A Hiss Before Dying

November 2, 2016 Wednesday

The fieldstone living quarters, built at the same time as St. Luke’s, were set on an east-west axis to catch the beautiful sunsets. Sun set earlier now as the winter solstice loomed ahead. Over the decades the well-proportioned structure first had lanterns and candles, then gas lighting, then electrical lighting. A coal furnace gave way to oil which just last year was supplanted by a brand-new heat pump costing $7,200 with installation. The water bubbled up from a deep well, good underground mountain runoff water.

Inside the fireplaces, chimneys cleaned each year, augmented the modern heat. As power often failed, the fireplaces proved essential. Maybe the house temperature hovered in the midfifties on those powerless days, but at least the pipes didn’t freeze. By the fireplace it would be warm.

The floors, old random-width heart pine, glowed with the centuries of use. The walls, repainted regularly, kept to the original colors, pale yellow, pale mint, pale blue. Anyone from the later eighteenth century would have called upon the pastor and felt right at home with the exception of electrical lighting, harsh to an eighteenth-century eye, and the soft purring of air from the vents. But the home was as it had always been. The attached stable became a garage, a toolshed was hidden behind the house, and a well-stocked woodshed attached to the kitchen side door by a covered walkway. Granted, one had to carry in all the cured wood, but it remained dry thanks to the sturdy shed with one old light fixture overhead.

Elocution, Lucy Fur, and Cazenovia commanded the pillows on the bed on the second story, facing east to wake up with sunrise. Facing east afforded a bit more warmth, as the winds usually socked the house from the northwest. Also facing east meant one need not overlook the graveyard, tranquil though it was, on the western side of the property. The graveyard sat below the two descending gorgeous church quads, the one surrounded by the arcades of the church. The huge, lower-level one was set off with a low stone wall, as was the graveyard. A hand-forged iron gate rested in the center of the graveyard wall, which stood at two and a half feet. Inside, various stones stood, some dating from the founding year of the church, 1781. The large log cabin built then had provided protection from the elements. The old cabin had been broken up in 1810 to make way for landscaping, Capability Brown’s ideas being all the rage. The few parishioners who died during that time rested in a tiny enclosure closer to the stone church itself, having been enlarged twice during construction, again on the west side. The later graveyard, established when the church and house were finished in 1786–87, bore testimony to the excellence of design and execution. All had stood the test of time. Over the years tombstones began to appear, as well as a few statues. Then, too, small square, low stones nestled by large tombstones. Usually a date and a faded name had been carved on the tiny stones that covered deceased infants and young children. No man or woman could ever assume that all their children would survive to adulthood. Fevers, whooping cough, sometimes measles, accidents carried off the young.

The cats complained as Reverend Herb slid under the comforter, the one blanket, and the sheet. He plumped up two pillows behind him, which didn’t disturb the cats, but they complained nonetheless.

A fire threw off dancing light. One lamp on a nightstand provided reading light. Wearing an old T-shirt, long sleeves, Herb opened Elizabeth Longford’s Vol. I on the life of Wellington. He’d read both volumes years ago but wanted to refresh his memory. He liked Mrs. Longford’s work and he loved the Iron Duke.

A light wind slightly rattled the windows on the west side of the house. The wind brushed the east side of the house. The denuded tree branches swayed a bit. A perfect night for reading oneself to sleep, Herb thought.

“He always reads about war stuff,” Cazenovia remarked. “He could read us ‘Puss and Boots.’ ”

“He was a soldier before becoming a minister.” Elocution wrapped her tail over her nose.

“You’d think if a person went to war, they wouldn’t want to be reminded of it,” Lucy Fur suggested.

“True, but this is about old war, not Poppy’s war, which I guess is turning into an old war,” the calico, Cazenovia, said.

The Reverend Jones’s war was Vietnam, where as a young captain he learned he had the gift of leadership. He determined if he survived the war, he would study at the seminary and hope to lead men and women to God.

The cats thought all this fine but knew that the human version of the Almighty was usually represented as a man with a long beard. Naturally, the Almighty was a splendid cat but the humans would never get that, so the cats worshipped their way and left their beloved Reverend to his way.

Sharp ears, the cats heard a truck motor up by the church, which was just about one hundred yards away by the paved roadside. Five minutes passed and they heard something out in the graveyard. Reverend Jones’s human ears couldn’t hear it.

Elocution, nosy, hopped off the bed, hurried to the west bedroom, hopped onto the window ledge. “Hey, come see.”

The other two shot off the bed to join Elocution. The night dark didn’t stop them from clearly observing a figure, couldn’t see his or her face, pushing over two tombstones. He knelt down, peered at the earth under the headstones with a flashlight, then turned it off and left.

“Could you see his face?” Cazenovia asked.

“No, but whoever it was didn’t move like an old person. No hitch in his giddy-up.” Lucy Fur watched a regular walk.

“Should we rouse Poppy?” Elocution asked.

“No. It’s dark, he’s in his nightshirt. Whatever it is it will keep until morning,” the calico prudently advised.

Not only did it keep until morning, it kept until the early afternoon. Instead of walking to his office Thursday morning, he elected to drive, kitties in the backseat. Once in his office, he worked at his desk.

Harry came at one o’clock, said hello, then climbed upstairs. She opened the window to check and see if she could fix the flashing from inside, hanging out the window. Realizing it was, in fact, precarious, she knew she would need to hire a workman to do the job outside on a ladder. Herb wouldn’t have it any other way.

As she closed the window, she stood for a moment and looked down over the grounds and noticed two tombstones knocked over.

Back down the stairs, she stuck her head in the pastor’s office. “Reverend, two tombstones are down in the graveyard. I’m going to have a look.”

“What?” He glanced up from his papers.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll check.” She left and all the cats followed her, for she’d brought Mrs. Murphy and Pewter. Tucker, the lone dog, also stayed at Harry’s heels.

The graceful, simple markers, four feet high, in the old section of the graveyard, lay flat down.

The animals inspected the damage.

“Whoever did it had to push hard.” Mrs. Murphy noticed the dug-in heel prints in front of the tombstones.

Harry knelt down. The slightly larger stone belonged to Michael Taylor, born February 2, 1729, died October 15, 1786. The second tombstone belonged to his wife, Margaret Taylor, born June 11, 1740, died October 15, 1786.

“Hmm.” Harry figured there would be records somewhere in St. Luke’s, but when a husband and wife died on the same day or close together in time often it was illness or accident. The same with children.

Then she bent down closer to the earth and noticed marks like someone had plunged a blade into the soft earth. The earth underneath each marker had this feature.

Standing up, hands on hips, she thought for a moment, then bent down, trying to lift up a tombstone. As it was very heavy, she couldn’t do it.

“Dammit,” she swore.

Tucker sniffed the earth. “Old.”

“Of course, it’s old,” Pewter sassed.

“Old bones,” the dog continued.

“How can it be old bones?” Mrs. Murphy wondered. “People were buried in caskets, pine boxes at the least.”

“Being an undertaker was a good business,” Lucy Fur said. “Still is.”

“No. There are old, old bones down there. Maybe three feet from the ground surface. I’m a dog, remember.” Tucker held her ground.

“Well, who cares? Dead is dead.” Pewter lifted her nose.

Harry, already walking toward the church, hands in pockets, wanted to know about Michael and Margaret Taylor.

Once inside, she trotted back to Herb’s office. He looked up and from her expression knew something held her attention.

“Do you have the records of everyone in the graveyard? I mean, easily accessible.”

“Yes. Remember we put all that on a computer disc four years ago. That was a job. The original docs are in the safe downstairs and temperature controlled, I might add.” He smiled, pleased that the congregation had been so supportive, interested even in that project.

“Would you pull up Michael and Margaret Taylor. Died, both of them, October 15, 1786.”

“Give me a minute.” He tapped onto his keyboard.

“Where are the crunchies?” Pewter asked. “There are always crunchies in this room.”

“Where they always are. On the counter by the sink.” Elocution no sooner said that than Pewter was on her way.

“Fatty,” Lucy Fur whispered and the others giggled.

“Michael and Margaret Taylor. Married twenty-eight years in Christian harmony. Both taken by the wasting disease on the same day. October 15, 1786.”

“Usually that means tuberculosis, doesn’t it?” Harry inquired.

He glanced back at the large screen. “Did. Actually, many of the causes of death were very accurate. They knew heart attacks and strokes. They may have used different language, but it’s clear. Tumors were mentioned and, of course, the sweating sickness. Malaria. Those were almost always summer deaths, and fortunately not many of them. St. Luke’s kept very good birth and death records. The interesting thing about malaria is if we have some facts about someone’s life, we often know they had been to the Caribbean or down to our Low Country. And, as you know, some people can live years with malaria. Now, might I ask why you wanted to know about the Taylors?”

“Their tombstones are knocked over. Pushed.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He stood up to leave the room.

Harry, all the animals save Pewter, face in bowl, followed him.

Once at the graveyard, Harry pointed down to the dirt. “Can you see those straight marks, like knife plunges?”

“Yes.” He knelt down. “I think I can push these up with the front-end loader.”

“Don’t. You might chip the tombstone. I’ll call Fair. He’s so strong. If Fair and Ned come on over, they can right these in no time.”

“You’re right. I didn’t think about chipping anything.”

Hours later, Fair and Ned righted the tombstones. Harry had returned to the church to watch and Herb also watched. The two men, Fair at six-five, Ned at six feet, put the stones exactly in place, but Harry first pointed out the odd marks.

Fair, job finished, said, “There, the Taylors can rest in peace. They weren’t disturbed.”

No, but someone else was.