“Lazarus Heath lives there, Doctor,” he murmured. “Very much the recluse.”
“Which is jest as well fer us,” Linder put in cryptically. Ambler nodded and went back to his reading.
It was at that point that I became aware of the disheveled, weather-beaten creature in the doorway. I had seen Solly-Jo before, wandering the sand-and-stone wastelands of the beach. You will find one such outcast in every small town, I suppose. A slow-witted, distorted brute, with matted blond-gray hair, he combed the shores night and day, ambling aimlessly from spot to spot, sleeping in the lee of some jutting rock. He ate where and as he found food. Always before, the sad, baby-blue eyes turned on me had held a vacant stare, but, now, as Linder gave him his daily free bottle of milk, Solly-Jo was gazing at me with something like sharp understanding in his phlegmatic face. We did not speak further of Heath House, but when I left the store, Solly-Jo slowly followed. He caught up with me and shuffled at my side, smiling vaguely for a time before he spoke.
“You was talkin’ about Heath House, wasn’t you, Doc?”
I nodded; Solly-Jo chuckled softly.
“I know why you was askin’ about it,” he said with a knowing leer. “Only you hadn’t ought to. OP Laz Heath ain’t no friend to nobody. Stay clear o’ that house. They’s things there that ain’t right. They’s bad things….”
“Just who is Lazarus Heath?” I asked.
“OP man… real ol’…. He got a funny smell about him… a dead smell, like dead fish washed up on the beach…. Used to be a sailor, but, now, he’s too ol’… They’s stories about ol’ Laz. Him an’ that daughter o’ his’n…” The lecherous grin returned. “You better fergit about Miss Cassandra, Doc…. I know you seen her; that’s why you bin askin’ about the house…. But fergit it…. She ain’t fer the likes o’ you an’ me….”
Solly-Jo shook his head slowly, and chucked, sadly.
“No, sir…. She’s too much like ’er ol’ man. Stays away from folks, like him. They live out there alone… an’, like I say, they’s things in Heath House…. They’s a bad stink, like Ol’ Laz has…. Nigh onto twenty year ago, Laz was in a shipwreck. Lost fer most two year, then a tramp-steamer found him on a island…. He had this little baby girl with him; said she was his daughter; said his wife died in the wreck…. Only nobody was ever able to find no passenger listin’ fer a Missus Laz Heath…. Then, Laz come back here and bought that there ol’ place. Even ’fore he come they was talk about bad things in that house…. People still talk, only now they whisper, ’case Laz might hear…. Take my word, Doc…. You steer clear o’ pretty Cassandra…. She warn’t meant fer men like us…
I can still remember Solly-Jo’s simian shadow shuffling off along the craggy, moon-washed strand, voracious tongues of nighted tide lapping at his battered white sneakers. If I had not heard of Cassandra Heath before, now that I had my interest was made the more intense by the drone of the beach-comber’s eerie warning still humming in my ears. I chuckled, telling myself it was probably utter nonsense, the maundering phantasms of Solly-Jo’s lonely, warped mind. But, my laughter echoed back from a brooding watery wasteland. I recalled the solemn reticence of intelligent, educated Doctor Ambler, the wordless warning of Eb Linder.
Despite such memories I could not get Cassandra Heath off my mind; I promised myself that I would meet her and this legendary father of hers. It seemed easy enough on the face of it; I could pay them a visit, saying I was a new neighbor. Yet, more than once during the ensuing days, I tried to do just that and failed. Roving the desiccated peninsula on a sunny forenoon, I would set out resolutely toward the misty hulk of Heath House, but I could never bring myself to go all the way. The straggling, mossy embattlements seemed too much a part of another world; looking at the house, you got the notion that you could keep walking toward it, yet never reach the crumbling patio, never pass through the ancient, carven door. It is probable that I should never have met Cassandra Heath, hadn’t she come to me.
Early in October, an Indian-Summer storm washed in from the Atlantic. The day had been long and dreary, overhung with humid fog, and, in the late evening, vicious torrents swept inland under a fanfare of thunder. Through streaming casements I could barely discern the gigantic shell of Heath House, looming defiantly above the lashing fury of a hungry sea. I made a log fire and settled into an easychair; the subdued soughing of the storm combined with a rather dull analysis of Sigmund Freud must have lulled me into a doze. There was a sensation of spinning lostness; my mind ricocheted through the dark well of the rain-whipped night. There was a coldness brushing my face; a nauseous damp clung to my ankles, quelling the roseate warmth of the fireside. Something clicked sharply, and I opened my eyes. I thought I was still dreaming.
The girl stood leaning against the door she had just closed. Dying embers cast a phantasmagoria of lights and shadows on her face and hair. She was slim and well-made; ebony hair flowing to her shoulders gave one a feeling of rich warmth. It matched the steady blackness of extraordinary eyes that protruded ever so slightly. Her skin was deeply tanned. A faint flush in her cheeks and breath coming in quick whispers through full lips seemed to indicate a rather hurried trip. I wondered vaguely at her being quite dry until I realized that the storm had died with the evening. A moment passed, silent, save for the faint dripping of water from the eaves, as the dark eyes met mine.
“Doctor Arkwright?”
The voice, cultured and controlled, like the throaty melody of a cello well played, heightened my illusion of a dream. I rose awkwardly and my book slid to the floor. The girl smiled.
“I’m afraid I must have dozed…
“My name is Cassandra Heath,” the girl said gently. “My father is very ill, Doctor. Could you come with me at once?”
“Well… it might be better to get Doctor Ambler, Miss Heath. You see, I’m not a general practitioner…
“I know; I’ve read of your work. You’re a brain surgeon….
That’s what my father needs….” The voice trembled slightly; shadowed lids covered the ebony eyes for an instant. Cassandra Heath had admirable control. When she spoke again it was in a tone tinged with defiant pride. “You needn’t come if… if you don’t care to…
“No…. It isn’t that at all…. Of course, I’ll come, Miss Heath….”
My mind sliding backward over the beach-comber’s whispered tale, I arranged a small kit with strangely unsteady hands. Cassandra Heath stood silently by the door. I wondered if Solly-Jo’s story had been something more than the weird fiction of an overworked imagination. The defiance in the girl’s voice argued that the legend of Heath House was known and feared by more than this one insignificant wanderer; so much feared that it might frighten a stranger away.
Even without such a veil of mystery swathing her life, Cassandra Heath would have been a striking person. As it was, I was fascinated.
We had walked some distance before the girl spoke again. The moon had risen and phantom rocks glistened in its watery glow. The ocean pounded choppily on a rain-sodden beach and our feet left moist rubbery prints that disappeared as quickly as they were made. Moving with long graceful strides, Cassandra Heath talked in a level monotone.
“I suppose you’ve heard tales about my father. You can’t live in Kalesmouth any length of time without hearing about old Lazarus Heath….” Grim humor touched the warm lips.
“Solly-Jo did a bit of talking,” I admitted.
“You mustn’t believe everything you hear, Doctor. My father is ill. He has been for some years. We prefer to keep to ourselves at Heath House. When people can’t talk to you, they talk about you…. They tell stories about father….”