The trouble at Pinelands A detective story
dealin’s oncet, Gaskell an’ me, an’ I didn’t aim t’ do no meanness
lessen I jist hadda. I went to ’is house, an’ I done sont ’im word to
tell I aimed t’ settle ’ith him come sunup. An’ I went to his house that
night, aimin’ for to waylay ’im, come mornin’, like I said. Satterfield
was there, an’ I sont ’im back, aimin’ t’ do th’ job my own self. Well,
after while--long mebbe a hour afore sunup--out come Gaskell ’ith ’is
doctor bag an’ sot out th’oo th’ pines acrost th’ big road. I follered
after ’im, ’ith my pistol gun ready. He traveled ’long th’oo them pines
an’ into th’ bresh, an’ me after ’im, ontwel I--I seen th’ ha’nt. An’
’en I lit out a-runnin’. Yessuh!”
He stopped, curiously shamefaced, and stared at Somers, with a sort of
sulky defiance.
“You--you saw a haunt--a ghost?”
“Uh-huh!” The tough-souled old reprobate nodded violently, so that his
patriarchal beard wagged again. “Yassuh! I seen th’ ha’nt, all white,
like in a shroud, an’ blue smoke like brimstone ’round about, an’ eyes
a-flamin’ dreadful--an’ I shore did light a shuck outa there. Gentlemen,
hush! I don’t aim t’ have no truck ’ith ghosteses.”
His big, bold face was all twisted with superstitious awe; the hand
which clutched his beard was trembling. There could be no doubt that he
spoke the truth. Whatever loose newspaper or waving sheet had wrought
upon his ignorant fancy, he was fully convinced that he had encountered
a spirit, and had been driven by it from his intended crime.
“And you didn’t shoot Gaskell? Did you see anybody else there? Was
Satterfield gone?”
“Nossuh--yassuh. I aimed fer to shoot ’im, but I plumb didn’t! I jist
tuck my foot in my hand an’ lit a-runnin’. Ner I didn’t see nobody,
neither. I didn’t look round, lessen th’ ha’nt was a-follerin’ of me;
but Satterfield, he’d done gone back up th’ hill long afore that.”
Somers groaned aloud. I could have wept. Weary as I was, I had been
buoyed up by hope until now. I had borne with all this strain and
fatigue, exulting within myself that now, at last, Lewis would be freed.
This blow was too much. The room whirled before me; Somers’ face
blurred, grew monstrously big, then receded from my sight. I heard his
voice faintly:
“Well, then, in Heaven’s name, who _did_ kill Gaskell?”
Rutledge’s reply sounded fainter yet, a hoarse whisper, trembling with
superstitious dread. “I reckon hit musta been th’ ha’nt!”
“The ghost!” Somers’ voice was reflective, almost convinced. “I believe
you’re right, Rutledge; it must have been the ghost!”
The words seemed to come from an immense distance; they rang in my ears
like a knell. “Poor Somers!” I thought. “He’s gone crazy; he’s off his
head about this thing, just like the rest of us!”
Then I lost consciousness.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE RETURN
I woke with a start, in a strange room, staring about me in dull wonder.
Oh, well, it was scarcely daylight, and I was still tired out. I would
go back to sleep and save my questions until breakfast time. I turned
over, yawning, but a familiar voice dragged me back from slumber.
“Get up, unk!” It was Peter McGregor. “You’ll have to get going; train
leaves in an hour.”
Again I yawned. “What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock.” Then he laughed at my exclamation. “No, unk, seven at
night. You’ve only slept twelve hours. Hurry up, now, we’ve got to be
back in Pinelands by morning.”
Reluctantly enough I rose, every stiff old joint aching, and tumbled
into my clothes. Peter and Doctor Somers were dressed and throwing their
few belongings into traveling bags.
Presently we set out for the Asheville station and the eight-fifteen
train, which would take us to Raleigh, a silent, disconsolate trio, as
much at sea as on the morning of Doctor Gaskell’s mysterious murder. We
had followed trail after trail with such high hopes; our suspicions had
pointed here and there; and each suspect had cleared himself. I groaned
aloud as we three sat in the Pullman smoking room.
“All we really know, up to date,” said I, “is that Gaskell left his
house, and was killed an hour before Lewis came out there.”
Somers nodded. “Even that is going to be hard to prove,” he answered
gloomily. “One point rests on the unsupported word of a notorious
blockader, a fellow more than suspected of one murder, and now under
arrest for making moonshine whisky. Vanbrugh will tear his evidence into
tatters, even if he’ll testify. And the other point: that Gaskell had
been dead some time when Parker fired; it rests on your word alone. And
you’ll have to admit yourself that you were pretty well upset.”
“Maybe Rutledge killed him, after all,” I suggested weakly.
“I doubt it. And, even if he did, we can’t prove it. We can’t prove he
even saw Gaskell that morning, except by his own statement, which
wouldn’t go far in law.”
Peter leaned forward, scowling. “Look here,” he began. “Now don’t get
sore, unk; promise? Because, even if he did, I’m for him all the way,
and no doubt he had provocation we know nothing about. But have you
thought that maybe Lewis did kill him, after all? No”--as I would have
gone over the evidence once more--“no, I don’t mean then, when you heard
the shot. But he might have gone out there at four o’clock; it was quite
light, even at that time, and he might have met Gaskell and shot him.
Then he was scared, of course, and he went to the house and cleaned his
gun and reloaded it and came back at five, meaning, no doubt, to pretend
he’d just found the body. He’d have said he just got up, and, when he
went into that tangle after the quail, he found Gaskell’s body by the
path, dead and cold. His gun would be clean, both barrels loaded, and
nobody’d have suspected him. But, when he got out there, he tripped, and
the gun went off by accident; that’s the way it happened, you said
yourself, unk. And the constable just happened to be coming past and
heard it, and there he was!”
“Nonsense!” said I. “That’s absurd.” But was it? I had to admit to
myself that it was an adequate explanation, that it fitted most
diabolically into all we knew about the case. I closed my eyes; I could
see the whole thing. Lewis, gun in hand, prowling through the dawn after
quail; Gaskell meeting him on the path, carrying his medicine case; the
quarrel. There would have been hot words; my nephew had not forgotten
his anger of the day before. A sneering laugh, perhaps, as the older man
lost patience; Lewis’ unruly temper flaming forth; the shotgun in his
nervous hands, leveling itself; the explosion! And then my poor,
impulsive boy, shuddering at the sight of a bleeding body; creeping
stealthily through the bushes, cleaning and reloading the gun with hands
that shook; waiting for the body of his victim to stiffen; whipping
round the old house to advance boldly down that fateful path--with what
inward tremors and self-loathings! He comes on slowly, looking for the
body; it should be about here. And then a stumble; the shotgun,
forgotten in his unsteady hands, the finger tightening involuntarily
upon its trigger; the second shot! And upon its heels an outcry, the
pounding run of Constable Wakefield; the accusation!
No wonder Lewis had seemed dazed! He must have thought it retribution,
the accidental discharge of his gun bringing back upon him all the
public guilt he had sought so cunningly to conceal.
And then I shook my head stubbornly. Lewis Parker do that? No! He was my
nephew, almost my son; I knew him as I knew myself.
“Nonsense!” I repeated sturdily. “My boy never did such a thing as that.
He might have killed Gaskell in the heat of passion, but he never
sneaked and hid afterward, or plotted out such a scheme as that to
escape. I don’t--I won’t believe it!”
“I sure do hope you’re right, unk,” said Peter heavily. “But it does
seem beastly logical.”
It did. It was fiendishly, horribly logical. I could see that if such an
idea occurred to Vanbrugh, the solicitor, the poor defense we could
proffer would become a boomerang to destroy us. For, on the face of it,
we could make the killing appear an accident, perhaps; at the worst an
impulsive, unpremeditated act. But this other, this sneaking off to
reload and returning to discover the body--this cunning scheme
frustrated, as Vanbrugh would make it appear, by the accidental
discharge of the gun--why, it made my nephew a cold, deliberate
murderer! Shuddering I recalled my dream of the explosion of that cannon
in my bedroom. That must have been the first shot, the shot which had
killed Gaskell! Had Lewis pulled the trigger?
All this while Somers had sat silent, chin in his long, bony hands, a
cigarette drooping from his sour, discontented lips. I turned to him
impatiently.
“What do you think, Somers? You know my nephew; is he capable of such a
thing as that?”
The lanky physician raised his head and stared at me with deep-set,
inscrutable, gray-green eyes. “I told you this morning,” he replied.
“From all we’ve found out I’m beginning to believe it was the ghost
killed Gaskell.” And his chin dropped again. Well, there was little
enough satisfaction in that!
CHAPTER XXX
AN AGITATED HOUSEHOLD
We descended from the train at the Pinelands depot into a bright, sunny
morning. And, even above the throbbing of the train, the sighing of
released air brakes, I heard the strident cry of those detestable quail.
I shook my fist in a paroxysm of unreasonable fury.
Those cursed bobwhite! If it hadn’t been for them and Aunt Mary’s fool
complaints, this thing would never have happened.
We climbed into the station’s solitary jitney and had ourselves driven
to Fort House.
The family were all at table. Entering the dining room, my eyes fell
first upon Miss McGregor; and I was appalled. Her thin face, beneath the
crown of snowy hair, was ghastly, greenish pale, and the delicate skin
hung in bags beneath her eyes. She had changed startlingly in these last
two days. Poor old woman! She was not long for this world, I thought.
Then my thoughts were interrupted by glad, agitated outcries. Dorothy
fell upon my neck, weeping, and clutched me tight; and Anne Christie,
usually so self-contained, hugged me, too, and ran on to grip Doctor
Somers by both hands.
“Oh, Uncle George!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Oh, Peter!” And she put out a
hand to him. “We’re so glad you came, so glad you’re back, all three of
you! It’s been just terrible here!”
Miss Christie nodded emphatically, and they both wept and hugged us all
and dragged us into the dining room and seated us. They were both
talking at once, tremulously, frantically glad of our coming. And all
this while Aunt Mary sat, rigid, staring at nothing, her face terribly
white and old, too much absorbed in her own gloomy thoughts to be either
glad or sorry we had returned. But every time the quail whistled outside
the windows, she flinched visibly.
“Now, then,” I began, as the tumult subsided a trifle, “what’s all the
excitement about? And where’s Rosina?” For Dorothy herself had gone to
the kitchen for our coffee and Miss Christie was bringing in the toast.
At that the babble recommenced. “Rosina’s gone--left this morning. Said
she couldn’t stand it here. Too many ‘ha’nts and ghostesses’ for her,”
the girls answered, both talking at once. “And, oh, how I wish we could
all go! It’s been just terrible!”
“Hold on,” said Somers, and the two girls subsided momentarily. “One
thing at a time. First, let us assure you, Miss McGregor, that you won’t
be annoyed because we came back. The gentlemen, who would have liked to
abolish us, are all safe in jail.”
“Oh, goody! Then Lewis is all right?” Dorothy glowed at the idea.
Somers nodded. “He’ll be all right,” he replied evasively.