Читать книгу The Lonesome Swamp Mystery - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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“Now what do you suppose that was?” Denis Keen asked as he looked about.

“Don’t I wish I knew!” Hal exclaimed. “What do you say we nose about, Unk?”

“And get our feet so wet we’ll live up to your mother’s expectations?” his uncle returned. “I guess not. Not for all the mysterious strangers in the world, Hal. I won’t be guilty of abetting such foolishness. You just step on the gas there and let’s get to Price’s as fast as is possible on this road. I actually feel chilled sitting in all this rain.”

“Then it’s a question of comfort versus curiosity, huh, Unk?”

“Exactly. And comfort is going to win out, I can tell you that. I’m soaked just enough to be dictatorial.”

“Atta boy, Unk,” Hal laughed good-naturedly. He started the car again, adding, “Anything you say. I dragged you out on this ride this afternoon and it’s up to me to get you back in as good condition as I can. But I can’t get it out of my head that there’s something queer on Lonesome Swamp Road.”

“You’re not the first to say that, Hal. It is reputed to be haunted, you know. In point of fact, the old timers will tell you that the whole region is infested with ghosts.”

“Go on, Unk!”

“That’s what is said. You don’t suppose I would countenance any such nonsense though, do you? I haven’t been on this road since I was twenty years old. That was the day they dragged Price’s Mill Pond for Dorkas Sharpe’s body. He committed suicide just a month to the day that his father, Eli Sharpe, was murdered. They never found Dorkas’ body. Some said he must have put a stone around his neck and that he sank into the quicksand that covers the bed of the pond. Others put forth the theory that his body must have floated on to the rapids and so to the river into which it empties.”

“Mm,” said Hal, shifting back into second because of a particularly deep rut, “murder, suicide! Do you mean to tell me that that all happened around here? When did it happen and where’s Price’s Mill Pond?”

Denis Keen’s light blue eyes twinkled through the darkness.

“How you do get started at the least suggestion of mystery!” he teased. “Well, on this occasion even I wouldn’t blame you. I got started myself when it happened, particularly because of the circumstances surrounding the whole weird tale. I was just about your age then, and equally as gullible.”

“Aw, Unk! Not as bad as that. There’s lots of things that even I don’t swallow.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Denis chuckled softly. “But to get back and answer your question—Price’s Mill Pond is so called because of an old grist mill that Cyrus Price ran about thirty years ago. It overlooked the pond of course and was situated not one hundred feet from the cottage. But it burned down and as he hadn’t any insurance to cover it, the loss was irreparable.”

“And this fellow’s cottage we expect to dry out in shortly, huh?”

“Yes. He lives alone—farms, fishes, etc., to keep body and soul together. His life has been most tragic; nothing but death, loss, heartache and disappointment. He’s lived two heartbreaking lives in one. I’ve often wondered how he could bear to stay in that little cottage of his, for the position of the house is such that he must needs see the desolate Sharpe Mansion every time he looks up the hill. And what a commanding hill it is! One can’t help glancing up there if only because of its bleak, forbidding aspect. Cyrus Price must find it doubly forbidding, I should think. You’ll see why after we pass down the hill, leaving the mansion behind. I used to find that the thought of the tragedy haunted me all the way down to Cyrus’ cottage. And on a night like this—well, it revives old memories, brings them back with a lucidity that is startling.” He stared hard into the darkness. “Ah, we’re leaving the woods behind, Hal. That means we’re all set to climb the hill. She’s pretty steep, I warn you.”

Hal got a good start, though a fresh onslaught of rain and wind obscured everything but the streaming ruts which were illuminated by the headlights. Had it not been for the obviously tremendous effort that the engine was making he wouldn’t have known where they were going, uphill or down. Beyond the shining screen of light was a dark gulf into which the rain was slashing. It gave him a queer, shivery feeling.

“And so we’re soon to pass the famous Sharpe Mansion, huh, Unk?” he asked, gladdened at the sound of his own voice.

“Yes,” answered Denis Keen musingly. “The Sharpe Mansion—deserted and boarded up these twenty years. That and the whole estate which takes in this whole region back to the highway has been hanging fire in the courts all this time. The law has been loath to declare Dorkas Sharpe dead as his body has never been found. But now I understand they’re about to decide that nothing but Dorkas’ ghost will ever haunt Lonesome Swamp again.”

“I should think so,” Hal laughed. “I wouldn’t want to rise up alive from Price’s Mill Pond after lying there for the past twenty years. Whew! What decided Dorkas to hie himself out of this vale of tears?”

“His father’s tragic ending, of course. Dorkas had been a wilful, spendthrift, dissolute son and his father’s sudden death brought a remorse that was worse than sickness. He brooded over it, began acting queerly and finally the trustees of the estate got a letter from him one morning telling them that he could not stand it to live any longer. He said that the memory of seeing his father lying murdered was too much for him to carry through life. He would put an end to memories, he wrote, particularly the memory that he himself had failed to be a dutiful, grateful son. The remorse was too much, now that he could not tell his father he was sorry. He would walk out of life, he concluded—down to the Mill Pond and on to a life beyond.”

“And so they dragged the Mill Pond?”

“But to no avail. Dorkas made certain that not even his body should be dragged back to this mortal coil. And a good job he made of it, I guess. In any event, the estate will probably be given over to Glen Stuart, an orphaned grandchild of old Eli Sharpe’s who was living with his eccentric grandfather at the time of the murder. He was only five then, poor youngster, and the courts sent him out west in the care of some relatives. He’s been there ever since. Let me see—he must be twenty-five years old now.”

“I must have just about made my bow to this dizzy old world, then, huh? Think of me squawking like mad and cooing in a crib while all that excitement was going on! Boy, the things a baby misses! But what gets me is that I’ve lived so near Lonesome Swamp all my life and never heard of it.”

“It’s because human beings are forgetful. Time accomplishes what we don’t and Lonesome Swamp and its tragedies were all but forgotten before you were three years old. It is such a sequestered locality that it is only natural a motor-going public should never know about it. Part of it runs through swampy road as its name indicates, and the other part is this terrible hill.”

“Which is enough to make it sink into oblivion,” Hal agreed heartily. He was having a time of it then—the sounds emanating from his motor were ominous and they had already stalled twice. “The distributor, Unk,” he explained worriedly; “rain like this and a road like this aren’t helping it any. You see, it’s right in the front where it gets the full brunt of the rain. And going uphill like this with the wind against us, the fan just sucks in all the water coming our way, consequently the whole engine will be soaked and we’ll stall for quite some time, that is, until she dries out. I hope we can make this Price’s place before she gets too much water.”

“Let us hope so, Hal. I fancy I see an outline of Sharpe’s garden wall. If so we won’t be so much longer in getting to Price’s. You won’t get so much water going downhill, will you?”

Hal shook his head and strove to feel hopeful. But they were just crawling along then, struggling toward the summit of Lonesome Swamp Hill.

But at last they got there with the engine sputtering and laboring along at a snail’s pace. Hal forgot his annoyance at this, however, for a sudden blinding flash of lightning lighted up the entire hill and he saw a narrow turret raising its gaunt head high into the storm-blackened night. In the flash that followed, he saw the crumbling garden wall, and the house, all but hidden in the undergrowth behind it, seemed to rest uneasily on its creaking foundation. He couldn’t help but liken the structure to some gaunt old witch and the still more gaunt turret made an admirable dunce’s cap on her weather-beaten old head.

A SUDDEN BLINDING FLASH OF LIGHTNING LIGHTED UP THE ENTIRE HILL.

He confided this impression to his uncle immediately. Meanwhile the motor had stalled completely and he fussed and fumed but to no purpose.

“Looks as if we’ll have to hie ourselves through yonder gate and up the walk and then on to Sharpe’s veranda. The bus won’t yield an inch before she dries. What say, Unk, shall we?”

“How long will that take, Hal?”

“Fifteen minutes—maybe more, maybe less. All depends on how soaked she is. Bad as we are, huh? Price’s place too far for us to walk it?”

“It is in this storm. Perhaps three-quarters of a mile—perhaps a mile.”

“Then we’ll wait till we can ride. Think he goes to bed early?”

“I sincerely hope not, Hal. Since we’ve done so much talking about it, I’m anxious for you to meet and talk to him.”

“Why, anxious?”

“Because he was twice tried for the murder of Eli Sharpe.”