Thirteen
For the rest of the night, I was undisturbed, and I slept until nearly eleven o'clock in the morning. I drove into Granitehead Village just before lunch, parked in the centre of the square, and walked across the brick-laid street to open up Trenton Marine Antiques.
Granitehead was a smaller version of Salem, a collection of 18th- and 19th-century houses and shops gathered around a picturesque marketplace. Three or four narrow streets ran steeply downhill from the square to the curved and picturesque harbour, which these days was always densely forested with yachts.
Right up until the mid-1950s, Granitehead had been a rundown and isolated fishing community. But with the rise of middle-class affluence in the late 1950s and early 1960s, and with it the rise of yachting and deep-sea angling as widespread middle-class pursuits, Granitehead had quickly become a desirable place for anyone who wanted a waterfront cottage within driving distance of Boston. An aggressive planning committee had bullied out of state and federal funds enough money to remodel all of Granitehead's most elegant and historic buildings; tear down street after street of slummy old fishermen's cottages; and replace the shabby warehouses and dilapidated wharves with jewelers, menswear shops, art galleries, cookie cottages, English-style pubs, beef-and-oyster restaurants, and all those fashionable and slightly unreal shops that make up the modern American shopping mall.
I often used to wonder where I could go in Granitehead just to buy ordinary food and ordinary household necessities. You don't always want to eat Bavarian strudel and buy hand-crafted pottery mobiles for your designer kitchen.
Mind you, Trenton Marine Antiques was just as guilty of shopping-mall kitsch, with its green-painted frontage and mock-Georgian windows. Inside, there was an expensive clutter of ships-in-bottles, shiny brass telescopes, sextants, demi-culverins, grappling hooks, navigational dividers, paintings, and prints. The favourite, of course, was always the figurehead, and the more bosomy the better. A genuine figurehead from the early 19th-century, especially if it were a bare-breasted mermaid, would fetch anything up to $35,000, occasionally more. But the demand was so insistent that I employed an old man up at Singing Beach to carve me 'authenticated reproductions' of old-time figureheads, using the centerspread from the May, 1982, issue of Playboy as his model.
There was a clutch of bills and letters on the doormat, including a note from the post office that they were holding all the prints that I had bought earlier in the week at Endicott's auction. Later on, I would have to go over and collect them.
Although I had managed to catch some sleep, I was feeling depressed and irritable. I didn't really want to leave Granitehead, and yet I knew that I wasn't going to be able to face another night at Quaker Lane Cottage. I was torn by a unique combination of fear and emotional pain. Fear because of the coldness, and the whispering, and the stark fact that I had seen one of these apparitions kill Mrs Edgar Simons by means of something which I could only describe as black magic; and emotional pain because I loved Jane, and to see her and hear her and feel her, while all the time I knew she was dead — well, that was more than my mind could stand.
A squat middle-aged couple came into the store, in matching maroon quilted jackets. They blinked through matching Coke-bottle spectacles at ships-in-bottles, and whispered between themselves. 'Aren't they cute?' asked the wife.
'You know how they do that, don't you?' the husband suddenly asked me, in a loud New Jersey accent.
'I have a vague idea,' I nodded.
They cut through the masts, see, so that they fold flat, and they tie them all with thread, and when the ship's inside the bottle, they tug the thread and all the masts stand up.'
'Yes,' I said.
'You learn something every day,' the husband added. 'How much for this one? The whaler?'
That was made in 1871 by a midshipman on the Venture,' I said. Two thousand, seven hundred dollars.'
'I'm sorry?'
Two thousand seven hundred. I might go down to two-five.'
The husband stared down at the bottle in his hand speechlessly. Eventually he said, Two thousand seven hundred dollars for a model boat in a bottle? I could build it myself for a buck-and-a-half.'
Then you should,' I advised him. There's quite a market for ships-in-bottles. Even new ones.'
'Jesus,' the husband said, putting down the bottle as if it were the Holy Grail, and already starting his retreat from the shop. He kept on looking around, so that he wouldn't completely lose face, and I knew that he would ask the price of just one more item before he went, and say ‘I’ll think it over, and call back later,' before disappearing forever.
'How much for that hook thing?' he said, right on cue.
That grappling-hook? That came from one of John Paul Jones' vessels. Eight hundred and fifty. A bargain, as a matter of fact.'
'Hmm,' said the husband. 'Let me think about it. Maybe we'll call by after lunch.'
Thank you,' I said, and watched them leave.
They had only just gone, however, when Walter Bedford came into the shop, wearing a broad smile and a black London Fog raincoat that was a size too large for him.
'John, I just had to call by. I had a call from the district attorney this morning. They've decided to be reasonable, under the circumstances, and drop the homicide charges. Insufficient evidence. They've told the newspapers that they're looking for a maniac of considerable strength, just to make it look kosher; but the main thing is that you're free. Right in the clear.'
'No money passed hands, I hope,' I said, a little sarcastically.
Walter Bedford was in too good a mood to take offence, and clapped me on the back. The truth is, John, the modus operandi was giving the chief of police something of a headache. He had the coroner's report late last night, and the coroner said that the only way in which Mrs Edgar Simons could possibly have been impaled on that chandelier chain was for the chain to have been forced through her body before the chandelier was fixed to the ceiling, and then for the whole caboodle, chandelier and body and all, to be hoisted up, wired, screwed in, and left to dangle. Now — even given that the murderer had a block-and-tackle to lift the chandelier and the body, it would have taken him at least an hour-and-a-half to complete the job, not to mention the time it would have taken to remove the hoisting equipment, of which there was no trace in the house. An hour-and-a-half places you well away from the Simons house, according to Mr Mark-ham and Mr Reed, and so your alibi is absolutely solid. Case dismissed.'
'Well,' I said, 'thank you very much. You'd better send me a bill.'
'Oh, no, no bill. Not for you. Not when you've managed to bring back Jane.'
'Walter, I really don't think — '
Mr Bedford gripped my upper arm, and looked me steadily in the eye. He smelled of Jacomo aftershave, $135 a bottle. 'John,' he said, in his best courtroom voice, 'I know how you feel about this. It's scary, and it's also deeply moving. I can understand, too, that you may want to keep these visitations to yourself, particularly after the way in which Constance and I have blamed you so much for what happened. But both of us understand now that it couldn't have been your fault. If it had have been, Jane wouldn't have wanted to come back to you, and comfort you from the spirit world. Constance, I can tell you, is deeply, deeply, apologetic for the way she's felt about you. She's filled with remorse. And she begs you, John, even though she's not a begging woman — she begs you to let her see her only daughter again, even for the briefest moment. I guess I do, too. You don't know what this means to us, John. We lost everything we ever had when we lost Jane. Just to be able to talk to her again, just to see that she's happy in the world to come. Just once, John. That's all I'm asking.'