It was possible, probable, that it was done to provoke, and when there was no reaction, Sam, or whoever, would tire of the game.
Billy put a letter on the coffee table. “I got this in the mail a couple of months ago.”
“Jesus,” said Gabri. “Look at the date. It took Canada Post a hundred and fifty years to deliver it?”
“No,” said Billy, with a small laugh. “Someone must’ve found it. It was sent to my old family home, and the woman who lives there now forwarded it to me.”
They passed it around. When it came to Armand, he put on his glasses and read it through. Twice. Then passed it along.
Only when it returned to Billy did Armand ask, “Who’s Pierre Stone?”
“My great-great-grandfather. Might even be another ‘great’ in there,” said Billy.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Ruth.
The fact that “pierre” was French for stone, making the letter writer’s name essentially Stone Stone, or Pierre Pierre, surprised no one coming from a family with a Billy Williams.
Besides, centuries ago, people were often identified by their trade. In this case, a stonemason.
“The date on the letter is 1862,” said Myrna. “The same as the brick you gave me.”
“Yes,” said Harriet. “Do you think he was talking about this place? That room?”
Monsieur Stone was writing to a woman, perhaps his wife or fiancée, maybe a sister. He described having to learn bricklaying in order to get a job. Fewer and fewer places were made with stone, now that bricks were being manufactured.
It was a glimpse into a changing world, and the sadness a skilled craftsman felt having to give up that craft. For a man named Pierre Stone, switching to bricklaying was clearly painful.
But the emotion in the letter went far beyond that.
The stonemason had, for the sake of his livelihood, accepted a job in a village he’d never heard of, though he’d lived in the area all his life. It was called Three Pines.
The job was small, but he was desperate. He’d accepted it, but with growing unease.
He did not meet his employer. They only communicated through written instructions, and part of the payment was left at a public house in the nearby village of Sweetsburg.
He was to build a wall. Just that. It would seal off an attic room in a newly made building. The materials and tools were already on-site in the attic. He was to arrive after dark and finish the job in one night, leaving before dawn. He was not, under any circumstances, to go into the room.
Just seal it off and leave.
Talk to no one. Take his own food and drink. Leave no evidence behind.
Pierre Stone wrote that he’d been told never to visit the village again. To forget it even existed. He regretted taking the commission but couldn’t see any way out now. Besides, he needed the money. He ended the letter wondering what else he’d do for money. For family.
“‘The Cask of Amontillado,’” said Myrna, quietly. Saying what they were all thinking. Well, almost all.
“What?” said Harriet and Gabri at the same time.
“An Edgar Allan Poe story,” said Ruth.
Seeing Gabri’s eyes widen in dread, Olivier said, “It’s about happy puppies.”
“Yeah,” said Myrna. “Like ‘The Raven’ is about happy birds.”
“What do you think?” Billy asked.
Armand’s eyes narrowed as he recalled “The Cask of Amontillado.” He stared into the fire for a few moments, then looked over his left shoulder toward the door that connected the bistro to the bookstore.
All eyes followed.
“You say you think the room is there?” he finally said.
“Yes,” said Harriet. “We could see it from up at the church. The roofline.”
“How do you feel about breaking through that wall?” Armand asked Olivier.
“Sure. I’m as curious as anyone else.”
Olivier kept his tone light, but Gabri heard the strain. While he didn’t know what the “Amontillado” thing meant, Gabri was pretty sure whatever was up there wasn’t happy puppies.
While Billy got his tools, Olivier took the plans over to the long wooden bar of the bistro and unrolled them, using the candy jars to hold down the corners.
“Looks like the room would be here,” said Harriet, placing her finger on one of the walls in her aunt’s loft. “You agree?”
Fiona leaned in and nodded.
Olivier had taken photographs when they were at the church, and he brought one up on his phone. They gathered around. Now that they could see it, it seemed so obvious. And yet, for a hundred and sixty years, that room had remained hidden.
“The caretaker said we would’ve found it eventually,” said Myrna. “Once you replace the roof.”
“What? There’s no—” began Olivier.
“Breathe, honey,” said Gabri. “You don’t have to do it tomorrow.”
“Roof’s fine,” he muttered as they climbed up to Myrna’s loft.
Once there, they lined up, staring at where the room would be, should be. Probably was.
“Still a bit of a risk,” said Myrna. “We might knock a hole right through into thin air.”
“Not much of a risk,” said Billy. “I can chisel out one brick, and look.”
“What’s the fun in that?” asked Ruth. Though it seemed this cavalier attitude was a pretense. She was, in fact, pretty tense.
At a signal from Olivier, Billy began to chip away mortar that his great-great-great-grandfather had put in place one very long night, a hundred and sixty years earlier.
Reine-Marie, at Armand’s quiet request, had brought out her phone and was videoing it.
Once the brick was loose, Billy wiggled it out of the wall and handed it to Fiona, who gave it to Harriet. Who examined it.
“Exactly the same as your brick, Auntie Myrna.”
“May I?” asked Armand, and Billy stepped aside.
He shone the flashlight on his phone through the small opening. By instinct he also sniffed the air. Not that he expected to smell anything. If it had really been sealed up for more than a century and a half, anything organic would have fallen to dust. Anything, or anyone.
As a homicide investigator, his mind naturally went there. Though it seemed unlikely.
He squinted and peered, but his light only illuminated motes of dust hanging in the air. Undisturbed for more than a century. But that was about to change.
As he went to step back, his light caught something. It looked like a face. And then it was gone. It so surprised him, he leaned away with a start.
“What is it?” Myrna’s voice became unnaturally high.
“I think there’s something in there, but I can’t see clearly.” He did not say “someone.”
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” said Gabri, his eyes wide.
He’d looked up “The Cask of Amontillado.” It was the story of some guy who’d walled up a rival and left him there to die. Not a puppy in sight.
Armand looked at Olivier, who nodded to Billy, who swung his sledgehammer.
CHAPTER 16
The wall came down. Though it took more swings from Billy’s sledgehammer than expected.
“Your ancestor did a good job,” said Olivier, as Billy wiped the sweat from his face.
“Looks like he wanted to make sure whatever was in there stayed in there,” said Ruth.
Armand had gone home briefly, with instructions to those gathered not to go into the room until he returned.
“I think we can promise that,” said Clara.
He returned a few minutes later, holding a worn satchel. His scene-of-crime kit, Reine-Marie knew, though she suspected the others did not. At least, she hoped they didn’t.