Fanshawe sighed. Now she’s a matchmaker. Great. “Actually, ma’am, a walk is all I’m looking for today.”
“Oh, sir, yes, sir, and what a splendid day it is to be about a walk. The weather couldn’t be more propitious, er, what I mean is favorable. In fact, a day like today’s what we called the acme of summer where I come from”—she faltered. “Or…might I have already mentioned that, sir?”
“No, ma’am,” he lied. “It’s an apt description.” Fanshawe couldn’t resist; he put a ten-dollar bill in her tip jar.
“Gracious me, sir, and blow me down! ’Tis a higher place in Heaven which awaits men of a generous heart, yes, sir. Says so in the Bible, it does. And a heart generous as yours, sir? ’Tis likely the size of a bloomin’ haggis.”
Fanshawe could’ve reeled at her antics now.
“Thank you, sir!”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Anstruther, and have a great day.”
He stepped away, amused by her continued outpouring of gratitude in the outrageous accent. But in just moments he found himself strolling by the Travelodge, and he felt his shoulders slump. Don’t look, don’t look, he begged himself. Frolic was heard, shrill summer laughter, and splashing. He was passing the pool, with all those enticing windows running behind and over it. He could hear his teeth grinding as he hurried away, so wanting to look, but demanding of himself that he do no such thing. When he was safely past, he was shaking in place.
God, I am SO screwed up…
But his resistance didn’t make him feel better once he’d outdistanced the temptation. He found the signs, then the trails themselves almost unconsciously, and was wending upward in a daze. What was it? Passing what was surely a bounty of bikini-clad women by the pool? Knowing that somewhere among these dirt- and gravel-scratch paths the two beautiful joggers lurked?
He walked more quickly, trying to empty his mind.
His feet took him higher and higher up the grassy hillocks until he found himself close to the highest peak, peering between the hulks of two unruly bushes. The bushes’ smelled foul. Yes, he was peering…
Oh, for God’s sake…
He was peering back toward town. In the blaze of sun, the buildings—and their scores of windows—blazed back at him. A change of angle next, then the pool threw white, wobbling light into his eyes. When he squinted, he detected the tiny shapes of swimmers and sunbathers, and when he raised the squint…
He cursed himself.
Even at this distance, he could make out the rows and rows of first- and second-floor windows at the Travelodge. On the balconies of several units, the tiniest human shapes became evident. Fanshawe’s conscience felt split down the middle, one half relieved that he was too far away to see anyone in detail, the other half enraged that he no longer carried any of his erstwhile optical devices. He stepped away from the useless vantage point.
Stray walking occupied the next quarter of an hour. First came the peak of Witches Hill…and along with it a shimmy in his gut. Next, he found himself again examining the odd rain barrel at the clearing’s fringe, and its ten-inch-wide hole which made no sense. With less conscious thought, though, he drifted over to the meager stand of trees that he knew overlooked the lower clearing—the clearing where he’d spied on the topless joggers. There’d been no sign of the women among the trails, and no sign of them now continuing their secret embrace: the lower clearing stood bare.
Minutes later, he discovered the next sign, one he’d missed on his first expedition. HAVER-TOWNE CEMETERY, the sign informed. EST. 1644. Its layout was long and narrow, and girded by a crude and well-rusted iron gate. The farthest perimeter was studded with teetering tombstones whose inscriptions were barely legible from the sheer passage of time; some of the stones’ actual edges had abraded as well. With some effort, Fanshawe made out dates from the seventeen- and sixteen-hundreds. But the stones seemed rather paltry in number, then he remembered Mrs. Anstruther’s comment about a sparsity of them. In all, the word decrepit seemed an ideal description of the place.
But most of the perimeter within the gate lacked any extruding markers at all, which leant the cemetery a bizarre disproportion. Where’s this tabby stuff Abbie and the old woman were talking about? he wondered. The position of the sun led him into the western portion of the graveyard. Sure enough, as he looked down into sprawls of weeds, he made out the crude patches of cement on the ground with names and dates finger-grooved in them. Another sign told him: THIS IS THE WEST END OF THE CEMETERY, THE UNCONSECRATED END. COUNTLESS WITCHES, HERETICS, & CRIMINALS HAVE BEEN BURIED HERE…
Fanshawe shuffled around the patches. Bodies down there, skeletons, he thought. Images formed in his head, images of the long-buried. He took extra care not to step on any of the patches. Many of these were even less legible than the bonafide stones, but in a moment he had stopped, gone down on one knee, and peered.
One patch read: JACOB WRAXALL, 1601-1675 CONVICKT’D OF SORCERIE, DEVILTRIE, & INFERNALL PROPHESIE. And the next patch: EVANORE WRAXALL, 1645-1671 CONVICKT’D OF WITCH-CRAFT & DIABOLIK CONSORTE. Four-year difference, Fanshawe calculated. But he was already jarred by his most immediate observation. What have we here?
At the foot of the patch that marked Evanore Wraxall’s final resting place, there was an oblong hole, as if the coffin had collapsed…
…or been exhumed and removed.
Fanshawe tweaked his chin. So this was the answer to Mrs. Anstruther’s cryptic comment, referring to the grave plot as “queer.” For sure, in the area of space below which must be occupied by the corpse, there was a distinct indentation, almost as though that particular spot of ground had eroded, nearly like an old sinkhole.
There was nothing else to presume other than the body must have been removed a very long time ago.
So much for a decent burial.
Several crows screeched at him from a high tree, but the birds looked sickly, bare patches showing. Large pink circles surrounded their tiny black eyes where feathers had fallen out; Fanshawe thought of negative omens. But his previous absent-mindedness returned; he was walking without thinking. Could this be the better part of his conscience blocking more thoughts of voyeurism? Next thing he knew, he’d entered another clearing not far off from the graveyard. He stood still, his eyes addressing a stone pedestal of some sort, about four feet high, and tapering as it rose. At first he guessed it might be a more elaborate grave-marker but then found no plaque or chisel-work to identify the interred.
Sitting atop the pedestal was a tarnished metal sphere.
It was slightly smaller than a soccer ball. Fanshawe’s impression was that the sphere was brass, for age had tarnished it to a deep patina over which a tracery of whitish incrustation had developed. This reminded him of the calcium deposits that frequently accumulate around faucet spouts. Cleaned of its patina the object would be impressive to look at; now, however, it was an eyesore. I wonder what… Oh, this must be the ball that Abbie mentioned last night when I was leaving the bar.
What had she called it? A viewing ball? A gazing ball?
He stepped closer, leaned down, and was able to see markings on the pedestaclass="underline" swaths of geometric shapes, such as stars, circles, crescents, as well as fairly tiny lines of writing in some language other than English. He took a wild guess and thought Hebrew. But some of the geometric shapes reminded him straightaway of Jacob Wraxall’s brooding portrait and the features of his pendant. To the touch, the pedestal itself must be marble.