Phillips harbour
Tuesday October 6, 1868
On Monday afternoon, Mr. Shaft visited the church again, and was offered a tour by the pastpor, Rev. Milton. The reverend was favorably impressed by the Englishman, and took the time to thank him for his efforts in trying to find the missing Rev. Hale. He readily agreed to allow Mr. Shaft to photograph the property and the attached graveyard at his leisure. The church's graveyard is quite small, however, and the pastor explains that most people now are buried at a larger cemetary northeast of town, near the undertaker's home.
Meanwhile, Caliban returned to the inn and attemped to follow the floury tracks leading away from it. This wasn't much trouble at first, as the prints led off the road and into a nearby toolshed. The floor of the shed had more flour, as well as mud, yellow-beige animal hairs and a lingering smell of whiskey and vomit. Caliban guessed that the coyote (?) was here for a few hours during the day, but he'd left sometime before Caliban's arrival. From the shed, Caliban easily tracked the coyote through a few yards and sidelots, although he was chased off the trail at one point by an irate housewife.
After a mile or so, the prints reached the river's edge and disappeared into it. Presumably, the coyote went into the water and rinsed off the flour and various distinctive odors; in any event, Caliban was unable to pick up the trail again on the far side.
On Tuesday morning, the town is buzzing with the news that Reverend Hale was found stumbling through the northern woods at around dawn. Two men on the porch of the General Store are discussing the event in some detail when Herbert and Caliban arrive in late morning to buy fresh bread, apples, and a bottle of brandy. Reports apparently vary as to his condition, from 'at death's door' to 'healthy but addled'. Rev. Milton took him in and is turning away all visitors except for the doctor and his assistant.
A third man stops by, whom the others greet as 'Mack', and he offers additonal news: "That Frenchman is back, too! Or mebbe he never was gone, I don't know. I saw mud tracked up to the stoop of my house what I'd rented to him, an' seein' as no one 'ad seen the French guy in days, I figures it's some ne'erdowell tryin' who-knows-what in my house. But wouldn't ya know the Frenchman himself is inside! And in a foul mood, too. Wouldn't say a thing about what he'd been up to! Practically set that bird o' his on me, too, he did!"
Behind his master, the shirted, fezzed ape crunches on an apple industriously, holding with his free hand a basket with the morning groceries. He gives the appearance of lazy interest in the shop talk.
After paying for his purchases, Herbert leaves the store and turns towards the larger cemetery on the edge of town. Once he and Caliban are far enough away to avoid being overheard, he tells the ape, "You should probably talk the mouse again when you have a chance. He might have a clearer report of what happened to Hale, and how the Frenchman might be involved." He also passes Cal an apple.
"Ook." The ape considers this while turning the apple over in his hand, then crunches on the second one. Another muffled "Ook" sounds vaguely affirmatory.
The day is cool, dry, and pleasant, making the long walk out of town to the cemetary much more pleasant than the rain-soaked search for Reverend Hale on Sunday. When they arrive, they find the graveyard large and shaded. It's surrounded by pine forest on three sides -- obviously, plenty of room for expansion -- and a low stone wall along the road. The plots are covered in neatly-tended grass, though few have markers more elaborate than a simple cross. The only freshly-dug grave in the cemetary has no marker at all. Paths of stepping stones lead between the half-dozen rows of plots.
A small white house adjoins the property. Faint sawing sounds and the occasional thump come from it, along with an off-key whistling.
Caliban gives his master a sidelong glance, then looks skyward.
"Why don't have a look around, Caliban, while I chat with Mr. Hobson," Herbert suggests. "Likely as not, we won't be the only group that needs material components of a carnal nature, so check for signs of anyone else having poked around recent burials."
The monkey scratches behind an ear, then nods at this.
Shaft takes another look around to see if anyone is watching before moving on towards the house. This includes checking the sky for birds.
Caliban offers up the basket with its cargo of brandy, fresh bread, and some apples, to his master. "Ook eek," he says by way of explanation, before heading toward the cover of the forest.
A few birds tweet in the trees, and Mr. Shaft spots a couple of squirrels chasing each other across the forest floor. But he sess no humans and no nightengales about, and none of the animals are paying any particular attention to them.
After Caliban slips off into the cemetery, Shaft makes his way up to the house. From the sounds of woodworking, he guesses that Mr. Hobson also makes coffins.
Mr. Hobson -- or whomever is at home -- is certainly making something. After Mr. Shaft reaches the door and knocks, the noises from within cease. A few moments later, the fair-haired young undertaker answers the door. He's holding workgloves in his hands, and wearing a leather apron with tools in the front pockets. "Well, hello, sir," he says by way of greeting.
"Ah, good day, Mr. Hobson," Shaft says, tipping his hat. "I hope I'm not intruding at a.. ah.. delicate time?" he asks.
"No, sir, not at all." He looks puzzled for a moment, then glances at his apron and laughs. "Oh, that! No, I'm just making a table. There's not really enough work to keep an undertaker busy full time around here -- bless the Lord! -- and so I make furniture in my spare time."
"Oh, how industrious," Shaft says approvingly. "I was hoping to talk to you about gaining permission to photograph some of the gravestones here. I don't suppose you also do the engraving for them?"
The young man shakes his head. "No. The former undertaker, Mr. Johnson, he used to do engraving, but it's beyond my skills and not much call for it. If somebody wants a headstone nowadays, they order one from the city. But you're free to photograph whatever you like here, sir."
"Ah, most generous of you," Shaft says. "Do you also keep records here of burials and causes of death? It would be most valuable to me in my research into the history of this community."
"Oh, yes, that I do. You're welcome to come inside, if you'd like to have a look at it now, sir," Mr. Hobson says, taking a step back and holding the door open wider.
"Why thank you, sir," Herbert says, taking off his hat as he enters. "I imagine you were Mr. Johnson's apprentice then, before he retired?"
"No, actually, I wasn't. I'm not local to Phillips Harbour, as it happens. Mr. Johnson passed away unexpectedly a couple of years back. I responded to the township's advertistment for a new undertaker. I keep the grounds of the cemetary, too. I suppose if there was a little more call for tombstones I could keep myself pretty busy just with the business, but I rather like making something that isn't ... well. You know." Mr. Hobson says, offering a hand to take Mr. Shaft's hat as the other man steps inside.
Shaft hands over his hat, and asks, "So, is carpentry your original calling then?"
"No, I was apprenticed as an undertaker when I was a young boy," Mr. Hobson says, hanging the hat on a peg. he leads Mr. Shaft into a workroom on the west side of the house, with a large open window overlooking the graveyard. A few polished and closed coffins lean against one wall. New-cut posts and boards rest atop a work table, or on the floor beside it, along with a saw. In the far corner is a bookshelf and a large desk. "But I learned coffin-making as an apprentice, and it's not so different to make furniture. Not if you've learned coffin-making properly."
Herbert pauses to admire the craftsmanship of the coffins. "I hadn't thought of that before, but I suppose coffin making skills would lend themselves to the crafting of exceptionally hardy furniture." Turning back to Hobson, he asks, "Do you live here alone, or is there a Mrs. Hobson now?"
Mr. Hobson flushes when Herbert stops to admire the coffins. "Those are some of my finer work. Lotta folks around here don't much care for it, I'm afraid. They're as happy with a plain wooden box, which is why I still have those. No missus, I'm afraid. Just me and my work. Not many women interested in marrying the undertaker, you know." He gives a wistful sigh.
Smirking briefly at a thought, Herbert asks, "I don't suppose you've met the Widow Stephenson? At least, on a social basis?"
"Yes. Yes, I have." Mr. Hobson turns, perhaps, a little redder, and then gives his attention to the desk. "You said you wanted to look at death records? I've only got the ones for this cemetary, of course. But three books of 'em -- one organized by plot, one by date, and one by name. Mr. Johnson was awfully meticulous about his records and I haven't liked to mess them up after he made such a good start on them." Mr. Hobson gestures to a large ledger book open on the desk now.
"My, that is thorough," Shaft comments, impressed by the diligent cross-referencing. "I suppose it would be best for my purposes to start with the date registry," he says.
"Oh? That's the one I've got open now. I just made any entry for that poor gentleman you found, in fact. I haven't decided how to put him in the name register yet. I guess I'm still hoping I might find out who he was, somehow. Someone might know who he was by all those tattoos, maybe, so I mentioned them in the ledger. Just in case." He indicates the last entry. It reads:
Date of death: September, 1686 (exact date unknown).
Date interred: October 5, 1868
Name: Unidentified as of this time. Adult man of middle age, with numerous tattoos across arms, back, and chest. Ex.: -- and it features a small drawing of the knotwork design on the man's chest; the likeness is quite reasonable.
Plot: F80
"I noticed the unmarked grave on my way in," Shaft says, sounding a bit sad. "I do hope someone can identify the man," he concurs, and looks down to the next most recent entry.
The entry above it reads:
Date of death: September 18, 1868
Date interred: September 22, 1868
Name: Kilroy Little, son of Marla and Mack Little. Born May 8, 1868.
Plot: C42
Herbert winces at the entry. Only four days old, poor thing. The more rational part of him disqualifies the child as a candidate. He prefers finding a mature man to use, so continues on searching.
Paging back reveals the last person interred before the infant was an old woman who passed away at the beginning of September. Five weeks is a long time to try to get a spirit from, but the next one before that is from seven weeks ago, and another child. The first adult man he comes to died some three months prior, at the ripe age of 72.
Shaft taps his chin in thought. Of the choices, the old woman seems best, if right on the edge. And women do accumulate a lot of wisdom with age, even if it isn't the most analytical of wisdom. Still, it's either her or the mystery man. Out of curiosity, he checks back further for more infant deaths, to see if the recent ones are atypical or not.
Mr. Hobson watches the Englishman flip through the book with some curiosity himself. "This cemetary's not very old, of course, not like those in the old country. But we do have graves dating from the beginning of the century, if you're curious about the older ones. Mr. Johnson made a point of organizing all the older records when he took over, so they're quite in order."
Meanwhile, Mr. Shaft's informal survey suggests that about one in every five or so deaths is an infant or young child. Sadly, based on his experience with other cemetaries, that's not an unusual percentage.
"Were there any locals who perished in the recent civil war?" Shaft asks, since that would be something a historian would likely be interested in.
"I believe there were a few young men who did," Mr. Hobson says, frowning. "But no one buried in this cemetary. If I recall aright, Alfred Jensen's son died in the war, and they even brought him home, but he was buried in the church graveyard. Oh, wait ... let me see ... "
"I can only hope the Pastor maintains records so well," Shaft comments.
He takes the ledger from Mr. Shaft's hands and thumbs through the pages. "Here, Timothy Oldridge, 23, died 1863. He didn't die in the fighting itself. He was discharged on account of injuries sustained and came home, but he never recovered from them and passed away a few months after his return."
"One of the Oldridge brothers?" Herbert asks.
"He does, or rather, I do. Mr. Johnson interred the bodies for the church when he was here, and so do I now. But those kept records have always been kept at the church," Mr. Hobson says. "Yes, Timothy Oldridge was brother to Mitchell and Greg Oldridge. Have you met them?"
"On several occasions, yes," Herbert says. "They seem to be quite the busy family in town."
"They're good men, and Mitchell Oldridge has some fine children. And of course, the General Store is very important to this town." Mr. Hobson chuckles. "Guess you could hardly avoid meeting Greg Oldridge on account of that, now, could you?"
"I've met Mitchell Oldridge's family," Shaft says. "Quite charming. I took them out on my yacht the day I discovered the unknown body."
"Did you now? I'll bet Mr. Oldridge appreciated that! Well, the yacht, that is, not the discovery. Deuced unfortunate, that. But I know Mr. Oldridge is keen on machines and boats and I'm told yours is a marvel of both."
"Well, the Babbage can be impressive," Shaft admits, then has a thought. "I'd meant to take it out on some evening cruises. If you'd be interested, I could probably convince Mrs. Stephenson and her guest to come along as well," he offers.
From outside, Mr. Shaft just catches a quiet 'ook', and then a much louder cawing. The undertaker looks up at the noise, startled, and glances out the window.
"Bloody crows," Shaft mutters loudly. "Always a nuisance."
"Would you?" The other man's eyes light up, and his attention is yanked immediately back from the cawing to Mr. Shaft. "That'd be swell! I mean -- I've never been on a steam boat before. I've never even seen one before yours came to town."
"I can't stand crows, either," Mr. Hobson asides, lookig briefly repulsed.
"Well then, I'll be sure to send you an invitation," Herbert says, beaming. He isn't sure if the man is enthused as much by the novelty as the chance to meet Mrs. Stephenson again, but either way it works out for Shaft.
"Much obliged, sir, that's right friendly of you." Mr. Hobson beams back, and then recalls the ledger in his hands. He offers it back to Shaft. "Was there anything else you wanted to look at in these? Or would you like something to drink, maybe? Sorry, I'm not much used to visitors. Well, not people here to visit me, anyway."
There's more ooking from outside, but it's not nearly as loud as the continued cawing, and Mr. Hobson doesn't seem inclined to pay attention to either at the moment.
Herbert pulls the bottle of brandy from his sack, along with the bread, "As it happens, I've brought some along. It was such a nice day, I thought of stopping for a snack by the woods."
"It is a lovely day, isn't it? Much better than Sunday. I was lucky the ground wasn't too wet to dig yesterday. Well, let me fetch some glasses from the kitchen, by your leave ... " He takes a step backwards towards the door, waiting in case there's something else Herbert wants.
"Quite right, Mr. Hobson," Shaft says, standing out of politeness, but not asking for anything else.
Mr. Hobson nods and steps out, leaving Shaft alone for a moment in the workroom.
Herbert quickly goes to the window, to see if he can spot Caliban.
Although he can still hear a few ooks from the chimpanzee, he can't see Caliban anywhere in the graveyard. It sounds like the ape might be somewhere north of the house ... which is the same direction Mr. Hobson just headed when he left for the kitchen, in fact.
"I hope Caliban hasn't found trouble," Shaft whispers to himself. The ooks don't sound particularly alarmed, and he can't imagine a crow or other bird being all that dangerous to Caliban. He worries anyway, though.
Mr. Hobson returns with a couple of mugs in hand, and sets them on the desk. "Will you excuse me a moment, Mr. Shaft? I seem to have left the shed door open yesterday, and I need to go close it before any animals get inside."
"By all means," Shaft says. "Do you think that's where that noisy crow was?"
"I'm rather afraid so, I saw it perched on the door. Ugly nuisance!" Mr. Hobson says, as he strides quickly back to the kitchen (and, presumably, the back door to the house.)
Herbert uses the moment to pour some of the brandy, and keeps his ears open for any sounds of commotion. If the crow is a Companion, then it's more than likely Caliban is in the shed, but he hopes the ape can hide or slip out unnoticed if that's the case.
After pouring the spirits, Shaft returns to the ledgers. Taking out his notepad, he records the details of the old woman's burial, and checks the plot ledger to locate her grave. He ponders using the Darklight Camera to see if there is an active spirit already associated with the woman, but decides against it. Setting off a Spirit light in a cemetery is something he isn't prepared to do.
Herbert also looks around to see if Mr. Hobson keeps any books in the room that are unrelated to the funerary trade, to get an idea of his interests.
There aren't many books in the room apart from the ledgers: a couple of volumes on funeral preparation and embalming, a fat catalog full of carpentry equipment and a Sears catalog of, well, everything. But there are also a couple of novels: a battered copy of Moby Dick and one of Frankenstein.
Finding Moby Dick in a New England fishing village was little surprise to Shaft, especially as it was considered the greatest American novel yet produced. The book by Shelley, however, seemed an odd choice for a man who dealt with humans remains for a living. Perhaps Hobson found it more comedic than terrifying, but Shaft made a mental note to ask the man about local legends or ghosts he may have heard about.
After a few minutes, Mr. Hobson returns. "Very strange. The shed door was closed again when I went out to check on it. The wind must've blown it shut, I guess ... although it's not a very windy day." He looks thoughtful and puzzled.
"Perhaps it was a ghost?" Herbert suggests, half-jokingly. "Living in a graveyard, I imagine you've heard all of the local ghost stories by now." He offers the man one of the brandy-filled mugs.
Mr. Hobson laughs. "Oh yes. But the Shelleys are buried in the church cemetary, not here. My ghosts don't give me any trouble." He takes the mug and inhales the scent before drinking it, still smiling.
Having a sip of the brandy, Shaft enjoys the flavor, unsure of what fruit it was made from. "Ah, the Shelley's.. no relation to the Poet, are they?" he asks, almost as a rhetorical question.
Mr. Hobson raises his eyebrows, considering. "No, not that I've ever heard. And the town's proud enough of their Shelleys, if they could think of any more claims to fame for them, I'm sure they'd use them." He sips at his drink, and gives a pleased sigh. It's apple brandy, and well-made if not of an expensive vintage.
"Ah, a shame, really," Herbert says. "It would have made an interesting connection. And here I'd thought all towns in New England where haunted or had spooky legends associated with them."
Hobson chuckles again. "Maybe they all are. I've heard enough stories about ghosts and ghoulies, I'll tell you that. Of course, you do in this business. Mr. Johnson wrote down some whoppers."
"My goodness, he even recorded folklore?" Shaft asks, eyebrows raised. "I'd love to peruse them at some point, quite honestly. Photographing gravestones and old churches has perhaps given me an odd interest in the fantastic and macabre. I must admit to being addicted to penny dreadfuls as a boy. Was terrified of barbers as a result, after reading about Sweeney Todd."
"Actually ... " Hobson hesitates, taking another sip of the brandy, and then he shrugs and leans forward. "He wrote them down in his diary. All the spooky things that happened to him. Like the night he tried to move the Shelley girl's body to the church. And his workshop ghost, and the wailing woman."
"You have my interest now, for certain," Shaft says. "What happened with the Shelley girl, if I may ask.. especially while the sun is still shining and I shall be home before dark?"
"Well ... " The undertaker has another sip, then lowers his voice further. "He couldn't get her body out of that mansion she died in. It was the most horrible thing I can imagine for an undertaker -- not to mention her poor parents. But apparently he kept ... dropping her. A little slip of a girl, easy enough to carry in one arm, but the body kept falling. Mr. Shelley yelled and cursed at poor Mr. Johnson, swore he was a drunkard and he'd do it himself -- but he couldn't do it, either. Body must've fallen a half-dozen times at least, according to Mr. Johnson. He wrote that it seemed to go on forever, like a nightmare you can't wake up from. Lift the corpse, walk a step -- thump." Hobson winces in sympathy.
Shaft shivered appropriately. "Goodness.. one finds horror in such mundane things, but that.. that is truly worrisome. It must have plagued poor Mr. Johnson for some time."
"He wrote he had nightmares about it for months. They finally got the body out with four men carrying her, and according to Mr. Johnson, if she hadn't been cold and stiff he'd've sworn she had to be alive and squirming to be so hard to hold onto." The undertaker finished the rest of his mug, and shakes his head at the recollection.
"My.. uh, they were certain that she was actually dead?" Shaft asks.
"Oh yes. After that, Mr. Johnson kept watch over her for three days, just to be ... you know ... completely sure she was dead. They checked a few times at the house and no pulse, no breathing, nothing. But after that he wasn't about to start embalming her or bury her without being even more cautious. Weird things happen, you know, Mr. Shaft. They really do." Despite the brandy-flush to his cheeks, Mr. Hobson looks oddly sober as he speaks.
"Well, I don't think I'll be including that bit of history in my notes," Herbert says, and glances out at the afternoon. "But I'll be curious to hear the other tales, nonetheless. But I should not take more of your time today, lest you run out of daylight for your carpentry. I will see about stopping at the Stephenson farm and offering an invitation for an evening cruise on my way home, though."
The undertaker looks downcast as Shaft prepares to leave, but at the mention of the cruise he lights up again. "That's awfully kind of you, sir. You've no idea how much I'm looking forward to that. Thank you for stopping by -- I hope our little cemetary here wasn't too much of a disappointment to you."
"Oh, I'm sure there are depths to the history of this place that have only been barely plumbed, Mr. Hobson," Shaft says, and leaves the bottle with the undertaker.
A few minutes later, Caliban meets up with his master a little ways down the road, past the far end of the cemetary.
"I heard a crow while you were doing your investigations, Caliban," Herbert notes. "Was there an altercation?"
A little dirty, the ape brushes bits of twigs off his clothes and legs as he falls into step with his master. "Ook! Eek ook," he says cheerily. He shakes his head at this.
"Discover anything of interest?" Shaft asks next.
Caliban points back at the house, then farther into the woods behind it, and forms his hands into a roughly rectangular shape, then puts a triangular shape on top of that. He pantomimes opening a door.
"You found the shed.. no, that wouldn't be in the woods," Shaft says. "You found a cabin in the woods?"
Caliban shakes his head. He makes a 'backward' gesture to his master.
"Ah, you do mean the shed out behind the house then?" Herbert asks.
A vigorous nod. The ape pauses on their walk to pantomime sneaking into the shed, then looking around. He points at the ground comically, three times. Then he tries to describe what he sees by moving his hands around to show their shapes: one thing that is apparently very tall but thin, one thing that is rectangular, presumably tall and wide, but thin (which Caliban shows by putting his hands together on both sides of this plane), and one thing that is just thick and bulky.
"Coffins?" Shaft asks.
The ape shakes his head, giving his master a strange look. He re-emphasizes the long, thin object, moving a hand from top to bottom, holding his hand in a circle to show its small circumference.
"Was it a tube or pipe?" the man asks next, trying to narrow down the possibilities.
Caliban nods, then shakes his head, and finally shrugs. He pinches at the fabric of his shirt, then pantomimes wrapping something up like a package.
"So, a somewhat tubular object wrapped up in cloth?" Shaft asks.
Caliban nods vigorously!
"The other objects were also wrapped up?" Herbert asks, looking thoughtful.
The ape nods again. He raises a finger, and then pantomimes himself lifting up a fold of cloth to peek at an object. Then he points back at Mr. Hobson's house, in the distance, and uses the familiar 'walker' sign to suggest someone walking around out of the house, to the back.
"That would be Mr. Hobson, going back to close the door he left open," Shaft says. "He mentioned a crow perched over the door."
Caliban rubs his chin, then points to the house, then to his eyes. He traces a line away from his eyes with a fingertip, then points at the vague vicinity of the shed.
"The shed wasn't in line of sight of the house?" Herbert asks, brows furrowed.
Caliban points at Mr. Shaft, then points to his eyes, then traces the line again to the vicinity of the shed. He puts his hands on his hips, evidently expecting that to be an answer.
Herbert scratches his head.. or rather, his hat.. as he tries to puzzle this out. "I'm afraid you've lost me, old chap. Are you saying you were watching something?"
Caliban shakes his head. He pantomimes opening the door, going in, looking around, lifting the fold of cloth up, then going back out, and closing the door. He then points back to the house, and walks the presumed Mr. Hobson around back.
"Okay, you'd left and closed the door before he went out," Shaft concludes. "What about the crow?"
Caliban shrugs. He points skyward, then opens the door. Winging two hands, he perches his makeshift crow on top of the door. Then he closes the door again, and sneaks away. He illustrates the crow flapping its wings and flying away at that point.
"It was making a bit of noise, and I'm sure I heard you ooking," Herbert says. "Are you sure you didn't have words with the bird?"
Caliban grins and shrugs up at his master. "Ook, eek."
Shaft gives the ape a look, and asks, "You didn't try to eat it, did you?"
The monkey waves his hand dismissively and makes a pssh noise. He hooks his hands together and points back to demonstrate he means the crow, then pretends to eat his hands, and makes a face. Then he flaps his arms, hands to his hips, and makes clucking noises. He wings his hands and pretends to eat that instead, then makes a blissful-looking face.
"Well, I didn't know that crows don't taste like chicken," Shaft admits. "Did you get a look at what the material was under the wrappings then?"
Caliban waves a hand to suggest he only got a peek. Walking to a nearby tree, he peels some of the bark off, then taps the underlying wood. He then rubs his forearm up and down the revealed wood to smooth it, as if polishing the surface.
"Polished wood," Shaft says. "Well, Mr. Hobson is a carpenter. Although what he may have made is anyone's guess. Perhaps he'll mention it when he comes to the boat. I've got a possible candidate for recovery from the graveyard.. a few weeks old, but better than the alternatives. We need to stop by the Stephenson farm and invite the women for an evening cruise."
Caliban nods thoughtfully. "Ook, ook."