Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 6

Marie arrived earlier than expected. I was out for a hike, chasing the rising sun as it lit up the turning leaves. I’d wanted to recharge myself with fresh air and sun before spending the rest of the day in a dark, dusty attic. I returned to the cottage, expecting to have at least another hour before Marie arrived. I didn’t. She was sitting on the porch, her still form all but lost in shadow, with Sergei’s muzzle nestled in her lap.

Usually, she was full of energy, impatient to start work. This morning she wasn’t. She sat in silence, hunched over her coffee. Her fingers played with the leather pouch she always wore around her neck.

She didn’t move when I approached. No sound, not even her usual greeting of “Mornin’, Missie. You lookin’ good today. Great mornin’ for work, eh?”

Only when my footsteps echoed on the wooden floor did she look up. Although she tried to keep her face in shadow, when she turned towards me, I discovered the reason for her silence. The left side of her face was swollen red, her eye puffy with the beginning of a dark purple bruise.

“Bastard,” I whispered. I should have been prepared. But with the news of the gold mine and Gareth’s phone call, I’d forgotten about Louis.

Marie shrugged her shoulders in mute acceptance and continued the slow nursing of her coffee.

Damn the bastard, why couldn’t he leave her alone? Twice before I’d seen her this way. Each time just before Louis headed back into the bush, almost as if he had to remind her who was boss before leaving her on her own.

“Has he gone?” I asked.

She nodded yes.

“Let me take you to the doctor.”

She shook her head. She’d refused my help those other times too.

“Then let me top up your coffee, and we’ll just sit here and enjoy the morning sun.”

I also brought out a cold pack to help with the swelling. There was nothing else I could do. The only solution was for her to leave him, and she wouldn’t do that.

But who was I to talk? It had taken more than a Janice to force me to finally admit to the truth about Gareth. But although I could admit it, I still couldn’t face up to it. I returned to the kitchen to retrieve the vodka.

“You need some of this,” I said, holding the opened bottle over Marie’s cup. She pushed it away and watched silently while I poured a good measure into my own coffee cup.

“Don’t worry, Missie,” she said. “Kije manido says gonna be okay.”

“Pardon?” I asked, not sure what she meant.

Instead of answering, she smiled and patted my hand as if consoling a distressed child. Then she resumed nursing her coffee.

By the time both of us were smiling, the sun had disappeared behind a layer of cloud. We retreated to the attic as the rain began to fall.

My pulse quickened at the sight of a lifetime of stuff crammed into every inch of space in the large room. Surely buried somewhere in here was something that would tell me whether Aunt Aggie ever owned Whispers Island.

Trunks filled one side of the room from the floor to the steeply slanted ceiling. Wooden boxes, newspapers and who knew what else were piled one on top of another. Furniture spread from one end of the room to the other. A thick blanket of dust mixed with cobwebs, dead insects and mouse droppings coated everything.

The smell of old wood and dead air made us cough. I opened the closest window and flooded the room with a fresh scent of pine, while from outside came the sound of rain tapping on metal.

I looked across the lake to Whispers Island, a dark hump against the backdrop of golden hills. Something moved. Another group of dots, this time yellow, were scrambling over the rocks. Once again a line of boats littered the northern spit of land. They reminded me of yesterday’s strange demand.

“Marie, why did you want me to tell those men to leave the island?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“But you were so insistent.”

“For ancestors.” Marie clutched the amulet hanging from her neck by a thin leather thong. Although it was probably once a fine example of Algonquin workmanship, its deerskin had worn down to a fragile thinness, and its decoration was missing too many coloured beads to be a recognizable design.

“Yes, but why me? I’ve got nothing to do with your ancestors.”

Marie pulled her amulet so hard I thought the thong would break. She stared out the window, then back at me and said, “You got the boat.”

It seemed a plausible enough reason, but I didn’t believe her. She knew how to operate the motor boat as well as I did.

However, realizing from past experience that it would be a tough battle to move her once she’d dug her heels in, I decided to ask her another question. “What do you know of Aunt Aggie’s connection to Whispers Island?”

“Who tell you that?”

“Eric.”

“He blowing in the wind.”

“Are you saying that Aunt Aggie had nothing to do with the island?”

“I know nothing. You want help, let’s get started. I got lots other work to do.” She picked up some empty metal tins lying on the floor.

“Marie, if you know something, tell me. It could stop a gold mine.”

“Know nothing.”

“Tell Eric then, if you don’t want to tell me.”

My answer was a loud clatter as she threw the tins into one of the boxes we’d brought up.

I gave up. Marie had a stubborn streak in her. I’d discovered the best approach was to leave her alone and hope she’d loosen up as her attention became caught up in her work. Sometimes she would relent as the day progressed.

I looked around, wondering where to begin. “What a mess. You’d think Aunt Aggie would’ve gotten rid of this junk long ago.”

Marie continued to ignore me. She touched the swollen side of her face. And then she answered, “Mooti told me Miz Agatta never come up here.”

There was that strange word “Mooti”. When I’d first heard it, I’d assumed it was Algonquin for “mother”. I’d since learned from Eric that it wasn’t, just a special name Marie’s family used.

“Miz Agatta keep Mooti away too,” she added, which reminded me of the time when Aunt Aggie had caught me sneaking in here.

I must have been about twelve or thirteen. I’d found a key labelled “attic” and couldn’t resist the temptation to go exploring. She was very upset and lectured me for what seemed like hours on sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. Next day she changed the lock.

“Mooti said she scared of something,” Marie continued.

“Maybe scared of getting hurt. Look at how wobbly some of this stuff is.” As if to prove my point, the stack of boxes I’d been leaning against toppled over, leaving us sputtering in the cloud of dust.

Then I noticed a likely possibility. “Don’t you think that if Aunt Aggie had squirrelled anything away, it would be in those trunks over there?”

There were five of them shoved against the wall, looking as if they were waiting to be loaded onto a steamship. Even the Cunard stickers plastered on the wooden sides and tops seemed to support this. But the thick layer of grime suggested it was more likely they’d missed the boat a very long time ago.

I was surprised at the discovery. I’d always assumed my great-aunt had never gone beyond the edge of the great Canadian Shield. She had a phobia about leaving Three Deer Point. The only time she left it was to make her annual trip to the village of Somerset, about twenty miles away.

“Marie, did your mother ever mention anything about Aunt Aggie taking a sea voyage?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders in response. Maybe the contents would provide the answer.

We pulled and shoved the smallest into the centre of the floor, away from the sloped ceiling. Although the brass lock was rusted shut, Marie soon had it open after a few sharp whacks with a broken chair leg.

Inside we found the answer, at least partially. On top lay some old menus from the HMS Lusitania, with a variety of dates ranging from July 8 to 16, 1913. While they did confirm the sea voyage, there was nothing to indicate Aunt Aggie was the traveller. The dates, though, did suggest the possibility. She would have been seventeen, old enough for a grand tour of Europe.

A faint whiff of lavender and cedar stirred the air when I removed the next item in the trunk, a richly embroidered Kashmir shawl. Underneath lay more magic.

We lifted out layer after layer of delicate fabrics; laces, silks and sheer muslin, which transformed into a mélange of elegant dresses, flowing ball gowns and other wonderful outfits. They looked Edwardian in style, which would place them in the same time period as the menus. I thought of sumptuous garden parties, glittering balls and romantic moonlight strolls.

“Aren’t these wonderful, Marie?” I pulled another feather-soft Kashmir shawl from the trunk and draped it over my shoulders.

“I never seen nothing like this, that’s for sure.” She held a cloud of pale yellow silk to her short sturdy body while she sashayed in front of a tarnished mirror propped against the wall. The simple Edwardian elegance of the dress seemed to complement rather than clash with her red scarf and long braids.

“Hard to believe, but do you think these could have belonged to Aunt Aggie?”

“I don’ know, Missie. They real pretty. I never seen Miz Agatta in this kind of dress.”

I hadn’t either. I’d only seen her wear plain, tired-looking dresses. However, I had to assume they belonged to her. My great-grandmother had died when Victorian overindulgence was still in style. She’d left only one daughter, Agatha. My grandfather was the other child, but he didn’t marry until after the war. Still, it was very difficult to imagine my great-aunt wearing such beautiful gowns. They spoke of another Agatha Harris, one I never knew.

The remaining four trunks were filled with the same luxurious ladies’ clothes. In none of them did we find anything that hinted at Whispers Island or even Aunt Aggie’s life at Three Deer Point. But we did confirm the trunks and the clothing belonged to Aunt Aggie, with the discovery of a passenger list for HMS Lusitania for the same 1913 dates as the menus. Agatha Harris, together with her brother, my grandfather, John Harris, and their father, my Great-grandpa Joe, were listed among the first class passengers.

When we moved aside a stack of hatboxes, we found another much smaller trunk. However, unlike the other trunks, this one was locked. After we jiggled and whacked the latch several times with no success, Marie came up with the idea of using a skewer from the kitchen. She quickly had it open after a few well placed prods.

At first, I thought it was empty, but moving the light closer revealed that the contents had shrunk to the bottom. When I removed the top layer of tissue, out fell the dried remains of a flower with one paper-thin petal still intact. It looked like a rose petal.

I reached in and pulled out what turned out to be the most exciting discovery thus far, an exquisite lace gown. Once it had been white; now it was a dull, slightly stained ivory. Beneath the lace was the satin under-dress, so soft it slid through my fingers like a breath of summer air. But this was no ordinary gown, for attached was a long lace train which would spread out into a magnificent fan on the floor.

“Wow, isn’t this fabulous, Marie?” I carefully held it up to my front. Like the other ones, it would never fit me. It belonged to a much smaller woman, one Aunt Aggie’s size. “What do you think? Is this a wedding dress or what? Sure looks like one to me.”

“Looks like a dress I seen in a picture.” Marie spread the long train on the floor.

“Surely, this couldn’t have belonged to Aunt Aggie? She never got married.”

“I don’ know, Miz Agatta Ojimisan.”

But the surprise didn’t stop with the dress. Under the gown, separated by another layer of tissue, lay what looked to be a man’s suit, the only male attire we’d uncovered in this entire collection of clothes.

Amazed, I looked at Marie. Responding to my raised eyebrows, she shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know either.

I pulled the man’s clothing from the trunk, item by item, and laid it upon the floor; a black morning coat with matching vest, a pair of trousers, and a white cotton shirt with a wing collar attached. A man’s gold pocket watch complete with fob and chain lay in a small box I found in the pocket of the vest. Wrapped in fine linen was a sash of red silk, the sort of sash dignitaries wore on formal occasions.

I sat back on my heels and tried to fathom what this was telling me. It seemed there was more to Aunt Aggie’s life than she had cared to tell. At no time had she ever hinted that her life had been anything other than that of a spinster living alone in the Quebec woods.

However, we weren’t completely finished with the surprises. There was one more at the bottom of the trunk, and while it answered one question, it brought with it many more.

Wrapped in the folds of a beautiful piece of finely crafted lace was a framed photograph of a man and a woman. They were clad in the clothes of the trunk: he standing, the sash draped across his chest; she seated with the delicate lace veil pushed away from her face. The gown’s lace train filled the bottom of the picture. And pinned to the young woman’s dress was a diamond brooch in the shape of a butterfly, the one now lying in my jewel box, the one I had inherited from Aunt Aggie.

This woman could only be my great-aunt at a very young age. Although thinner than when I knew her, her frizzy hair darker, and her stance more upright, the eyes were the same, a pale clear gaze that looked directly at the camera with no apologies. My father always said I looked like her, and with this picture, I could see some resemblance. But from what little I could see of the man, for part of his face was disfigured by a spot of dirt, he was a stranger.

It was a wedding picture. What else could it be?

“Marie, do you know anything about this?” I asked, holding the photo towards her.

“What you mean, Miz Agatta Ojimisan?” She ignored the picture and continued concentrating on refolding the wedding gown back into its former creases.

“Was Aunt Aggie ever married?”

“I don’ know. Maybe? Don’ know.” She stopped the refolding and glanced at the photo. “I remember picture.”

“What, you’ve seen this before?”

“When I was little. Mooti was looking at it. Next time I come, it was gone.”

“Do you know who the man is?”

She glanced at the picture again, then returned to the refolding of the gown. “Nope.”

She was being evasive again.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

There was a long pause, then she answered. “Yup.”

I decided not to push her further. Obviously, she was hiding something, but she wasn’t ready to tell me. I’d try to find out next time she came.

I was stunned by the revelation of this marriage. Aunt Aggie had never breathed a word of this, not even a veiled hint. I was positive my father hadn’t known. He’d often kidded her about needing a man in her life and even chided her for her obstinate old maid ways.

Judging by her youth and the style of clothes, the marriage would have taken place over eighty years ago. Why would she have kept it such a secret, especially in her last years, when time surely would have blunted whatever had caused her to hide it in the first place? And what had happened to this man, her husband, whoever he was?

So many questions, and no one to ask. It was a year since my father had died and more than likely that my mother, who had never cared for Aunt Aggie, didn’t know. And there were no other living Harrises. Well, I couldn’t leave this alone. The answer had to lie somewhere.

I returned the wedding clothes to the trunk and took the picture downstairs. Deciding it was time this banished couple looked on something other than darkness, I placed it on the mantel beside the paisley china cat that Sergei had taken to growling at.

The discovery of Aunt Aggie’s marriage pushed everything else from my mind. By the time I remembered to question Marie again about Aunt Aggie and Whispers Island, she’d gone.

I did, however, know one further thing about my great-aunt. She was good at keeping secrets.