Crimson Shore

9

Constance stepped through the door, then stopped and frowned in instinctual disapproval. The place looked more like a rag-and-bone shop than a historical society. A lot of stuff was randomly hung on the wall — faded maps, old nets, buoys, harpoons, gaff hooks, narwhal horns, sail needles, a gigantic lobster shell on a plaque, another wooden plaque covered with sailing knots, and pictures of Exmouth in the old days. The center of the “museum” sported an old dory, about twenty feet long, with several sets of oars between wooden dowels.

She had jingled a door-opening upon entering and was soon confronted by an eager, gray-haired man with fat-lobed ears stuck onto a narrow, bony face. A badge identified him as a volunteer named Ken Worley.

“Greetings,” said the volunteer, looming into her field of view and proffering a pamphlet. “Welcome to the Exmouth Historical Society and Museum!”

Trying to be polite, Constance took the pamphlet with a murmured “Thank you.” She began an assiduous examination of the dory, hoping he would vanish.

“Nice dory, don’t you think? Disregarded age in corners thrown. That’s the motto of our little museum.”

Parsing this inaccurate spouting of Shakespeare, and without thinking, Constance corrected him: “Unregarded age.”

A sudden silence. “Are you sure? I’ll have to double-check that.”

“No need to double-check anything,” Constance said. “You’re wrong.”

Temporarily set back, the man retreated to his pile of pamphlets and busied himself with a large register book, opening it and flipping through the pages. Constance, who was studying some old framed maps of Exmouth and its environs, could tell that he was down but not vanquished.

“Would you care to put down your name for special mailings and events?” he asked, pointing at the register book.

“No, thank you. I was wondering — where do you keep your archives?”

The man blinked. “We don’t have any archives.”

“No town papers? Property maps? Old marriage registers?”

“I’m afraid the town records were lost in the Great Hurricane of ’38. They called it the Yankee Clipper. It swept away the old Exmouth docks and wrecked half the town. You can still see the ruins on Exmouth Bay. Picturesque, in its own way.”

“So this is it? This is all you have?”

“It may not look like much, but every item here has a story. For example, that Newburyport dory you were admiring was used to hunt great blue whales. When whales were sighted going around Crow Island, the men would rush down to the beach and launch those dories into the surf, chase a whale, harpoon it, and drag it back to the beach, carve it up right there on the shore. Imagine the courage, the pluck, it took — Disdaining fortune, with his burnished steel, which smoked with bloody execution!”

“Brandish’d steel.”

A silence. “I’m quite sure it’s burnished,” said Worley in a stiff voice. “I was a thespian in my youth — and theater director for twenty years at the old Exmouth Playhouse.”

Feeling a rising impatience with this tiresome man, Constance ignored him and continued poking around the museum, glancing over the framed pictures of ships, articles about storms and wrecks and legends of buried pirate treasure. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Worley retire to his chair behind the register book and busy himself with addressing envelopes laboriously by hand. She hoped that would keep him quiet at least until she had finished going through the museum.

She was struck with a sudden thought: How would Pendergast respond to this situation? Would he be able to glean anything from these shabby artifacts and old newspaper stories? Was there something she, perhaps, was overlooking? As she looked around, it dawned on her how Pendergast would, in fact, profit from this situation. The realization caused her to flush with chagrin. She glanced at Worley, still addressing envelopes.

“Mr. Worley?”

He raised his eyes. “Yes?”

And yet Pendergast’s method was difficult. It did not come naturally to her. “On second thought, I think you are right,” she managed. “It is burnished.”

At this his face brightened. “I’ve played Macbeth many times.”

“At the Exmouth Playhouse?”

“Yes, and also once in Boston, at the Market Square Theater. Full house.”

“Boston?” A pause. “I’ve always wanted to go onstage, but I never had the opportunity. One wonders how you remember all those lines.”

Surely the motivation behind such a toadyish observation would be obvious. And yet the man was nodding. “There are ways,” he said. “Various tricks of the trade. It’s really not all that difficult.”

Being a lickspittle was mortifying in the extreme, but Constance found the mortification somewhat mitigated by her observation that his stiff, offended manner was quickly dropping away.

“You must know everyone in town,” she observed.

“I certainly do! Nothing like theater to bring a town together.”

“How fortunate. As it happens, I have a particular interest in lighthouses and was wondering if you knew anything about the one here.”

“The Exmouth Light is one of the most historic in New England,” Worley opined. “It was built in 1704 by order of Queen Anne herself. This was a dangerous stretch of coast. Many ships were lost.”

“I was hoping to find a list of the keepers of the light and their tenures.”

“I don’t think anyone’s compiled an official list.”

She thought back to the information Pendergast had given her at breakfast. “Who was keeper around 1880?”

A silence. “Why 1880?”

She’d been pushing too hard. Really, this was most difficult. “No particular reason,” she said, forcing a little laugh.

“Let’s see. The Slocum family were keepers from around the Civil War — all the way through to 1886, I think. That was when Meade Slocum fell down the lighthouse steps and broke his neck. Afterwards, it was taken over by the McHardies. Jonathan McHardie. They had it up to the time the light was automated in 1934.”

“So there are none of Meade Slocum’s descendants in town?”

“As far as I’m aware there are none anywhere. Widower, no children. He was a drinker. One of the hazards of the job, up at all hours, lonely, isolated — especially in winter. They say he went crazy in his last few years, claimed the lighthouse was haunted.”

“Haunted? How so?”

“The crying of babies at night, or something like that.”

“I see.” She paused. “Where might I find out more about him?”

Worley peered at her under bushy brows. “Are you by chance working with that historian?”

In addition to the age and racial identity of the finger bone, Pendergast had mentioned Morris McCool to her at breakfast. She simply must learn how to ask questions more nonchalantly. “No. Simple curiosity.”

“Because that fellow was asking the same kinds of questions.” He took a step closer, his face clouded with suspicion. “Who are you with?”

Constance felt confusion mingled with rising annoyance. She was botching this. But she didn’t dare lie — not in a small town like this. “I’m here with Mr. Pendergast, the private investigator. He’s looking into the theft of the wine cellar.”

“Ah! That fellow in the red car who got himself arrested yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Good for him. Chief Mourdock is a horse’s ass.” Apparently, Worley felt getting arrested by the police chief was something very much in Pendergast’s favor. “If you could be more specific about what you’re looking for, maybe I could help.”

“I wish I could be more specific. I’m trying to learn the history of the town.”

“It was a shame someone stole Lake’s wine. He’s a nice gent. But I’m not sure the town’s history has anything to do with it.”

“We’re trying to be thorough. One of the things I’m interested in is the history of the town’s African American population.”

“And a very interesting history.”

“Please go on.”

“Down near the old waterfront was what they called Dill Town. It was the black section of town.”

“Why Dill Town?”

“Named after the freed slave who originally settled there. John Dill. Most of the residents were sailors in the early days. That area was actually more prosperous for a time than the white half of town.”

“Why was that?”

“They went out to sea longer, worked on whalers and grain ships. When you’re out to sea, nobody gives a damn about skin color. It’s what you could do. And the crews on those ships were polyglot.”

“But back on land — in Exmouth — was there racial tension?”

“Not at first, when there was plenty of work for everyone. But later on there was — resentment about the prosperity of Dill Town. You see, the Exmouth whites were mostly coastal fishermen. They didn’t go to sea for years at a time a-whaling, like the blacks did. And then, thanks to Krakatoa, things got bad for everyone.”

“Krakatoa?”

“Yes, indeed. Late 1883 it was, the year Krakatoa erupted. There was no summer for Exmouth the following year; folks say there were frosts in every month of 1884. The crops died and the fishing industry failed. By that time the whaling industry was already suffering, and the easy money it once brought in was no more. Things went from bad to worse until there was an incident where a black youth was blamed for raping a white woman. The man was lynched.”

“A lynching? In Massachusetts?”

“Yes, ma’am. They strung him up, threw his body in the bay. In 1902, that was. For the blacks, that was the beginning of the end for Dill Town. It was almost empty by the time the Yankee Clipper blew through in ’38, flattening Oldham.”

“Oldham?”

“A very backward old community that used to exist south of here, on Crow Island. It’s part of that wildlife preserve now, you know.”

“Let’s get back to the lynching. Any idea who was responsible?”

“The usual drunken vigilante types. It’s a matter of shame now, and you won’t get anyone to talk about it.”

“But you’re talking about it.”

“My family’s ‘from away,’ as they say around here. My parents moved here from Duxbury. And I’ve seen more of the world than many of these townsfolk. Don’t forget, I played Macbeth in Boston.”

Constance held out her hand. “I didn’t introduce myself. Constance Greene. Thank you for all the information.”

He shook it. “Nice to meet you, Constance. Ken Worley, at your service.”

“If I have more questions, may I come back?”

“It would be my pleasure. And I hope you and Mr. Pendergast will be able to enjoy our little town while you’re here.” He threw out a hand and ended with a declamation:

Constance knew it was possible the man might be of further use to them. However, her patience was now at an extremity. “Air,” she said.

Worley blinked. “Excuse me?”

“‘Air.’ Not ‘breeze.’ Thank you again for your help, Mr. Worley.” And with the faintest of curtsies she exited the building.