Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

The Mystery of Lilac Cottage by J. D. Blumberg

In the New England village of Blue Hill, Maine, townspeople gather at the post office each morning to dispense and receive local news. It was here, on a Monday, that Professor Findlay Hamilton learned of the first puzzling incident.

“Did you hear about the strange lights at Lilac Cottage, professor?” Chief Merrill, the town’s only policeman, asked. Seeing Findlay’s bemused expression, he went on, “Yep. Friday evening, just after sundown. The lights started goin’ on ’n’ off, first in one room, then in another. Lots of people saw ’em. Funniest part is that John Hinkley, the retired navy feller, says some of it was in Morse code.”

Curious, Findlay suggested they retire next door to the Comer Cafe for a cup of coffee.

“Somebody’s idea of a joke, I guess,” Merrill continued, peering into the pastry case, “but not everyone’s laughin’. Some are sayin’ it’s Mary Waltham’s ghost come back to find her husband. You see, accordin’ to Hinkley, the code said, ‘Charles, where are you?’ ”

Findlay ordered a plain doughnut and coffee. “Chief, you’d better start at the beginning. I don’t even know where Lilac Cottage is.”

“It’s that big shingled place on High Street that’s almost swallowed up by lilac bushes. Been empty ever since Charles Waltham died eight years ago. His wife Mary disappeared one Friday night two years before that, and was never seen again. There was no sign of violence; no blood or nothin’. She was just gone. I wasn’t here then, but I looked up the police reports. It was real strange. I mean, at seventy-eight it’s not like she’d run off with someone. Anyway, after he died a niece in Florida, Edna Waltham, inherited the place and, bein’ sentimental, left it just as it was in case her aunt came back. Guess she finally gave up hope, though, ’cause about five years ago she had the power and phone shut off and quit takin’ care of the place.”

He paused for a bite of croissant. “I called her this mornin’, but no answer. I don’t guess there’s any harm in those lights, but I’d like to get hold of a key anyway.”

“Sounds like she turned the power back on,” Findlay observed. “Perhaps she plans to fix the place up and sell it.”

“The power company says not. That’s one of the interestin’ things. I went over there to have a look. The red tag’s still on the meter, and the dust and cobwebs look real undisturbed. What do you think of that?”

“I think the town is going to have a field day talking about this,” was Findlay’s only comment.

It did. Most residents found it pleasantly titillating, but some of the less sophisticated were openly nervous. On Tuesday, a deputation from this group called upon Chief Merrill to demand action. Although Merrill listened sympathetically, and assured them he was on top of things, he privately felt the matter could safely ride for another week. As far as he could see, there was no danger to persons or property; Lilac Cottage had remained dark since Friday and might very well stay that way. He did continue his efforts to contact the owner of Lilac Cottage, and finally learned that Edna Waltham was on a Caribbean cruise and wasn’t due home for ten days.

The following Friday evening Findlay went with the chief to see if the phenomenon would be repeated. A crowd of about two hundred people from Blue Hill and surrounding towns assembled in a vacant lot across from Lilac Cottage, alternately expectant and sheepish.

They didn’t have to wait long. The evening gloom had barely settled in when the dining room chandelier burst into a hundred lights. Expectant or not, everyone jumped, then broke into satisfied exclamations of fright. Just before the dining room went dark, a green lamp in an upstairs window began to flash on and off. Tonight several Morse code readers were present, and their voices could be heard in the darkness spelling out the words. The message was the same as before, “Charles, where are you?” For thirty minutes rooms lit up, and the green lamp repeated its code several times. Just as a few were becoming restive, screams erupted from the vicinity of the house. Real fear gripped some until two nearly hysterical youngsters, who had ventured to the windows for a better look, pounded into view. Gasping, they reported bodies floating in the living room. Several men started across to investigate but turned back when the house went suddenly dark. The crowd, subdued now, milled about for a while and finally dispersed.

Findlay and the chief were thoughtful as they walked down the hill. “I don’t believe in spirits,” Findlay declared, “especially ones that use Morse code, but that was pretty impressive for a house without electricity. Someone’s playing an elaborate joke; the question is, why?”

Merrill’s voice held a new note of determination. “That’s what I’d better find out. Last week folks were after me to explain it. Think what this week’s gonna be like.”

“There is an explanation,” Findlay said. He was, after all, an engineering professor. “I’ll put my mind to it. In the meantime, since you can’t get a key, you might consider getting a search warrant.”

Lilac Cottage, imprisoned by its namesake shrubbery, was one of three houses at the top of High Street. The next morning, looking up at its gabled roof, sagging shutters, and cobweb-draped windows, Findlay had to admit it was perfect for a haunting. Smears on the glass showed where the children had been, so he thrust himself through the stiff branches to the window, grateful he had no wife to complain about what he was doing to his clothes, and looked inside. Merrill was right. The dust of years lay heavy in the room. The floor was covered with it, thick and undisturbed. If there had been bodies in the room last night, they had indeed floated.

Perplexed, he searched the grounds for the alternate electrical source he was certain must be there. He was on the west side of the house, peering under a large rhododendron, when he heard a stealthy movement nearby. Whoever or whatever it was crept steadily toward him until he could hear its labored breathing. Then it stopped. Findlay figured his own breathing was equally loud, for he was having trouble getting enough oxygen. Nothing further happened for at least a minute until finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. Estimating the breather was less than two feet away, he collected himself, took aim on the sound, and swiftly parted two thick branches. A man stared out at him, his pale face almost obscured by a bushy black beard and unkempt hair.

“Who are you?” Findlay croaked.

“Who are you?” the man retorted.

Findlay could see the fellow wasn’t one to seize the initiative, so he introduced himself. “I’m Professor Hamilton,” he said, in a steadier voice. “The police chief asked me to look things over.”

“Oh. Uh...” the man stammered, not meeting Findlay’s eyes. “I’m George Stevens. I work for Mr. Daley next door.” He motioned behind him. “I heard you moving around and came to see what was going on.”

Findlay’s heartbeat resumed a more normal rhythm, but he felt foolish. For a man who didn’t believe in ghosts, he’d wasted an absurd amount of adrenaline.

When Stevens returned to his work, Findlay decided it was time he talked with the neighbors. The Episcopal vicar, John Witter, who lived on the east side of Lilac Cottage, welcomed him with a cup of well-brewed tea, but on the subject of the ghostly lights he was both disapproving and uncommunicative. He had known the Waltham family, however, and Findlay learned that their only child, a daughter, had been killed in an automobile accident with her husband some years before. A grandson, then about fifteen, had come to live at Lilac Cottage for a short while. The vicar didn’t know what had become of him.

Back in the village Findlay called at Jim Daley’s jewelry store. A sign on the dingy door advised shoppers to watch for the upcoming end-of-summer diamond sale. From the unprosperous appearance of the store, Findlay hoped the sale would be a success. Daley was working at his computer when Findlay entered but seemed willing to stop and talk. He laughed when Findlay described his meeting with Stevens, and commented that, despite his wild appearance, the man was a good worker. A graduate student at a small West Virginia college, Stevens had shown up on Daley’s doorstep in June looking for work in exchange for room and board. He was living in Daley’s attic, working on some new computer programs for his degree. This led to a discussion of computers which, although way over Findlay’s head, did start him on a new train of thought. When he left the store, he hurried home to place a call.

Merrill leaned back and put his feet up on Findlay’s coffee table.

“Interesting about that grandson,” he said. “I wonder why the niece inherited instead of him?”

“Maybe they didn’t like him, or left him money instead,” Findlay said impatiently. “The important thing is, did you get the warrant?”

“Hah. The D.A.’s office almost laughed out loud. They’re all tied up with that big drug case in Bangor. Told me to call back when I had some evidence of a crime.”

“We may have some for them soon,” Findlay smirked. “First, though, tell me what you know about Jim Daley.”

“Not much. Single. No trouble. He came here a coupla three years ago from New York.”

“I thought the store looked a bit seedy,” Findlay commented. “Yeah. People told him there wasn’t much business here, but he said he just wanted the quiet life.” Then, “What’d you mean, we might have some evidence soon?”

“I’ve figured out how it could be done and I’ve an idea Daley is behind it,” Findlay said. Merrill sat up straighter. “Something he said today gave me the idea. I called a student of mine who’s into computers, and he said you can remotely operate lights, appliances, doorbells — anything electrical, in fact — by computer. You don’t even have to be at the keyboard. It can all be programmed, like a VCR. Those floating bodies probably came straight out of a projector hidden in the living room at Lilac Cottage.”

“That’s great,” the chief retorted, “but you still need electricity. And we ain’t got any in Lilac Cottage.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m sure it’s Daley. He has a computer, and other than the vicar, he’s the only one close enough to be supplying electricity. I couldn’t find it, but there must be an underground wire from his house to Lilac Cottage.”

Merrill looked underwhelmed. “But why would he do it? And what am I supposed to do, arrest him for impersonating a ghost? Break in and demand to see his computer? The D.A. would bust a gut. Naw, you’ll have to do better’n that, professor.” He rose and stretched. “Gotta go. Saturday’s my big night. Never know when someone’ll get drunk and steal the Coke machine again. I’ll see ya later.”

After he left, Findlay did some hard thinking and hoped Merrill wouldn’t do the same, for he didn’t want that wire found until he’d puzzled this out. The chief was right about one thing. Why would Daley do it? It couldn’t be a ruse to frighten people away from Lilac Cottage; every person who could walk was going there because of the lights. A diversion, perhaps? Was the plan to keep people away from somewhere else? Findlay could feel his blood pressure mount. Away from where? The bank? The pharmacy? Then it hit him. The diamond sale! Daley would, no doubt, have added inventory for the event. Insured inventory. If he was in financial difficulty, what better time for a robbery?

Findlay didn’t sleep well that night. He faced the moral dilemma of whether to expose Daley now for the hoax or wait and catch him in the act of robbing his own store. He copped out by deciding to let the chief decide.

The idea of a jewel robbery caught Merrill’s imagination. He didn’t see any dilemma at all. Daley was a nice enough fellow, but if he was going to rob his store, he deserved to be caught doing it. He made plans to get additional police from another town. When the lights flashed this week, the store, the bank, and the pharmacy would be watched, as well as Lilac Cottage.

Friday night Findlay elected to remain with the crowd on High Street; Merrill had promised to sound his siren when Daley was apprehended. The atmosphere was charged that night, for almost at once the green lamp signaled, “Charles, I didn’t leave you. I was murdered.” Clever of Daley, Findlay thought. No one will leave now. It was then, with everyone jostling for a better view, that Findlay found himself standing next to Daley himself.

The jeweler smiled at him. “Evening, professor. Quite a show tonight.”

Findlay could hardly believe his eyes. He had been so certain. Where had he gone wrong? His heart sank as he pictured Merrill’s embarrassment when the much-touted robbery didn’t take place.

“You okay, professor?” Daley looked concerned.

Just then the siren began to wail.

Findlay was only momentarily confused. “I’m fine, Mr. Daley, but you’d better come with me. I think there’s something going on at your store.”

Findlay filled him in as they hurried to the chief’s tiny office behind the drugstore, carefully omitting any mention of Daley’s role as prime suspect. By the time they arrived, a Hancock County sheriff’s car was on its way to pick up the prisoner.

“Here’s your thief,” Merrill beamed. “Caught him up to his elbows in your diamonds, Mr. Daley.”

“But that’s George Stevens, my handyman!” Daley exclaimed.

All Findlay said was, “Call the D.A. first thing tomorrow. I’m dying to see how he did it.”

With Daley and two sheriff’s deputies, they went through Lilac Cottage the next morning. They found a small metal box wired into the electrical service panel in the cellar. In the living room, above the window, a projector peeped through a slit in the curtain valance. Stevens had evidently stayed close to the wall when he installed it so his footprints couldn’t be seen from the window. Elsewhere, no such precautions had been taken. Footprints were clearly visible on the stairs and in the bedroom where he had moved a table and the green lamp to the window.

“I wonder why he made no attempt to cover his tracks,” Findlay said. “If we had gotten inside, the whole thing would have been obvious.”

“Won’t do any good to ask him,” Merrill said. “He’s not sayin’ anything.”

Stevens’s silence lasted until Tuesday. Two things happened that day: the results of the fingerprint check came in, and Edna Waltham identified a faxed photo of her nephew. Gerald Sullivan, alias George Stevens, had a long arrest record, mostly for drug use and burglary.

After that he talked. He claimed he had been cut out of his inheritance by his aunt and had come to Blue Hill to get some of the things he felt were rightfully his. Finding nothing of value in the house, and desperate for another source of funds, he came up with his hoax. He knew his aunt would be away and couldn’t supply a key to the police. With a trace of pride, he explained how he had set up the hoax. He had tapped into the circuits of the lights and projector and connected them to his homemade “system operator,” a few microchips and a modem. It was then a simple matter to operate them via modem from his own computer. Ironically, he’d taken all his computer courses while serving a four year sentence in Florida.

When Findlay arrived at the post office Wednesday morning, Merrill was there shaking hands and basking in the admiration of the townspeople. “The whole story will be in the Weekly Packet tomorrow,” he told Findlay.

“Your stock has certainly gone up in this town,” Findlay grinned.

“So’s my job security. You wouldn’t believe how many people now think Mary Waltham was murdered. I can investigate that for years!”