The Peculiars (17 page)

“Work in the library will have to be temporarily suspended until we get through the next week. Apples need to be picked and the squash harvested before the first hard frost. Jimson, there are ladders in the shed and buckets as well.”

Jimson seemed eager to ignore Lena. “I’ll go and get started, then.” He drained his teacup and left the table.

In the kitchen Lena tied one of Mrs. Pollet’s well-worn aprons over her own plain dress. Since she would be working all morning in the orchard, she was glad that she had dressed sensibly and chosen her practical dress. Her home in the City had only window boxes to cultivate and a small square of lawn off the back steps, which her mother called a handkerchief garden. She hoped that Jimson would know what they were supposed to do.

The leaves of the apple trees were gold, and scarlet fruit hung heavy in the branches. The hedge of sumac lining the orchard burned red. It was as if the entire world had caught fire overnight. The orchard was small, only thirty trees on the south side of the house. Jimson had already set up a tall picking ladder at the base of a tree.

“There are buckets and boxes in the garden shed. Come help me carry some out.”

The shed was long and low, built of miscellaneous woods. The one window let a little light into the dimness. It seemed to function as a workshop, a gardening shed, and a place to store odds and ends. A workbench ran the length of one wall. An assortment of tools hung neatly above it. At the far end of the shed a jumble of discarded items had been dumped in a hasty pile—an old wooden birdcage, a bicycle wheel, numerous broken crates—all ready for the incinerator.

“That seems to be the gardening section,” Jimson said, pointing to a short wall where hoes and rakes hung above shovels and hoses. There was a tall stack of wooden crates on the floor beneath. “It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” Lena could hear the delight in his voice.

“Well, it’s interesting. I suppose those are the boxes we use? I’ve never done any gardening or orchard work before. We live in the City.”

“Don’t worry. My mother has always had a huge vegetable garden. Some years it was the only way to feed all of us. And we have fruit trees too—apple, plum, and peach. I’ll climb the ladder and wear the picking apron. Then you can fill the crates.”

Lena had made her way over to the jumble of discards. “This must be where everything from the house ends up. Look, there’s even an old child’s wagon.”

“Help me with the crates, Lena. We’d better get started.”

At the bottom of the pile something white and soft gray caught her eye. She bent down. Then tugged away several of the discards. “Jimson, come here! There are feathers and blood!”

Two severed wings the size of an eagle’s had been buried under the pile of discarded items waiting for the incinerator. Cartilage protruded from the end of the feathers, which were discolored with the rust of blood. Lena felt her stomach heave. If the sun had not filtered through the window at just the right angle, she might never have noticed them.

Jimson poked them with his finger and whistled. “Looks like a big bird was killed.”

Lena’s throat grew tight. “Or something’s happened to your winged lady.” Again she thought of the drawings in Mr. Beasley’s sketchbook and of the marshal’s words.

They were both quiet, and then Jimson spoke. “We can’t go jumping to conclusions. It’s a pair of severed wings, but we can’t assume what they’re from. But it looks like Mr. Pollet had a pile ready for the incinerator.”

“I’m going to take some feathers.” Lena gathered a small clump in her gloved hands and put them in the oversized pocket of the kitchen apron. “Now what do we do?”

“Nothing for the moment. I don’t know enough about different kinds of birds. I think we’d better get to work.” Lena could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “Keep your eyes and ears open. I’m going to do some investigating later.”

“Not without me, you’re not!”

Jimson shot her a look she couldn’t read.

In silence they carried stacks of wooden crates and placed them next to the ladder. Lena inhaled the smell of apples and damp earth.

“You get the lower branches. I’ll get the higher ones.”

Lena started to protest, but Jimson looked pointedly at her feet.

“Go ahead then.”

The rhythm of picking apples, dropping them one by one into the basket on her arm, and then dumping the basketload into a crate, was soothing. But all the while Lena was conscious of the clutch of feathers in her pocket. She looked up through gold leaves burnished by the sun. “I don’t think we can wait. We need to find your winged woman and make sure she’s all right. I have an awful feeling that there’s something terrible going on here.”

“It could be a coincidence. Things aren’t always what they seem. That’s one of the principles of science.” Jimson sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “But you’re right. We need to keep searching. I just can’t believe Mr. Beasley’s up to no good, no matter what the evidence says. Lena, let’s promise we won’t do anything until we talk to each other first.”

By noon Lena’s arms ached. Six wooden crates were full to overflowing with apples. She looked down the row of trees and realized that they had barely made a start. Jimson had been humming quietly, not his usual talkative self, but then Lena barely felt like talking either, the weight of their discovery subduing her.

Just after noon Mr. Beasley returned in a cab with Leticia Pollet and another passenger.

“It’s time to take a break for lunch,” Mr. Beasley called
in their direction. Lena hardly dared look at him, but she recognized the passenger who climbed from the car. It was Milo, the man she had met on the beach. “I’ve brought someone to help us. He’s willing to help with the apple harvest.”

“We met when I first came to Knob Knoster,” Lena said.

Milo was wearing the same cap and the same coat with baggy pockets that she remembered from their previous meeting.

“Ah, the young miss that wants to go to Scree.”

“So you’ve met Lena.” Mr. Beasley gestured toward Jimson. “And this is my librarian, Jimson Quiggley.”

Milo nodded. “Pleased to meetcher.”

Mrs. Pollet insisted on serving lunch, again over Mr. Beasley’s protestations. It was a hearty soup she had made earlier in the week. Her severe black dress made her face even paler. Lena noticed that her eyes were dry now, but she was still silent.

“Looks like the mail’s come.” She carried the day’s correspondence in on the silver mail tray. “A letter for you, Mr. Jimson.”

Lena couldn’t help noticing that the fat letter smelled decidedly like perfume.

“And a letter for you as well.” Mrs. Pollet placed a slim envelope at Lena’s place. Lena snatched it up, hoping it was news from home. Instead, the return address, lettered in a cramped hand, was that of her cousin. Lena took a last spoonful of soup.

“Please excuse me. The soup was wonderful, Mrs. Pollet. Just what we needed after working in the orchard all morning.” She left the rest of them at the kitchen table and made her way to her room.

Her gloves were dusty from the work in the orchard, and she gratefully peeled them off. Then she stretched her fingers wide, trying not to think of Jimson’s words as he held her hand in his own. What business did an engaged man have, talking like that? Then she undid the laces of her alligator boots, still damp from the orchard grass, and rubbed her tender feet. Using a brass letter knife, she sliced open the thin envelope and unfolded the single sheet. The same cramped writing. She quickly scanned the closing. The letter wasn’t from her cousin at all. It bore the signature of Thomas Saltre.

October 25, 1888

Dear Lena
,

I would appreciate the chance to speak with you in person two days from now. My job requires that I leave town for several days. I would like to see you before I leave. And I am sure that you will have information that will be beneficial to us both. Please meet me on the pier at 3 o’clock
.

Your servant
,
Thomas

Lena folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. She retrieved her purse from the dresser and removed the contents of her wallet. She had saved every penny of her salary since starting work at Zephyr House three weeks prior. The amount was meager, but Mr. Beasley had provided a small advance so that she might purchase necessities. A few weeks more and she would have enough to purchase supplies for Scree. The marshal had promised her a guide if she supplied him with information. Perhaps the marshal would take her himself. She rested her chin on her steepled fingers. Staying in this house any longer than necessary was unthinkable. She would be sorry to leave Jimson, but he had his Pansy.

She pulled the sketchbook out from under her pillow and riffled through the pages, hunting for the Annuncius syndrome. There were the wings protruding from shoulder blades, just as Jimson had described them, just as she had found in the refuse pile of the garden shed. No, she couldn’t leave until she found the woman. She looked down at her hands and feet. She might be next. It was time to show the sketches to the marshal, no matter what Jimson thought. In another hour she would be needed back in the orchard. She lay on her side, curled in like a comma, and slept.

“My father was a fisherman. He loved the ocean. But Mother, she loved the land. I been working on both land and sea as long as I can remember.” Milo picked apples at a steady clip and talked just as steadily. “Zephyr House used to be a working
farm, but that’s long before Tobias Beasley came and added all these curlicues and doodads to it. Used to be the old Guthrie place. One of the few families round here that had nothin’ to do with fishing or whaling. They’re the ones planted this orchard. Mostly Baldwins and Belmonts, from the look of it.”

“So, what happened to the Guthries?” Lena found Milo’s stories a good distraction. They made the work go faster. On the other hand, she couldn’t talk to Jimson about searching for the winged woman.

“They got gold fever—every last one of ’em.”

“You mean they took off for the California gold rush?” Jimson asked from somewhere up in the leaves.

“No, I mean they headed north to Scree.”

“But Scree doesn’t have gold, does it?” Lena took a bite of a large red apple and let the sweet juice wet her mouth and throat.

“Scree has more resources than most folks know. It’s got the richest coal and copper mines anywhere. There’s always been rumors of other veins as well. Gold ore for the taking, and silver mines. ’Course most of the land was undeveloped, and no one really knew for sure what was up there. Looks like this crate is full. Mind you keep the ones that are too bird-pecked out. Leticia can use ’em for pies.”

“So, did the Guthries find gold?” Jimson heaved the ladder to the next tree.

“If they did, I never heard about it. They never came back. Old man Guthrie had three sons. All of ’em redheads, just like
him. They went off together, along with Mrs. Guthrie. The youngest boy was still in knee pants. House finally went up for auction, and that’s when Tobias bought it. Not many folks would walk away from property like this unless they made their fortune or unless sumthin’ unfortunate happened to ’em.”

“You’ve been to Scree, haven’t you?” Lena asked.

“Ah-yuh, but it’s been a long time. Scree was just Scree then. It wasn’t protected by our gov’ment.” Milo gave a dry bark of a laugh.

“What was it like then?” Lena asked.

“It wasn’t as empty as the gov’ment would like you to believe. Scree’s a beautiful place, wild and full of life. The folks that lived there liked it that way. Adventurers came north to make their fortune, like Guthrie and his sons, and developed large mines, but there’s always been mining in Scree. The native folks were mining long before we showed up.”

Lena craned her neck to look up at Milo, who perched like a gargoyle on the top rung of a ladder. “What kind of native folks?”

“Folks we might find a bit peculiar. Now the gov’ment’s making them work like slaves in their own mines. Ain’t right . . . ain’t right a’tall.”

THE FUNERAL WAS A SMALL AFFAIR, CONDUCTED AT THE EDGE OF
a cliff facing the sea. Leticia Pollet had insisted that her husband be buried on Mr. Beasley’s land because it was the place where he had been happiest.

The sky, Lena thought, was too blue for a funeral, the sun too mellow, and the entire world too alive to commemorate death. Arthur’s younger brother, Edwin, had arrived from the Middle West and stood awkwardly next to Leticia, his head crowned at her chin. His pale wrists jutted from the cuffs of an ill-made suit, and he wore shiny spats. Arthur and Edwin had not been close, Leticia had informed them, but Edwin was Arthur’s only living relative—a banker, never married and terminally shy. He kept his chin down, his eyes focused on some imaginary spot beyond the open grave. He looked, Lena decided, as if he might bolt at any moment.
The only other guests were Milo and the Crimptons, an elderly brother and sister from Knoster who had known Arthur from a time before his life at Zephyr House.