The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

A careful tour of the living areas discovered no portraits in any room. I hadn’t seen any in the basement either, so that left the attic as a possible repository of art.

The air was stale at the top of the house and I stepped carefully so as to not stir up the dust on the attic floor as I went hunting for photographs or paintings of the family I had never known. Though Hollywood would have us believe that there are as many monsters in attics as in basements, I found the smell of dust to be much less upsetting than damp earth and felt not the slightest stirring of unease.

My first family find was not a photo album, but rather a painting, a seascape which had been leaned against the wall just inside the door. It was realistic but rather dark, perhaps simply aged or maybe grimed with soot from hanging over a smoky fireplace. I could make out that I was looking at Little Goose, Great Goose, and Goose Haven, though there was no lighthouse and the only building was on Little Goose. There was also a ship sinking in the stormy sea, torn open on Goose Haven’s rocky shore. A lone figure was on the deck. Carrying the canvas close to the tiny window I could make out the ship’s name. It was the
Terminer
.
Abercrombie’s ship.

If anything should have given me the shivers it was that painting, but I felt not a tremor. Not happy subject matter, of course. I could understand why it had been relegated to the attic. Had Kelvin done it when he thought he was becoming a “Jonah”? It wasn’t pretty, but still, it was my first look at something and someone connected to me, however distantly, and I decided to bring it downstairs and hang it again. Later I would ask Harris about getting it cleaned.

I turned next to the trunks and crates that lined the wall, making the room feel smaller than it should. The first chest opened with a blast of camphor. It held musty textile treasures, each wrapped in aging fabric. There was a fur caplet that must once have been white but was now very yellow and balding. I rather liked the black Astrakhan coat, but it was too large and a bit tatty for wearing in public. And anyway, it would be hard to wear it and not think of the newborn sheep that had died to make it.

Though careful while
unwrapping
the yellowed muslin, there was still a bit of an explosion as I opened the last article in the trunk. Inside the old linen, there was a molting muff made of disintegrating bird feathers which started me sneezing but provided Kelvin with some entertainment as he chased the strays around the room. He was getting dusty, but I figured if there were any mice, Kelvin would keep them in hiding so I didn’t shut him out of the room while I worked.

Someone had been busy. I found a box with hundreds of crocheted doilies done in all colors not found in the rainbow. Old as they were, the dyes remained garish. Too nice to throw away, but too ugly to use, they had been banished to the attic.

Some of these things should be thrown away, but it didn’t seem my place to do it. Not yet anyway. The clothes weren’t harming anything; they could stay until either someone else took care of it, or I felt less presumptuous about attending to the task myself.

There was a bride’s chest suffering from water damage that was filled with yellowed sheet music. A quick look showed me that it wasn’t for spinet but rather for harp. I had a quick glance around, but none of the shrouded shapes that lined the walls resembled a harp and I knew there was none downstairs. When had it gone from the house and who had been its owner? The era was about right for Great-grandpa Kelvin’s wife, but might also have belonged to my grandma. Grandma Mac had never shown any musical inclination though, so I doubted it was hers.

Curious now, I began pulling away tarps from the furniture along the wall. I found a cradle and some elaborately carved wooden chairs that needed refinishing. There were eleven of them, which seemed odd until I looked closer and saw that the varnish on the remaining chairs had been scorched and even blistered by heat. The twelfth chair must have burned beyond saving. I couldn’t repress a small shiver, thinking of Harris’s words about the fire that killed Abercrombie Wendover’s son. Not liking that I was feeling fey, I still backed off from the burned furniture and left the damaged chairs alone.

There was a wardrobe too, a great blocky thing carved with wheat and fruit that was probably once attractive but one side of it also showed blistering of the varnish. The finish could be restored, which was why it was upstairs, I supposed, but I doubted that I would be the one to do it.

It was placed inconveniently, right in the middle of the wall, as high as a door and deep enough I had to step around it as I dragged out the various boxes for examination. I thought about moving it aside, but it was filled with taxidermies, moth-eaten animal masks and mounted fish, and I was afraid it would be too heavy to move unless I emptied it first. Since I had no desire to touch the rotting things, I decided that the wardrobe would stay in place.

The second crate opened reluctantly but was worth the effort. It was lined in cedar and filled with heavy damask that was embroidered over in silken thread. Each panel was made of pieced fabric, the cloth only being about two feet wide, though the seams were cleverly hidden. The workmanship was exquisite, the miniature flowers and birds so clear that I believed that I could pick them up. The style was a sort of tree of life, but along the bottom there were ocean waves filled with fish and boats.

A bit of lifting and shaking revealed that they were bed curtains and not window drapes. The cloth was remarkably well preserved, the colors strong, and the only fading was in part of one lining. The patch of lighter cloth looked a little like a handprint. I searched for initials, hoping the embroiderer had left some token, but could see none.

I wondered why they had been so hastily packed away. Carrying them into the light where the colors exploded at the touch of the sun, I began to picture them hanging around my bed.

Kelvin sneezed and then mewed. He retreated to the door, feathers forgotten, as he glared at me, correctly placing blame for his sinus distress.

“Bless you,” I said and then froze in place. The brain had made one of those intuitive leaps.
Sneezing—disease—death.
The curtains had probably been put away when someone died and the surviving family had not been able to endure the reminder that their owner was lost.

I hadn’t a shred of proof that this was true, but my gut said I was right.

Part of me hesitated, instinctively recoiling from the deeply ingrained notion of the contagion of death, that bad luck—or germs—might cling to a dead person’s possessions and kill me too. A part of me wanted to shove them back in their crate and go scrub my body. The rest of me realized that had there been any question of contagion from a “catching disease” that the drapes would have been burned and not just stored in the attic.

Gathering up the fabric so it didn’t drag on the dusty floor, I carried them and the painting downstairs. Though the curtains did not appear especially dusty, I decided to fetch up the carpet beater I had found in the basement and give them a good beating before hanging them around my bed. I wasn’t afraid of ancient germs, but I saw no point in making myself miserable with the ancient dust that had the cat sneezing.

Kelvin and I went out into the garden. I found what I assumed was a line used for drying stored inside a washtub with a wringer. Looking in the logical place, I found two eye-hooks and hung the line.

There was a bad moment when I tripped over something and found a rotting head half-buried in compost, but Kelvin pounced on the staring eye. Digging with his paws, he soon revealed part of a marble statue, a broken casualty, beheaded fairly recently. Somehow it had ended up disintegrating under the remains of the dead garden killed by the erupting solar panels. The cat dug some more and I was able to see the marble body. It was chipped in several places and I began to wonder if my great-grandfather might not have been using it for target practice.

“Thanks, Kelvin,” I said, wiping off my hands, which were suddenly sweaty. “But don’t you think you are dirty enough?”

The cat swished away, sneering at my concerns over cleanliness.

I tossed the drapes over the thick cord and then made myself head for the basement for the carpet beater I’d seen there. I’d never used one before but the principle seemed obvious.

Kelvin, not ready for his midmorning nap, came with me. I turned on my kitchen flashlight, feeling cheered by the manmade light and the cat’s calm presence. Having watched Kelvin with Harris, I was pretty sure that he would be showing hackle if we were not alone. Cats were also supposed to be sensitive to spirits and otherworldly things.

Though feeling much braver for having manmade light, I did not dawdle on the narrow stairs. I recalled where the carpet beater was and hurried directly to the cupboard. It was only as I turned back to the staircase that I again noticed the muddy footprints that had dried on the floor. Were there more of them than the day before?

“No. I can just see them better now that I have a stronger flashlight.”

Kelvin
mewed
an agreement and after a bit of rubbing and sniffing on the bottom step, he led the way back up the stairs and into the sunlight. I wasted no time getting back to the yard, but made sure that the basement door was bolted shut behind me.

I beat the curtains for a while, encouraged by the clouds of dust I was getting off of them. Kelvin kept his distance, sneezing and hissing at them when the breeze made them flap his way. After a time I decided that I too had had enough dust and exercise and took a break. The wind could do the rest of the work for me.

I collapsed on the porch steps, turning my face up to the sun and enjoying the breeze as it dried the probably gray sweat on my face. As I rested, my breath calming, again I heard the distant booming that might mean a sea cave. It was a lonely and even scary sound. I didn’t like the idea of the sea eating away at the island. And Harris had said that sometimes the cliff would give way after a storm. Given enough time, the house itself would fall into the ocean.

Deciding that I had had about enough alone time for the morning, I thought that I would clean up and then go and ask Ben Livingston if he knew anything about caves on the island and perhaps invite him to lunch. There had to be something decent I could make for a company meal.

Back in the kitchen I washed my hands and face and had the rest of my tinned juice to drink. Beating curtains is hard work. My respect for my ancestors grew with every primitive labor I performed.

I didn’t lock my door. The key was a monster to cart around and I felt no need for security during the day. The garden was empty of everything but flowers and carpenter bees. The rain water hadn’t puddled so everything was fresh rather than soggy.

The way to
Greyhome
was made clear by a fork in the path which was lined with columbine and butterfly weed. There was also some kind of rambling rose growing over the door, pouring out its honey scent into the air, but before I got close enough to steal a blossom I was summoned away by a horn down by the docks.

“I wonder who.…”

I climbed onto a convenient boulder and looked toward the wharf. It was Friday, I realized, and the ferry had arrived. Kelvin would be happy to see more
crunchies
and I would have a fresh supply of eggs. Feeling a little bit excited, I hopped down and hurried for the dock.

Ben and a dark-haired woman I assumed was Mary Cory were already down at the wharf and receiving boxes from the crew of two. I wondered if the ferry always came at this time and then realized that it depended on the tide. The water would need to be fairly deep to accommodate the boat. Everyone probably kept tidal charts right by their calendars. I likely had one on the desk in the library and just hadn’t noticed.

“Good morning, Tess,” Ben said as I joined them. His tone was neutral but I felt the only vaguely remembered pull of something that was close to attraction. The sensation surprised me and I wondered if it were mutual. It very rarely was, at least in my experience. “Let me introduce you to our other neighbor, Mary Cory.”

The woman nodded. Her bleak eyes, puddles of gray in bloodshot whites that looked slightly jaundiced, studied me for a second and then dropped. I didn’t think it was modesty. I wondered if it was a hangover.

“Hello,” I said but didn’t offer my hand. Women did not seem to shake hands here and she had a small box of groceries in her arms which she seemed to be paying a lot of attention to.

“Hello,” she finally muttered back. I looked at Ben and raised a brow.

He shrugged. Maybe Mary just didn’t like
away
people.

“As it happens, I was just on my way to see you, Ben.”

“Yes?”

“I wondered if you knew anything about a sea cave on the far side of the island. I keep hearing this kind of echoing booming when I’m out back and I wondered if there might be a cave there. I asked Harris but he says he’s never heard of one.”

“I don’t know either,” he said slowly. “No one has ever mentioned one to me, but I suppose there might be. Lots of islands around here have them.”

“I’ve heard tell of there being one,” Mary volunteered, still not meeting my eye. Her voice was flat. “It’s supposed to go in apiece. I never looked for it though. Kelvin wasn’t big on people exploring his property. And those sea caves flood at high tide. Plenty of away folks have drowned in them. It’s best to just stay away.”