The trouble at Pinelands A detective story
Miss Christie had turned pale. “And my--my stepfather?”
“Yes, Anne, Rutledge, too. He can’t trouble you now.”
“And did he----”
“No, it wasn’t Rutledge, but he told me where to look. However, that
will keep. Now tell us, you first, Anne, what’s wrong here?”
The nurse began obediently. “It’s the Poltergeist. We’ve just been
frightened to death! Night before last and last night, too, all over the
house. Miss McGregor had sent me out, and I was in the living room with
Dorothy, and we heard awful shrieks from the basement. We ran down
there, and the Poltergeist had been in Rosina’s room and pulled the
bedclothes off her and stuck pins into her legs, and everything. And
this morning Rosina packed up and left, two hours ago. Wouldn’t stay to
get breakfast, even.”
“That was last night,” Dorothy took up the tale. “On the previous night
the Poltergeist was in my room and smeared cold cream all over my
dresser and emptied my powder box into the clothes-press and s-stole my
wedding dress and s-stuck it in the f-furnace. It’s just r-ruined and
spoiled! I don’t believe any other body ever had such a time!”
“And we’re all so frightened--so s-scared that we were just saying if
you men didn’t come back--if you-all left us alone any longer, we’d go
to the hotel to-night!” Thus the duet continued.
“Humph!” said Somers queerly. “Ghosts again. Perhaps this Poltergeist
isn’t as harmless as you said, when I first came down here. So it
visited Rosina and you, Dorothy. How about you, Anne? Did you come in
for its attentions?”
The nurse nodded, big-eyed. “I sat in the living room last night after
Dorothy got me up. She was afraid to go back to bed and we sat in there
and dozed off, I reckon. Anyway the first I knew I was right on the
floor! The Poltergeist had pulled my chair out from under me, and
Dorothy never saw a thing, either!”
“Not one thing!” Dorothy corroborated. “But then I expect I was asleep,
too. We’re all just used up, Doctor Somers. Nobody in this house has had
two hours of sleep in the last two nights, unless it was Aunt Mary.”
“Humph! And where was Miss McGregor when all these things happened?”
All this while Aunt Mary had sat mute, stonily calm, showing neither
pleasure nor annoyance at our return, apparently quite uninterested in
the pranks of the Poltergeist. But now she straightened, with a queer,
hostile glance at the physician.
“Where was I?” she asked. “Where could I be? I lay helpless in bed,
where I’d been put, as a poor old paralytic has to! Lay there all alone,
forgotten, as usual! I suppose,” she went on acidly, “I should have
risen on my poor, useless limbs and run out to protect three perfectly
healthy women?”
“And did the Poltergeist annoy you, too?”
“Never mind! Who cares what happens to me? I’m nothing but a helpless
cripple, a drag and a hindrance.” Her white lips worked pitifully. “But
I won’t trouble anybody much longer.”
I believed her this time; she looked ghastly. And I pitied her
sincerely, in spite of her callous selfishness, her bitter tongue.
Doctor Somers pushed back his plate and rose. “You’ve had a bad time,”
he said, taking the old lady’s veined hand. “Does your spine trouble you
much to-day? How are the knots in your neck?”
His voice was inimitably gentle, sympathetic, winning. Aunt Mary
softened to it at once, and, after he had wheeled her into the sitting
room, discussed her ailments for an hour or more in quite her usual
manner. The strain of her pale face lessened; a faint color returned to
her lips. If this were Doctor Somers’ bedside manner, I thought, he must
be a most successful practitioner.
Gradually he led the talk from Aunt Mary’s symptoms and drew her on to
discuss the Poltergeist and spiritualism generally. The old lady
expressed very positive opinions. She had read widely on the subject, I
could see, and her talk was interesting enough. But what Somers’ sudden
interest in spiritism might be, I could not fathom.
Presently he spoke of the ouija board. “I have one,” said the old lady.
“I’ve had many very important communications through ouija.”
Next, I scarcely know how it was brought about, she had volunteered to
give us a demonstration. Miss Christie fetched the ouija board and set
it upon her knees. Blindfolded, Aunt Mary put her finger tips on the
little three-legged indicator, and Somers, also blinded, followed suit.
They sat there, knee to knee, motionless.
“Some one put a question,” directed the old lady sepulchrally.
“Who--who spoiled my wedding dress?” asked Dorothy, a little thrill in
her voice.
Under our eyes the indicator began to move slowly, mysteriously,
apparently of its own volition. Leaning over my shoulder, Dorothy read
the letters it pointed out to the blindfolded operators.
“P-O-L-T-E----Why, Uncle George!” Her excited breath fanned my cheek.
“It’s spelling ‘Poltergeist!’”
And so it did. And the queer, superstitious thrill of the unexplained
caught hold of us all. We breathed quicker, impressed in spite of
ourselves.
“Why does the Poltergeist trouble us?” asked Miss Christie.
Slowly, mysteriously, the ouija board answered. The pointer moved from
one letter to another deliberately, surely, as though guided by
intelligence instead of by the finger tips of two blindfolded people, of
whom one, at least, was surely a skeptic.
“B-E-C-A-U-S-E O-F C-R-I-M-E,” it spelled.
“Oh-h!” gasped Dorothy. “Aunty, quick! Ask it who killed Doctor
Gaskell?”
The old lady sat rigid, motionless as a marble statue and as pale. The
pointer moved, hesitated, moved again. Her stiffened arms began to
tremble.
Then suddenly, from beyond the window, came the strident, insistent call
of a quail: “Bob_white_! Bob_white_!”
Aunt Mary screamed. Her hands flew up, clawing at the bandage about her
head.
“I--I can’t stand it!” she exclaimed. “It’s driving me mad! Oh, oh, oh!”
Her voice rose in a crescendo of agony. “That noise--that noise--it’s
killing me!” She drooped in her wheel chair, head on a shoulder,
translucent eyelids flickering down, unconscious.
“Humph!” said Somers coolly. “She’s fainted this time.” He felt her
pulse, lifted her fallen eyelids to peer at her pupils, tapped her
knees. She moved convulsively. “Get water, Anne. We’d better lay her
down. No, she’s coming round all right.”
Aunt Mary opened tragic eyes. “Wh-what happened? Oh, I know! If I have
to listen to those horrible birds any longer I’ll die!”
“I’ll see to that,” said Somers. “But now you’d better go back to bed.
You’re badly upset; I’ll just examine you a bit; then I’ll know just
what to do.”
That did not suit, either. “No!” she answered, almost screaming. “No,
no, _no_! Get back, get away, don’t touch me! I won’t have it--I won’t
be examined--I won’t, I won’t! You’ve been against me every minute, ever
since you came,” she went on wildly. “You shan’t touch me, I tell you!”
In her excitement she heaved herself up by her arms, half rising in her
chair, as if to flee. But her legs failed her, and she dropped back,
panting, helplessly defiant. “Don’t dare to touch me!” she repeated.
“Humph!” said Doctor Somers, rubbing his chin. “Certainly not, dear
lady. Don’t distress yourself. I won’t come near you at all. But I can
do one thing to help you, anyhow. I’ll borrow a shotgun to-day, and in
the morning after breakfast Peter and I will go out together and kill
those quail, so they can’t trouble you any more. They must have nested
in the bushes back there.”
The old lady looked at him more kindly; but both girls cried out at this
offer.
“Oh, no!” said Dorothy.
“Oh, please don’t!” implored the nurse. “Look what happened when Doctor
Parker started to do that. He got into just terrible trouble!”
Somers only laughed and rose. “I’ll run down and see Parker,” said he.
“You’d better lie down, Miss McGregor.”
CHAPTER XXXI
A BORROWED SHOTGUN
I decided to accompany the physician, though my night on the sleeper had
left me pretty tired. But I wanted to see Lewis; so we got out the
faithful flivver and drove downtown.
“Hope the old chap’s been well looked after,” said Somers. “I left the
key with Wakefield before we went. But no doubt Dorothy’s been there
every day.”
We stopped at the constable’s house, got the lockup key, and went on to
the jail. Poor Lewis looked ill, I thought. Confinement was wearing on
his high spirits; his greeting, though hearty enough, was subdued. We
told him of our trip to the mountains, and its negative result. He shook
his head hopelessly.
“Mighty good of you both, but it was no use. Nothing’s any use now; I
can feel it; I know it! Some dreadful fate is against me; I’m doomed.
They’ll convict me of this murder as surely as I sit here.”
“Lewis,” said I impulsively, “Peter suggested that perhaps you did kill
Gaskell at four o’clock, then cleaned the gun and came back, meaning to
pretend to discover the body. You--you didn’t do _that_?”
He smiled sadly. “You see? Even Peter believes I did it. And you had
your doubts, unk. There’s no hope for me--none at all. No, Uncle George,
I didn’t do that. If I shot Gaskell at all, it was just as I told you:
at five o’clock, and by accident. I didn’t even know he was there.”
“Buck up, Parker,” said Somers. “Things are beginning to look bright for
you.”
Just vague optimism, I thought; and so did Lewis.
But before he could reply some one knocked on the jail door. I unlocked
it, and Wakefield appeared, escorting the sheriff.
“Howdy, people! Mr. Uhlman, I hear you-all was up to the hills recent?”
I nodded; and in response to his keen questioning, Somers and I told him
all that had transpired there.
“H’m,” said he reflectively, fingering his absurd white mustache. “H’m!
So Satterfield an’ Roarin’ Lafe was thereabouts ’at mornin’? Yeah, I
kinda s’picioned them two. Y’ see, Gaskell come t’ me ’bout th’
cawn-liquor trade; it was me sent word t’ Raleigh on his say-so. Yeah, I
kinda reckoned mebbe one or other o’ them two mighta done ’at killin’.
But they claimed it wa’n’t neither of ’em done it, an’ you-all believed
’em both, huh? H’m! I done studied about this here killin’ a right
smart, one time an’ another. I reckoned Vanbrugh was all wrong. H’m!
Well, gentlemen, I reckon you-all ain’t a-goin’ t’ need them depitty
stars no longer. Y’ see th’ county jail’s ’bout fixed now. Oh, they’s a
right smart o’ work left--kinda sorry-lookin’ place yit, all scorched,
but I reckon we better carry Doc Parker over yonder ag’in. H’m! I better
take them stars. You-all c’n tell young McGregor he’s resigned; he ain’t
a depitty no more. He c’n turn in his badge to-morrow. Rufe here c’n
keep ’at lockup key, an’ I’ll send a reg’lar depitty over t’ keep him
comp’ny an’ carry th’ doc t’ jail ag’in to-morrow mornin’. H’m! Good
day!” He nodded slightly and waddled out.
Lewis sighed dispiritedly. “You see, unk! Redden was inclined to think
me innocent until now. He’s been mighty decent. I suppose he thought the
bootleggers killed Gaskell, and was working quietly along that line; now
he thinks I did it. Did you see him look at me? And I’m to be treated
like any other prisoner awaiting trial.”
We left him. After all, what comfort had we to offer? Doctor Somers
called after the retiring constable.
“Oh, Wakefield! Say, Rufe, got a shotgun you’ll lend me?”
The big man nodded slowly. “W’y, yes, doc,” he replied amicably. It was
strange how Pinelands had adopted Somers; already he was intimate with
half the town and every one liked him, as did this huge, timorous,
boastful constable.
“W’y shore, I gotta gun--kind of a one, leastways. Jist let me lock up,
and I’ll git ’er, ’f you-all’ll carry me home.”
After a few minutes we returned to Fort House, Somers holding in the