Given the high quality of the spirits that Mortimer had sampled during his own visit to the tavern, he had no doubt that these stories were true. The people of Greensburgh were a friendly sort, though their expression turned guarded when he’d asked for stories about his ultimate destination.
Mortimer put little stock in this. As an insurance investigator, he had traveled far and wide. He knew of the petty rivalries that developed throughout the nation, as towns vied for one resource or another. Sometimes all it took was a single slur issued by a public official to spark off a period of disenchantment between communities that would last for generations.
After failing to get much out of his hosts, Mortimer had finished his drinks, engaged in a couple of out-of-tune bar songs with the locals, and then retired to his quarters.
He rose early in the morning, as was his wont, and bathed silently in the basin set out for his use. There was a floor-length mirror in his room and Mortimer had studied his nude form in its surface, counting the scars that lined his right flank. There were four of them, still fiery looking after all this time. Some five years before, he had gone into the mountains in search of a woman named Mary Owen. He had found her, of course — he always found those he sought — but on the way back, he had accidentally stumbled upon a black bear and her cub. The animal had assaulted him and left him for dead. He’d managed to drag his bleeding form all the way down the side of the mountain and though the scars sometimes terrified the women he took to his bed, he was proud of them. They reflected his tenacious nature, he thought.
Mortimer Quinn was aged thirty-two and had worked in his current capacity on behalf of The New England Insurance House for over ten of those years. He was tall and well formed, with the sort of rangy build that men of extreme activity sometimes have. He was neither as broad nor as handsome as some, but the overall combination of his looks and intelligence were usually enough to catch the eye of a single woman — and more than a few married ones, as well.
Mortimer considered himself an upright person but he hadn’t looked at a bible in years and his habit of fornicating with women at every stop had gotten him into trouble on numerous occasions. It wasn’t that he liked to leave a trail of broken hearts behind him — he genuinely found women to be wonderful companions and, when the feeling was strong within him, he would do nearly anything to bring a smile to the faces of those he courted. Given how much he had lost on behalf of his job, he thought it a fair trade. He had no stable home and was on the move virtually every day of the year. A small bit of lascivious diversion wasn’t so bad in the light of that.
After settling his bill, Mortimer set off. By half past lunch, he had come to a small valley nestled between high hills and despite the fact that he was an experienced traveler, he found himself giving pause to examine his surroundings. It was the epitome of the word peacefuclass="underline" a small brook glided through it, with just enough of a murmur to encourage Mortimer to set down his pack and rest. The occasional chirp of a bird was the only thing to interrupt the scene and even that only served to increase the dreamlike atmosphere of the place.
This was the area known as Sovereign and its dark influence was known throughout the region. Locals swore that ghouls, demons and criminals populated the place. Stories were sometimes told about how the area had been enchanted by an old Indian Chief, in the days before Diogenes Daye had founded the city. Others held that a German doctor had placed a curse upon the land during the early days of the settlement, causing all who dwelt within it to become infused with the sins of gluttony and violence.
As Mortimer approached the place, he remembered how one man in the tavern had told him that the residents of Sovereign lived strange lives, filled with the sorts of events that most people would regard as mere fairy tales.
Supporting that was the strong inclination towards superstition that many in Sovereign were said to possess. Though none in the tavern would dare tell the tale, Mortimer had previously read about one of the more infamous hauntings in the area — a Hessian soldier, killed in the Revolution, was said to still wander the area at night.
According to local legend, the Hessian had been buried in an unmarked grave in a churchyard. Now he and an ebony horse would ride out from amidst the graves, on a grim hunt for his missing head. It was said that occasionally, the Headless Horseman would ride down those unlucky enough to be caught on the roads with him and decapitate them. Whether the Horseman hoped to somehow use these heads in place of his own, or if he simply lashed out in anger, was unknown.
Mortimer bypassed the mayor’s office and instead stepped into the local tavern, which seemed to be a nameless establishment. Despite the fact that it was midday, the tavern had several men within. They were clustered in three small groups, two of which had been engaged in small talk. The third group was playing darts. All conversation and game play ceased, with most heads turning to greet the newcomer.
Mortimer nodded at those closest and ambled to the bar. The fellow behind the oak counter had weather skin, thinning hair and dark eyes. He eyed Mortimer with undisguised curiosity, openly studying the fine clothes and perfectly coifed hair.
“Can I help you, sir?” the barkeep asked, his voice sounding smooth as molasses.
“Your best whiskey, if you please.” Mortimer set his traveling sack down on the floor and pulled out a wad of paper money that made the barkeep gasp. Mortimer set down enough money to buy everyone in the tavern a round of drinks, several times over. “My name’s Mortimer Quinn. I was hoping that you might answer a few questions for me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Mortimer studied the amber colored liquid that the barkeep poured into a cup. “Do you own this establishment, Mr-?”
“Hendricks. Jacob Hendricks. The owner is Mr. Gumby, sir. I work here during the daytime and he’s here at night.” The dollars disappeared into Jacob’s pockets and Mortimer knew that Gumby would never hear of them. “If you’d like, I can leave a message for Mr. Gumby on your behalf.”
“No, no. I think you’ll do just fine.” Mortimer downed the alcohol in one swoop and he shook his head as the liquid burned its way down his gullet. “I represent an insurance company looking to get in touch with a relative of a recently deceased client.”
Hendricks leaned closer, as did everyone else in the tavern. “Somebody around here has inherited some money?”
“Yes. I’m looking for a gentleman who moved here from Connecticut several years ago. All of our attempts to reach him have failed so the company sent me here to investigate.”
Hendricks swallowed hard. “Connecticut? You must mean Mr. Hale, the old school teacher.”
“Old? Mr. Hale should be in the prime of life. I’d hardly describe him as old.”
“I meant he doesn’t live here anymore.” Hendricks licked his lips, grabbing a dirty rag that he began to drag across the wooden surface of the bar. Maybe you ought to ask the Mayor. He might know something about where we went.”
Mortimer looked around the tavern, noting that no one was looking at him any longer. He tapped the bar thoughtfully, raising his voice. “Anybody else here know Mr. Hale? I’m looking for Samuel Hale.”
A kindly looking fellow in a worn jacket cleared his throat. “All of us knew him, Mr. Quinn. But none of us have seen him in nearly a year.”
“Did he resign his position as school master?”
An uncomfortable silence descended, broken only by the sounds of Hendricks making himself busy behind the bar. It didn’t take any of Mortimer’s investigative skills to know that he’d stumbled onto something unusual.