The Pariah Page 17

  That was roughly what was passing through my mind,’ Edward agreed.

  ‘But why would she do that?’ asked Gilly, perplexed.

  ‘She’d lost her mother, remember. Maybe she’d been haunted by her mother, the same way - ‘ Edward paused.

  ‘It’s all right, Edward,’ I told him. ‘Gilly knows all about Jane.’

  ‘Well , the same way you’ve been haunted by your late wife, and the same way Mrs Simons was haunted by her late husband. And maybe, just maybe, she felt like I do that if she could get to the source of the hauntings, the catalyst that’s been setting all these apparitions off, she could lay her mother’s spirit to rest.’

  ‘You think she’d drown herself to do that?’ asked Forrest, with obvious incredulity.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Edward admitted. ‘But the motivation to put dead people to rest is extraordinarily powerful in almost every society in the world. The Chinese burn paper money at funerals, so that the dead will be rich when they get to heaven. In New Guinea, they smear their corpses with mud and ashes to make it easier for the body to return to the soil out of which it originally came. And what do we carve on Christian headstones? “Rest In Peace.” It’s important, Forrest, for reasons we may not even begin to understand. It’s Instinctive. We know that once our loved ones are dead, they’re going to be facing an experience totally unlike their life when they were alive, physically and conceptually, and somehow we have this urgent drive to protect them, to see them through it, to make sure that they’re safe. Now, why do we feel this way?

  Logically, it’s absurd. But maybe there was once a time when dead people were threatened more openly, when the burial rites were an important and well-understood safeguard against the dangers that dead people were going to have to come up against before they were able to rest forever.’

  Forrest grimaced, and rubbed the back of his neck in something that was very close to exasperation, but as an ethnologist he couldn’t deny the fundamental truth of what Edward was saying.

  Edward went on, ‘It’s my belief that there’s something in the wreck of the David Dark that’s been unsettling the usual natural process whereby dead souls are laid naturally to rest. I know you think I’m a fruitcake, but I can’t help that. I’ve been over it again and again, and it’s one feasible explanation. I’m not saying it’s a rational explanation, but then what’s been happening in Granitehead isn’t rational anyway. In the case of Mrs Goult, maybe she’d been visited by her dead mother; and maybe she felt that if she could somehow get close to the David Dark, she could release her mother’s spirit.’

  ‘Do you think it’s likely that she even knew about the David Dark!’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Edward. ‘It’s more likely that she just felt drawn here by whatever influences this wreck has been giving out.’

  Gilly ran her hand through her hair. ‘We’re sailing perilously close to Utter Hogwash here,’ she said, tiredly.

  ‘No,’ said Edward. ‘You’re looking at the whole thing with modern eyes, with eyes that have been educated to believe only the rational and the non-magical. When you see David Copperfield on television, you don’t believe for one second that any of the tricks he does is actual magic, do you? But in the days when the David Dark was sunk in these waters, in the days when Salem was right in the middle of all of its witch-trial frenzy, people believed in magic, and they believed in the devil, and they believed in God, and who are you to say that they were wrong? Particularly when you have John’s testimony that he has actually been haunted by his dead wife; that he’s actually seen her, and heard her, and talked to her.’

  Forrest and Jimmy evidently hadn’t been told about this, because they exchanged glances of surprise and disbelief.

  Edward said, ‘John’s diving trouble today may have been a blessing in disguise. If Mrs Goult drowned herself close to the David Dark, then she could have pinpointed a wreck that it might have taken us years to locate, if we ever located it at all. You took the bearings, Dan?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Dan.

  ‘In that case, we’ll carry on diving for the rest of the afternoon, as near to the spot where you came across the body as we can. Dan, Jimmy, you take first search.’

  ‘What about me?’ I asked.

  Edward shook his head. ‘You’ve done enough for one day. It was pretty rash of us to let you go down at all. A few weeks’ pool training, that’s what you need, before you’re out in the open water again.’

  ‘And what about the body?’ asked Gilly. ‘Aren’t you going to tell the coastguard?’

  ‘We’ll report it when we get in,’ said Edward. ‘There’s not much we can do for Mrs Goult right now.’

  EIGHTEEN

  During the afternoon, the wind got up again, and the weather steadily worsened, until at three o’clock, with heavy showers spattering against the wheelhouse windows, and the waves beginning to dance, Dan Bass called Edward and Jimmy up from the bottom, and told them to call it a day.

  They had searched the area beneath us intensively and systematically, but found nothing, not even a scour-pit which might have told them that a wreck was lying beneath the mud. Dan had told me that any obstruction to the normal tidal stream causes the water to speed up as it flows around it, since water is almost completely incompressible; and, that the whirls and eddies which this speeding-up creates leaves a natural excavation in the ocean floor. Because of this tidal scouring even a wreck which has been completely buried by mud leaves an unmistakable trace of its presence: a ghostly image in the ooze.

  But today, there was nothing. Only the sloping mud-bank which gradually and smoothly descended into the deeper roads of Salem Harbour. Only fishing-tackle, and nets, and rusted automobiles, and dinghies that had fallen apart into firewood.

  Edward came up on deck and peeled off his wetsuit. His lips were blue against his beard, and he was shivering with cold.

  ‘No luck?’ I asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘Not a thing. But we can come out again tomorrow. We still have all of this eastern vector to cover.’

  Forrest, who had given up diving about an hour before, and now sat in the wheelhouse in a polo-neck sweater and jeans, said, ‘I don’t think we’re making any progress at all, Edward. I think it’s time we did some echo-soundings.’

  ‘Echo-soundings aren’t going to tell us anything unless we have a rough idea where the wreck is located,’ said Edward. ‘Apart from the fact that we can barely afford to rent the equipment, especially if it takes us six or seven months to get any results.’

  ‘I could help financially,’ I told him. ‘A couple of hundred dollars, if that’s any use to you.’

  ‘Well , it’s a generous thought,’ said Edward. ‘But the problem is one of time, more than anything else. We can only dive at weekends, and at this rate it could take us forever to find the David Dark. We’ve been at it for over a year already.’

  ‘Is there no record at all of where she might have gone down?’

  ‘You know what happened. Esau Hasket made sure that every single mention of the David Dark was cut out of the record books.’

  ‘How about the Evelith library? Do you think there might be something in there?’

  ‘The Evelith library? You have to be joking. Are you joking?’

  ‘Of course I’m not joking.’

  ‘Well , let me tell you something about old man Duglass Evelith. He must be about 80

  years old now, I’ve only seen him once, and these days he never comes out of that house of his. What’s more, he won’t let anybody else in. He lives with a Narragansett Indian servant, and a girl who may or may not be his grand-daughter. They have all their groceries delivered, and left at the lodge at the end of the driveway. It drives me crazy, to think of all the incredible historical material that one old man is sitting on, but what can I do about it?’

  ‘You sound like you’ve tried to get in there,’ I said.

  ‘Have I tried! I’ve written, telephoned, and calle
d up there five or six times. Each time: a polite refusal. Mr Evelith regrets his library is private, and not open to inspection.’

  The Alexis was puttering back towards Salem Harbour now, her diving-flag struck and packed away, her stern rising and falling as the tide surged in. Dan was singing a sea-song about Sally Free and Easy, who ‘took a sailor’s loving … for a nursery game.’

  I said to Edward, ‘Maybe you’ve been approaching Evelith the wrong way. Maybe you should offer him something, instead of asking for something.’

  ‘What could I possibly offer a man like Evelith?’

  ‘He’s a collector, isn’t he? Perhaps you could offer him an antique. I’ve got a portable writing-case in the shop that was supposed to have belonged to one of the members of the witchcraft trials jury, Henry Herrick. It’s engraved with the initials HH, anyway.’

  ‘I think you may have a good point there,’ put in Jimmy. ‘It’s worth a try, anyway. People like Evelith hide themselves away because they think that everybody wants to lay their hands on their stuff. Look at the way he sells his pictures … anonymously, in case anybody finds out where they came from.’

  Edward seemed a little put out that he hadn’t thought of tempting old man Evelith with a bribe. But he said, as graciously as he could manage, ‘Let’s go up there this afternoon, shall we? It’s only a half-hour’s drive. Maybe it is a good idea.’

  ‘I’m too tired to make it today,’ I told him. ‘Besides, I have my parents-in-law coming over to the cottage. How about tomorrow morning, about ten?’

  Edward shrugged. ‘Okay by me. How about you, Gilly? You want to come?’ He wouldn’t normally have asked her, but I sensed that he was trying to find out just what it was between Gilly and me, if anything. Gilly looked across at me with a direct expression on her face, and said, ‘No thanks. I have to work in the shop, tomorrow. It’s all go for us independent business ladies, you know. Can’t relax for a minute.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Edward.

  We reached the harbour and tied up. As we stowed the diving gear away in the back of Dan Bass’ station wagon, Forrest came over and clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder. ‘You did well, this morning, for a first dive. If you want to put in some training, come on up to the Sub-Aqua Club Monday evening. When we find that son-of-a-bitch, you’ll want to be down there to see it.’

  ‘We’d better go tell the police and the coastguard about Mrs Goult,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Dan will do that. They know him over at police headquarters. The diving club is always coming up with suicidal mothers and drowned babies and unwanted dogs in sacks full of rocks.’

  ‘Seems like the sea conceals a multitude of sins,’ I remarked.

  ‘You betcha,’ said Forrest, and he was serious.

  Gilly came over to my car as I was about to leave. She leaned in at the open window, her hair blown about by the breeze, and said, ‘You’re really going back to the cottage tonight?’

  ‘I have to.’

  She looked at me without saying anything, then raised her face against the wind. T wish you wouldn’t,’ she said.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to. But there’s no point in running away from it. I have to face up to what’s going on, and I have to find some way of sorting it out. I’m not going through another night like last night. Sooner or later, one or other of us, or both of us, are going to get hurt. I haven’t forgotten what happened to poor old Mrs Edgar Simons. I don’t want anything like that happening to you. Or to me, for that matter.’

  ‘Well ,’ she said, with a sad and philosophical smile, ‘that was a whirlwind romance that whirled itself in and whirled itself out again.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think that it’s over,’ I told her.

  ‘It isn’t, not as far as I’m concerned. Not unless you want it to be.’

  I held out my hand, and Gilly took it, and squeezed it.

  ‘Can I call you later?’ I asked her.

  She nodded, and said, ‘I’d like that,’ and made a kiss with her eyes.

  As I drove off, I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw her standing there on the dock, her hands in the pockets of her Parka. She hadn’t made me forget Jane. I don’t think any girl could have done that. But for the first time since Jane had died, I felt alive again, and that the world might be worth living in, after all. I thought how strange it was that human optimism is rarely invested in hoped-for events, or the fateful course of future history; but rather in other people, each of them as uncertain and confused as we are.

  There is no stronger courage than the courage of knowing that someone loves you, and that you are not alone.

  I drove back to Quaker Lane. At the bottom of the hill, fixing his fence, I saw George Markham, and I pulled the Toronado to a halt and climbed out.

  ‘How are you doing, George?’ I asked him.

  He stood up, wiping his creosote-stained hands on his Oshkosh overalls. ‘I heard they dropped the charges against you,’ he said. He was trying to be blunt, but I could tell that he was embarrassed.

  ‘Insufficient evidence,’ I told him. ‘Besides which, I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Well , nobody said you did,’ said George, hastily.

  ‘Nobody said that I didn’t. But somebody said that I was rambling that evening, and not myself.’

  ‘You wasn’t yourself. You have to be fair about that.’

  I thrust my hands into my pants, pockets and looked at him with a grin. ‘You’re right, George. I wasn’t myself. But then who would have been, if they’d seen what I’d seen.’

  George looked at me narrowly, one eye half-closed, as if he were trying to weigh me up.

  ‘You really did see Jane, swinging on the swing?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I’ve seen her again since.’ He was silent for a long time, thinking. It was cold out there, in the front garden, and he wiped his nose with his hand. I stayed where I was, hands in my pockets, watching him.

  At last he said, ‘Keith Reed didn’t believe you. But then Keith don’t like to believe anybody too much when it comes to hauntings.’

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  George, ashamed, nodded.

  ‘You’ve seen a ghost for yourself, haven’t you?’ I asked him. I wasn’t sure that he had, not at all , but there was something about the way he was looking at me, something scared and uncertain and deeply impressionable, something that told me: this man has seen an apparition with his own eyes.

  ‘I, uh … heard my brother Wilf,’ he said, in a throat-dry voice.

  ‘Did you see him, as well as hear him?’

  George lowered his head and looked down at the ground. Then he raised his head again, and said, ‘Come on inside. Let me show you something.’

  I followed him into the house. As I closed the door behind me, the first collision of thunder sounded in the distance, out to sea, and the wind suddenly rose, and banged George’s garden gate. George led me into the living-room, and went across to a dark-oak bureau next to the fireplace, which he opened up and rummaged around inside. At last he produced a framed photograph, quite a large one, which he solemnly handed to me, as if he were presenting me with an honorary degree.

  I examined the photograph carefully, even turning the frame around and looking at the back of it. It was a black-and-white picture of a highway, somewhere local by the look of it, with trees in the background, and a parked car a little way off by the side of the road.

  That was all. One of the dullest photographs I think I had ever seen.

  ‘Well ?’ I asked George. ‘I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to be looking for.’

  George took off his spectacles and folded them. ‘You’re supposed to be looking for my brother,’ he said, pointing to the picture.

  I peered more closely. ‘I don’t see him. I don’t see anyone.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ said George. ‘This used to be a photograph of my brother, standing right in the front. Then, two or three weeks ago, I saw that he’d moved back a
ways, no more than six or eight feet, but back. I didn’t credit it at first, thought I was making a mistake, but the next week he moved even further back, and last week he disappeared back down the highway altogether. That’s why I took the picture down from the shelf. My brother’s gone from that picture, and that’s all there is to it. I don’t know how, or why, but he’s gone.’

  I handed the photograph back. ‘The same thing’s been happening to my pictures of Jane,’ I told him. They’ve been moving, and changing. Nearly the same, but not quite.’

  ‘What do you think it is?’ asked George. He grasped my arm anxiously, and looked at me right in the face. ‘Do you think it’s witchcraft?’

  ‘Of a kind,’ I said. ‘It’s very hard to tell. But some of the people from the Peabody Museum are looking into it. They may find a way of putting your brother to rest. Jane, too. And all the other spirits that have been haunting Granitehead. At least, well, I hope they will.’

  George put his spectacles back on again. ‘I heard Wilf crying,’ he said, staring sadly at the empty highway in the photograph. ‘Night after night, in the spare room upstairs, I heard him crying. There was nobody there, nobody that I could see, anyway. But this sobbing and weeping that went on and on, like a man in terrible despair. I can’t tell you how much that affected me, John.’

  I gripped his shoulder as reassuringly as I could. ‘Try not to let it worry you, George. It may sound like Wilf’s unhappy, but maybe he’s not. Maybe you’re only hearing the most stressful side of what he feels like, now that he’s dead. It’s possible that people’s personalities divide up, when they die, and that somewhere there’s a happy Wilf, as well as a sad one.’

  George shrugged. ‘I don’t really believe that, John. Thanks for the thought.’

  ‘I don’t know what else to tell you,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything about it myself, except that these people from the Peabody think that they may have guessed the cause of all these hauntings.’