Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 33

I made some tea and plunged right into my search for the owner of Whispers Island. I tried the only three listings for “Watson” in the local phone book and came up empty. Two were recent arrivals to the area, and the third said that if he had inherited an island, he’d be living on it. However, the calls weren’t a total failure. From the last guy, I learned that Gareth wasn’t too far out in front. He’d only contacted this Mr. Watson three days ago.

I called all the farmers whose families had been living in the area for at least seventy years. None of them remembered mention of any Watson living in or around the Echo Lake area. Although one farmer, too young to know for sure, promised to ask his Uncle Jim, (who made it his business to know everyone’s business), first thing in the morning when the old guy woke-up.

Gareth had also contacted most of them. But since he appeared to be only one step in front of me, I wasn’t completely worried, not yet. I also had access to a source totally unknown to him, Aunt Aggie’s old papers. What a joke on Gareth if it turned out “William J. Watson” really was Aunt Aggie’s jilting lover. I returned to the turret room where I’d left her wooden boxes and started going through them again, this time looking for the specific name.

I carefully re-read all letters between young Agatha and her bosom buddy Edith, hoping to find some reference to a boy or a man with the name Bill, Will or any other variation of William. I sifted through the boring correspondence with lawyers, accountants, and stores, thinking that maybe he was someone Aunt Aggie had done business with.

At one point, my heart jumped when I saw the name Willie, but it was soon stilled when I finally found a reference to his full name, Willie Miller. In none of them did I discover the name William J. Watson.

As for mention of boyfriends of any name, the Baron Johann von Wichtenstein was the only male admirer gushed over by the two friends. I was beginning to wonder if the lover had ever existed.

Not yet willing to declare defeat, I returned to the attic to see if there were other likely hiding places for old papers and discovered several large cookie tins tied with string. I took these back down to the turret room to continue my search.

In one box, I was surprised to discover several letters from Great-grandpa Joe to his son John, my grandpa, dating from the late 1920s. Thinking there might be a good reason for my great-aunt having saved them, I read them thoroughly. However, there was nothing of importance, at least not to me, other than a few admonitions for John to watch out for his sister, and a query about when Agatha would be finally leaving the sanatorium, which supported Mother’s comment on the state of Aunt Aggie’s mental health.

Underneath lay some loose photographs of the Harris family at play against the backdrop of Three Deer Point. I got a kick out of seeing my grandfather being pushed into the water by a very small version of my father. Even Aunt Aggie was smiling in some of these pictures. From the style of the clothes and the Bonnie and Clyde car, these dated from the 1930s. In none of them was there an unknown gentleman who might have been William Watson.

The next item I pulled from the box finally confirmed that Baron Johann von Wichtenstein was the key man in Aunt Aggie’s life. It was a photo album, whose black felt-paper pages were crammed with smiling, frolicking pictures of Agatha and the tall light-eyed stranger of the wedding picture, the man with the terrible facial scar. Like the others, these had been taken at Three Deer Point. And from the ankle length of Aunt Aggie’s skirts, I guessed they were taken towards the end of the First World War.

This was an Agatha I would liked to have known: Agatha laughing on the Forgotten Bay beach with Johann, the two of them encased in the shapeless sacking that served for bathing suits at that time; Agatha giggling behind a large birthday cake covered with tiny candles, how many I couldn’t count; Agatha and Johann in a canoe, shading their eyes from a hot summer sun; and the two of them sitting on a picnic table, Johann’s arm around Agatha, her head on his shoulder, eyes blissfully closed.

I chuckled at a picture of Johann, the Hunter, that was almost a photocopy of the one of Great-grandpa Joe with his trophy deer. Decked out in a worsted jacket, laced knee-high boots with a porkpie on his head, a triumphant Baron stood, exactly as Great-grandpa Joe had stood, leaning on a rifle barrel in front of the verandah of Three Deer Point with an Indian guide at his side. But instead of three dead deer hanging from the verandah hooks, there were four. It made me wonder if the Baron wasn’t trying to outdo his father-in-law, something which, given my great-grandfather’s legendary ego, would have only put him in Great-grandpa Joe’s bad books.

There was nothing of value or interest in the remaining contents of the cookie tin, so I turned to the next one. A top layer of more useless letters, but underneath lay a promising collection of small leather-bound books. My hopes jumped when I read the word “Diary” embossed on the cover of the top book. If William J. Watson had ever been Aunt Aggie’s lover, then surely she’d have written about it in her diary.

I easily unlocked its brass clasp after a few well placed prods with a nail file and with bated breath opened the stiff cover. But it was with mixed emotions that I read the words written on the inside leaf: Diary of Baroness Agatha von Wichtenstein.

Although it finally confirmed beyond a doubt the identity of Aunt Aggie’s husband, I thought it unlikely my great-aunt would write about former lovers after she’d married. Still, William J. Watson might have been a friend of the Baron’s. And I was very curious to know what had caused the end of their marriage. So, with the tin of diaries in hand, I retreated to the living room, threw another log on the fire and sank into the chesterfield.

It took me until the early hours of the morning to read the collection of five journals, one for each year of their short marriage. In the end I knew the tragedy, which no doubt shaped the remainder of my great-aunt’s long life, a tragedy that began without warning.

June 3, 1915, Montreal

Today is the happiest day of my life. What a common statement, but it fits my mood perfectly, for today I married Johann, my sweet wonderful Johann. At last I can say I am the Baroness von Wichtenstein, although Father says I shouldn’t use it because of the war. While Father is still not reconciled to Johann being German, he kept it to himself. He was as polite and friendly as any father of the bride should be to his new son-in-law. Life is truly wonderful. I thank God for giving me the strength to forgive Johann. And I bless Johann for his perseverance. If he had not blocked my way onto the ship, I never would have discovered how much he truly loves me. How silly I was to rip up his last letter without reading its tender loving words. But he rewrote them on our wedding day, and I’ve hidden them away in a secret place so they will never be lost to me again.

And Johann’s words had remained safe until the day I’d dropped the wedding picture.

July 21, 1915, Three Deer Point

At last all our baggage has arrived. I thought travelling around Europe with a carriage load of trunks was difficult enough. Little did I know how difficult it would be to move to Three Deer Point. Our goods have taken a month to travel from Montreal. The railroad lost them for a time, the wagon bringing them from Somerset broke an axle on the Mountain road which then took a week to repair. While it was fun to wear Snow Flower’s Indian dresses, I will be so glad to return to my finery. Johann, on the other hand, quite enjoyed playing Indian. I think it is with some regret that he has returned to his civilized suits. I’m so glad Johann has fallen in love with this wild country. I was worried he wouldn’t.

At first, I assumed that the newly married couple, following the Harris tradition of spending summers at Three Deer Point, would return to my great-aunt’s hometown of Toronto with the onset of fall. But I was wrong. As autumn moved into winter, they stayed, and there they remained as the years unfolded.

February 12, 1916

I never thought Three Deer Point could be so beautiful. We are locked in a land of snow and ice, completely cut off from all civilized life, including the precious letters from my family and friends. Our neighbour Dieter says it will be late April before the roads are passable again. In the meantime, Johann has become the hunter of the family. Sometimes I join him, but usually he spends his days with Rushing Bear trekking through the deep snow on snow shoes, searching for dinner. I have come to quite enjoy venison steaks and stewed hare.

April 3, 1916

I will be glad when the roads are finally passable, and we can have visitors. It has been a long winter and a lonely one, with Johann gone most of the day. One of the first things we will do is raise cattle. With our own source of meat, Johann won’t have to devote so much time to hunting. I thought and hoped I was with child, but this morning put an end to our desires. Thank goodness I kept my hopes to myself. This would have hurt Johann terribly.

July 5, 1916

We had a wonderful picnic on the big island today on an absolutely perfect summer day. It took five boat loads to ferry over everything, including our guests, Edith, brother John in his new uniform, and the Vogts with their beautiful baby boy. Such a marvellous change having people around after the long, lonely winter. But with so many friends fighting in France, our visitors are few. Snow Flower brought her youngest sister, Summer Wind, to help out. Snow Flower would like me to hire her sister, but I have no need of another servant at the moment. Still, she is very sweet, so I think I will keep her in mind for when Johann and I have our child. I pray to God it happens soon. Johann is getting impatient. Must ensure the continuity of the von Wichtensteins, you know.

December 18, 1917

I believe I can now safely say I am with child. It is three months since my monthlies stopped. Johann is ecstatic. He is so concerned about my health that he spends every waking moment by my side. I’m loving it. He’s not paid this much attention since the first year of our marriage. But I really don’t blame him. There is much to do in keeping Three Deer Point thriving, and of course the lure of the wild hinterland is hard to ignore. Johann can’t say no to the next bend in the river, but must follow it until he has reached the end. Unfortunately, the end sometimes takes weeks before he finally remembers to return to me. I hope with this child he will remain closer to home.

March 19, 1918

I threw that harlot out of the house today. I don’t care if it’s still winter. I can’t take another minute of that Irish Jezebel. How dare she think she can have Johann. Edith warned me to watch out. She said that when men like Johann succumb to their animal instincts as he did with that servant in Germany, they will be tempted to transgress again. I won’t allow it. Even if I am heavy with child. To punish him, I will close my door to him till after the birth. Now I will have to find a replacement for Beth. Pity, she was such a good servant.

April 3, 1918

I can’t find my child. I don’t know where he’s gone, such a beautiful little boy. Johann says he’s gone away, but Johann’s lying. That hussy took him. My baby will come back to me. I am his mother.

June 30, 1918

I can finally say it—my baby’s dead, poor little Johann. These past months have been so dreadful. Without Johann’s calm and caring presence I never would have made it. I love him dearly. He is my life. We are young. We are healthy. Children will come.

April 21, 1919

Today we have been blessed, Johann and I, with the birth of a beautiful little girl. She is whole. She is gorgeous. Johann says she looks just like me, but I know that is his way of saying I love you. We are both so very pleased and relieved that there was no mishap. Now we must find the perfect name for such an enchanting child. We have both decided that at least one of her names must be Summer Wind, for she has been a godsend during my long months of confinement. And if our daughter were to be as sweet and beautiful as Summer Wind we could not ask for more.

October 21, 1920

My child is dead. My husband is dead. I can live no more.

And as I read this last entry, my heart broke as Aunt Aggie’s must have broken. So this was the true story at last. At least Johann hadn’t deserted her. Instead, he’d stuck by her, even in her madness. It was death that took him away, and not only him, but also their small daughter. And they must have been horrific deaths for Aunt Aggie to lock them away. I had little doubt that this was the tragedy that had sent her reeling into madness.

Mother was wrong. Agatha’s terrible tragedy had nothing to do with the betrayal of a lover. And it looked as if Mother was also wrong about the name. None of Aunt Aggie’s diaries mentioned a Watson or any other English name starting with a W, nor did I find any reference to such a person in the remaining papers.

I did, however, find one faint glimmer of hope. It was a childhood letter to Grandpa from a Billy. Although it was unlikely that this person became the owner of Whispers Island, it still offered a faint possibility that Mother might have better success with Grandpa’s papers.

I smiled at the references to Marie’s grandmother, Summer Wind, in several of the diaries’ entries. It seemed she was as important to Aunt Aggie as her daughter Whispering Pine later became.

During my search of the last cookie tin, I discovered one more interesting item, actually two; they were small pieces of quartz with a minute thread of gold. They looked exactly like the rock that had lit up our eyes on the granite ridge of Whispers Island. It would appear that Aunt Aggie had also known about the gold.