your great-grandfather never made him welcome, so don’t expect him to be knocking on your door with a hot dish.”

“Oh.”

“Your other neighbor is Archibald Hicks, a retired marine biologist. He is from away too—Boston, I believe—and a bit of a recluse since his stroke. He lives with a nurse-housekeeper, Mary Cory. Mary’s two brothers own one of the larger fishing vessels on Goose Haven. Nice girl. Very quiet though.”

“Do people on the island own their own boats?”

“Most do, but the ferry comes on Tuesdays and Fridays. That is when groceries and mail are delivered. The ferry captain is Marcus Sibley. He’s a quiet man, unless he gets a few drinks under the belt.”

I was sensing a theme and it centered
around
“quiet.”

“He is related to Miss Sibley?”

“Her brother.”
This surprised me.

“Is he … a younger brother?”
Able to see and hear and recall three whole items at a time?

“Yes, a full decade younger and much healthier.
And slightly more sensible.”
Mr. Ladd killed the engine and made the boat fast. He seemed to be pondering something and then after a moment, probably deciding that what he was about to share wasn’t actually gossip, he said, “I know that Miss Sibley is rather elderly for the job of postmistress and shop clerk, but she has clung on because she is afraid to retire. Her father retired and died a day later.”

Miss Sibley looked like she was barely “clinging” to more than her job, poor old barnacle. I nodded sympathetically though.

“My grandmother died in her office at the paper,” I volunteered, taking his offered hand and allowing myself to be helped onto the dock. There were two other boats already there. One was a motorboat called the
Lubbock
and the other a tiny cabin cruiser called
Blue Ruin
. I smiled a little, wondering if the owner knew that blue ruin was an old name for rum. There was a sort of shed at the end of the jetty that perhaps served as a boathouse but it was empty.

“Did my great-grandfather have a boat?” I asked, thinking it would be convenient to have.

“He did but he sold it about five years back. He had a lot of trouble with it and once he almost drowned in a storm when the engine went out. He started believing he was a kind of Jonah and in the last years refused to leave the island at all.”

Mr. Ladd insisted on carrying the groceries but I would not allow him to take my case. It didn’t weigh that much and I was uncomfortable being treated as weak and witless, though that probably was not the intent of his gallant gesture.

The grass near the dock had been shorn, possibly by goats or sheep since it was uneven terrain. But there were flat places every few inches and we easily climbed through the rocky stubble without turning an ankle. I had read that some islanders imported grazing animals for the summer as a sort of natural weed-eater. Manure in turn attracted birds that ate the grubs in the manure and they in turn fertilized the grass with grub dropping that broke down quickly. This made for new and healthier plants. It was a natural cycle and helped prevent erosion. I just wondered how much the sheep liked riding in boats when it was time to move on to a new location. The thought of seasick ruminants made me shudder.

I’d best supply a little geography for you so you understand the layout. The island was a kind of triangle with blunted points. The whole thing tilted so two of the points were run right into the water. The remaining point was raised up about forty feet into the air. A fanciful person might think that a sea giant had grabbed one side of the island and jerked it down into the waves.

“That’s
Greyhome
where the writer lives,” Mr. Ladd said, jerking his head to the left. The house was not made of stone, but rather brick and wood. It was not large, but had two floors and a steeply pitched roof, probably necessary for shedding snow. “Beyond the copse of trees is May House. They were both built in the early nineteen hundreds. They brought in rental income until they were sold in the nineteen forties.” The tone was trivializing of these architectural latecomers.

I could only see the uppermost dormers and chimneys of May House through the leathery foliage. This building was also made of wood that had been painted white. The black shutters were a somber note, but the house was attractive and seemed well maintained and I didn’t understand the sneering attitude.

“Why are the houses here made of wood and not stone?” I asked.

“Building materials had to be brought in. The local rock is mainly shale and not good for quarrying. Wood was cheaper and easier to move.”

“Ah.”

Something large and gray streaked by us and I gasped before I realized what it was.

“It’s just a cat,” I said unnecessarily.

“
Ayuh
.
Your cat, if you can catch him. The thing is half-feral. Kelvin was the only one who could get near him.” Harris frowned at the bushes where the feline had disappeared.

“Kelvin?”

“Your great-grandfather, Kelvin Wendover.”

“Oh.” This information left me feeling disconcerted. Why hadn’t I asked anything about the family on the trip over? For that matter why had I not asked for any details about who was behind “the Wendover estate” when I received the first letter? For some reason I was resistant to the idea that I actually had any kin, even dead ones.
Maybe because they had always been characters in a fairytale.
Or perhaps it was loyalty to my grandmother, but since she was also dead and I was there, it was time to ask some questions about the family I never knew. It wasn’t like they could give me cooties or anything and, as the saying goes, one should carry rancor to the grave but no further. Whatever the old quarrel between Grandma and her father, it was time to let it go.

“There’s a bit of legend about Wendover House that I feel I should mention,” Mr. Ladd said. I had the feeling that he was reluctant to tell me the tale, but felt somehow compelled to share the information.

“What’s that? Not ghosts I hope.”

He frowned but didn’t deny the possibility of ghosts.

“It’s said that Abercrombie Wendover bought his property from one of the local tribes who had a sort of hermit medicine man that lived alone on the island, and that they put conditions on his taking up residence here before they would sell.”

“Conditions or curses?”
I asked jokingly when his face remained long.

“Well, a bit of both, I suppose. The legend has it that the three islands would be protected from invasion as long as there is a Wendover in residence on Little Goose. The owner can leave briefly, but a Wendover must reside here most of the time or on the next New Year’s Eve the whole island will be drowned in vicious waves and pulled down into the ocean. It will destroy all ships in the water and drive the fish away forever. It is believed that the island is slanted because of the storm caused when the Indian hermit tried to leave.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking. I was too obstinately rational to believe in curses. Instead I asked, “Has this ever been tested by my family?”

“Sadly, yes. Abercrombie tried to leave the island but his boat, the
Terminer
, was overturned and he drowned in the freak storm that caused great damage on all the islands, destroying homes and many boats. His son was persuaded to stay on the island after that. They say he never left Little Goose at all. And his residency seemed to work since neither the British nor the French ever managed to set foot on the island during the wars, and any that tried to come were attacked by the sea and sunk. Having a Wendover on the island is considered a boon for the rest of us.”

He was serious. The wind suddenly felt a whole lot colder and I considered the idea that I might be on an island with a crazy man.

“And here is the house,” Mr. Ladd said, sounding awed and also, perhaps, just a bit nervous. “I trust you’ll like it. It really is a historical gem.”

The house was white with green shutters, built in the Federal style, rectangular with no overhangs but a deeply recessed door where guests could stand out of the weather. The foundation was granite slab. It looked impressive perching there on its hill at the highest point of the island. It was ringed with stocks of bright purple fireweed, which I recognized because Grandma had grown it in her patio garden. There was also a kind of lawn area that would have been velvet in the spring but which had weeks ago turned into stiff blades that would poke through your clothes if you sat on it without a blanket. Perhaps once the yard had been manicured, but if so, there were no traces left of a formal garden. I found the wildness charming.

“You said
Wendovers
have been here since the eighteenth century?” I asked, not really up on my architectural styles but knowing the house was wrong for the era.

“The first house was partially burned during a bad lightning storm. It was when Abercrombie’s son died.”

“The one who stayed on the island?”

“Yes.
A terrible tragedy.
Only the daughter, who was away at the time, survived the fire. The name Wendover would have gone extinct but she was finally persuaded to return and her husband agreed to take the family name. It was said that he was….” Mr. Ladd frowned.

“Yes?”

“A smuggler and pirate and wanted by the law in New Hampshire. Of course, there’s always been some smuggling hereabouts. Liquor mostly since it was outlawed for more than a century and certain men will always want what they shouldn’t have.” He sounded a bit prissy and I began to relax.

I couldn’t help but notice the parallel with my grandmother’s life. Maybe Wendover women made a habit of marrying disreputable men.

“That’s colorful. How did they meet—the daughter and the pirate?”

“No one knows.” The words were growing more repressive and I was betting the stories of that romance were pretty racy. I would have to look them up. Surely someone had written an account of this affair. It was too wonderful to ignore.

“Taking his wife’s name was unusual though, wasn’t it?”

“Very, but convenient when he was a wanted man.
And perhaps he thought the Wendover name would protect him if he stayed on the island.”

“Protect him from what?” I asked and was immediately sorry.

“From arrest and prosecution, of course.”
I didn’t ask for clarification.

Mr. Ladd opened the door with a strange ceremonious air and then handed me the old-fashioned iron key that weighed about as much as a boat anchor. I would not be adding it to my key ring. We paused before entering, both of us waiting for some invitation I guess. Technically, I was the owner, so though it felt very odd I gestured the attorney inside.

I lost interest in the smuggler as soon as I stepped inside. It was a relief that the furnishings were not nautical. There were nine rooms in the main house, spacious, nicely appointed with antiques, or reproductions that looked so authentic I couldn’t tell the difference. The place seemed a little overburdened with clocks, which would be noisy if they were all wound and ticking away at the same time, but that was the only off-note in an otherwise charming house. There were no obvious signs of damage to the walls or ceiling and no broken windows. The floors were level and the walls seemed square, suggesting the foundation was sound, so I hoped any repairs would be minor.