Authors: Don Sloan
“I have thirty-nine more just like it in my cellar. I was wondering if you or any of the other fine ladies here in Cape May might be interested in purchasing any of it, as a sort of, ye know, personal investment. Of course, yer assets with Alfred should be more than enough to see ye through if something should happen to him.” And here, Tipton leans just the slightest bit forward as Cecilia tips her gaze up from the gold bar. “But wouldn’t it be nice to know ye had a little insurance of yer own—something to make sure that no matter what, ye had something to pass along to yer children?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Cecilia stammers. In truth, with the gold bar in her hands, the idea is strangely appealing. “I would need to ask Alfred’s permission.”
“Well, of course that would be—what’s the right word—prudent,” Tipton says. “But I was thinking what a nice surprise it would be if ye could have a little something set back, ye know, just in case of emergencies. Wouldn’t he be pleased with yer foresight?” He doesn’t need to mention the dangers of the stock market. That dark memory, when men stepped out of open windows in midtown Manhattan, is only too fresh in everyone’s mind. He smiles again. “Think of it as the equivalent of egg money, put aside for a rainy day. I think he would be pleased.”
Cecilia hesitates. She does have some money set back that Alfred doesn’t know about. It isn’t that she wants to keep anything from him. It’s just a secret corner that she maintains in her mind, in which she reserves a special knowledge that, if something should happen to him or to anyone in her family, she has access to ready money if need be. But, with the war on and the nation’s currency value riding up and down like a roller coaster and growing increasingly dependent on global economies—well, gold would always be something of hard value that no one could question, wouldn’t it? These arguments seemed to materialize in her mind, unbidden, but moving rapidly in a rational line, as though put in motion by the hand of an engineer on the throttle of a sleek new diesel engine.
But, with a sudden decisive shake of her head, she hands the gold bar back to Tipton. The surprise is immediately perceptible on his features. He has not expected this. “Are ye sure, Mrs. Forrest?” he says, holding the bar midway between himself and her hands, which have flown back to a folded position on her lap. “Ye never know what tomorrow may bring.”
“Tomorrow may bring many things, Mr. Tipton, good and bad,” she says, now strong with the resolve she has regained from deep in her soul. “But Alfred and I will face them together, and with our joint resources. I appreciate your offer, but I think I will pass on it. After all, as I said, I’m just a housewife and not a gold speculator.”
Tipton’s features harden as he puts the bar back into its velvet casket. But he smiles nevertheless and says, “Ye’re probably right, Cecilia,” he says. “I hope I didn’t offend you by making this little offer. I meant no harm.”
“Not at all,” Cecilia says, rising from the chair and offering her hand. Tipton shakes it briefly. “I’m honored that you would think of me and offer it to me first. I’m quite sure there are others who will undoubtedly be interested in your proposition.”
Tipton’s smile now is forced, and behind his calm features, his mind is racing like a motorcar engine being revved to maximum RPMs. This would have been a good transaction for Tipton, skimming a full 30 percent off the top as the gold passed from his hands to Cecilia Forrest’s—and, perhaps, with the right endorsements, to many of the other Cape May women. He is vexed and irritated.
With one part of his mind, a very private and dark corner in his cerebral cortex, he sends out a call.
“Mrs. Forrest, ye honor me with yer time tonight, and by attending my humble little get-together. I sincerely hope yer Christmas season is filled with all good things.”
Cecilia starts for the door, with Tipton walking beside her. Expressions of many kinds are now chasing across his face, but Cecilia doesn’t see them. “I hope your season is also richly blessed, Mr. Tipton, and I thank you for your time. You know, I might be able to find a charitable use for your gold,” she says teasingly.
Tipton has once again found his emotional reserve as the two now face each other in the hallway. “Thank ye, ma’am. I’ll keep that option in mind. May I escort ye back to the party? But what’s that commotion?”
From the lower landing comes Bentley, taking the steps two at a time.
“It’s Mr. Forrest, sir. It seems he’s having a heart attack. I’ve phoned for an ambulance.”
“Oh, my God,” says Cecilia, and she pushes her way past Bentley and hurries down the stairs. Tipton follows the man-servant and the distressed woman back down the stairs to the parlor. There on the floor, surrounded by a knot of concerned faces, lies Alfred Forrest, his heavy features already passing from white into a ghastly purple. Cecilia pushes through the crowd and bends down quickly to her husband’s side. She looks up wildly. “Is there no doctor here? Where is Doctor Stewart?”
Carla Raymond bends down by Cecilia’s side and puts an arm around her. “We asked about him right away, but he’s not in town. I hear the ambulance’s siren now,” she says, and tries to comfort Cecilia as best she can. Together, they bend over Alfred’s prostrate form and talk to him, speaking his name and rubbing his forehead. At one point, Cecilia puts her head down on his chest and leaves it there for a long time.
This is the position the medics find her in when they arrive within a few moments, still listening in vain for the beat of a heart in her husband’s chest. Carla Raymond gently pulls her away from Alfred’s body as the medics begin examining him for vital signs. A stretcher is produced and his body is quickly lifted onto it and borne out the front door of the mansion, past the brightly decorated Christmas tree in the entry hall. Cecilia goes with them, as do Jack and Carla Raymond. Tipton is standing to one side of the parlor as the body is carried past, and his mouth forms an oval in simulated horror. Then, he begins making a sweep of the room, talking in low tones with first one cluster of guests, then another. As he reaches the front of the room, he glances out the parlor doorway to the hall and is just quick enough to see a dark form disappearing like smoke behind the Christmas tree.
At the other end of the tunnel, Nathan stepped into thin air. He cried out, fell forward, and the flashlight went tumbling ahead of him. It struck the floor 20 feet ahead of him and came to a skidding stop. Behind him Sarah stopped short.
“Nathan, stop fooling around,” she said. “Where are you?”
Groping forward, Nathan found the flashlight lying on a tile floor. “I’m OK, if that’s what you’re asking.” He picked up the light and flashed it around him. The room in which he now stood ran about twenty feet from end to end and had curved sides. He stood up slowly. “This room has been finished out, probably as a speakeasy.”
“A what?” Sarah asked as Nathan lifted her down into the room.
“A speakeasy. A gin joint. A bar. Have I found a description yet that you understand?” Sarah walked over and stood next to a felt-covered table. Hanging above the table was an oil lamp with a wide green shade. “Did you bring your lighter with you?”
Sarah pulled a lighter from her pocket and Nathan lit the lamp, which still held a small quantity of oil. He turned up the wick so they could see the rest of the room clearly. The table they stood beside had evidently been used for blackjack. The faded green felt on the table still had the rectangular markings around the rim, where elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen visiting the area from far and near gambled away the nights during the Prohibition era. The floor was covered in a thick Persian carpet. They moved from the blackjack table among the other tables, some set up similarly for blackjack or perhaps other card games, and some with deep, padded sides. Nathan felt he could almost hear the croupier growling out the numbers on the dice as they thudded against the far end of the table. He wondered how many fortunes had been won and lost in this room. He shone the light back toward the opening in the wall through which he had tumbled. It held a door swung back on two rusty inlaid hinges. He walked over to it and examined it with his flashlight. The front of the door was paneled in dark wood, like the rest of the wall, probably a rich cherry. He closed it back into place, so it fitted snugly into the opening. He stepped back and found that, in the dim light of the room, he could not see the door’s outline.
Evidently, then, the door was meant to be secret, though Nathan wondered how often it had been opened by people passing through to Moira’s hideous chamber, and whether they were part of her coven. The odds were against it. The door was so skillfully fashioned that only its maker and probably the occupants of the house above knew of its existence at all. This thought reminded Nathan that he needed to check the deed records of all the houses once again and try to determine how many families had lived in each one.
Sarah had taken the flashlight from Nathan and had moved over to one of the richly paneled walls. It was hung, salon-style, with oil paintings from floor to ceiling. She swung the light around and saw that all the walls were hung with paintings. She looked closely at one that resembled a scene from a book she had read in college. It was a beautiful collage of lilies, floating on a placid blue surface. She bent down and could dimly make out the faded signature in the lower right-hand corner: Monet. She inhaled sharply in surprise. Well, why not, she thought. An art historian would probably feel as though they had stepped into a little corner of heaven here. Whatever other strange characteristics the occupants of these houses had, Sarah felt, they undoubtedly had money and good taste.
“Nathan, how could a place like this exist so close to Aunt Moira’s and the occupants not know what she was doing?”
Nathan propped a foot against one of the stools. “Maybe they had no idea that the tunnel existed. Remember that we don’t know when Moira’s cult was active. She might have been retired, except for the occasional odd human sacrifice now and then, by the time this place was humming with activity. And besides, if the owners of this house weren’t the ones who built it, they probably didn’t know about the tunnel at all. And, we don’t know that the tunnel wasn’t completely obscured at that time by some large piece of furniture or something like that.”
Sarah considered this and looked around the room again, trying to imagine it full of people in dress clothes from the twenties: men in Dick Tracy snap-brim hats and ladies in shimmery flapper gowns and tight-fitting caps. Several would be smoking cigarettes in those long silver holders. Music would be playing from a Victrola in the corner: possibly a Glenn Miller tune or some other big swing band of the era.
Toot-toot-tootsie, good-bye
A little shiver went through Sarah and she tugged at Nathan’s sleeve. “I really want to go back to my house. Maybe we can just board up the entrance to these places and forget about them.”
Nathan took her hand and looked deep into her eyes. They were so brown and soft and vulnerable. “I’d like that, too,” he said. “But I’ve got a feeling it’s not that simple now. Whatever it is that is trying to make us leave these houses is not going to be stopped. And, I don’t think the dreams would stop, either. Sarah, I know this is uncomfortable, but we have to get to the bottom of this mystery and solve it if we’re ever going to be able to come to the shore in peace.”
Sarah knew he was right. But a big part of her just wanted to go back to Philadelphia and forget the whole thing. Whatever adventurous part of her being had been in control was now long gone and she just felt tired. “Well, then, let’s just call it a day and go back up to my place. I’ve had enough adventure for now.”
Nathan left her side and went over in a corner of the room where he gave a little cry of satisfaction. “Well, at least we can go back in style.” He pressed a button on the wall, and a door slid back silently. A bright overhead light flooded the interior of the small room.
“What in the world is that?” Sarah said.
“Looks like an elevator to me,” said Nathan, stepping inside. “And we’re in luck. The owner of this house leaves his electricity hooked up all year long. Let’s see if we can get a lift to the top.”
Sarah hesitated.
“What, you’d rather go back through the dark tunnel and up the ladder?”
Sarah shook her head definitively and followed Nathan into the old-fashioned lift. Instead of buttons for the floors, there was a handle where an attendant must have stood. The arrows pointed up and down, depending on the direction in which you moved the handle. “Well, I guess this is simple enough. Going up!” Nathan swiveled the handle to the right, in the direction of the “up” arrow, and the door silently slid back into place. For an instant, there was no sound and Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Then, from somewhere deep in the elevator shaft, machinery groaned into action and the floor gave a little shake while the gears took hold of the line attached to the top of the elevator carriage. They felt unmistakable movement as the car began its upward climb to the top.
“I hope that if someone is at home in this place, they have a sense of humor about someone suddenly appearing in their pantry or wherever this opens up,” Nathan said with a grin. Sarah said nothing and clung to Nathan’s arm. He reached around her thin torso and pulled her close. Up and up the elevator climbed, slowly and with a great deal of clinking and whirring. As they rose, Nathan noticed that the air inside the carriage became colder. Well, that’s to be expected, if the house is uninhabited, he thought. We’ve been 60 feet or so below the surface, where the temperature must be pretty much the same year-round. The elevator ride seemed to take an hour. The minutes passed slowly and still they crept upward. Finally, the elevator stopped with a jerk, and the door slid back silently.
“Welcome, my lad and lassie,” said a tall, thin man. “We’ve been expecting ye.”
I don’t know what you’re saying, darling
there are times when you don’t seem to be as talkative as you used to be, my dear
is that a problem?
well, we can’t be held responsible for what happens
what’s that supposed to mean?
if the time comes when the keeper doesn’t like what he’s hearing, you’ll be in trouble.
well, he wouldn’t hear anything if you didn’t talk so much
my, my—listen to you. Ever the brave one. But things are moving now that are going to change things
I still don’t know what you’re talking about
no—I daresay you don’t. But you will, my dear. You will
Nathan was caught off-guard. He had expected the door to open on darkness in an empty house. Now, he was face to face with a stranger.
“Come out of that drafty old elevator, lad, and let’s have a look at yer,” said the man with a smile.
“Nathan, no!” Sarah screamed. “It’s the man from my dreams.”
The man looked at Sarah, who had shrunk into the small space behind Nathan in the elevator. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Missy. We’ve not met formally.” He stuck out a bony hand. “My name is Tipton. Thomas Tipton.”
Nathan was confused. Clearly the man was not going away and civility demanded that he respond. He put out a hand and took Tipton’s bony claw into his own. The flesh was cold, as cold as ice. Still, Nathan didn’t speak, but he began edging out of the elevator, shielding Sarah as he came out.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me. I’m just an old man. And I’m not accustomed to having guests in this house anymore.” Tipton became reflective. “No, it’s been a very long time since someone was here.”
Sarah edged her way from behind Nathan, but kept an iron grip on his hand. They were standing in a hallway, lit dimly by wall sconces at half-power. As the two came out, the elevator door wheezed shut. Tipton let go Nathan’s hand and stepped back. The old man was clad in a tweed suit, with a tartan tie fronting a starched white shirt. There certainly seemed to be nothing to be feared. Nathan relaxed a little, but Sarah still clung to him like a child.
“Well, Mr. Tipton, we’re sorry to have come into your home like this,” Nathan said. “To tell the truth, we weren’t sure where we’d wind up.” This was certainly true enough.
“Ye’ve been down in the Gaming Room. That place hasn’t been used in years. It’s a shame, really. It’s quite a nice place and I attended many a ripping party down there.” The man still spoke jovially.
“We’re sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir. We’ll be leaving now.”
“What’s yer rush?” Tipton said, and he stepped between Nathan and Sarah and the path to the front door, which was about 20 yards down the hallway. Light streamed in through grimy windows. The overall effect was one of somber stillness, and the longer Nathan remained, the more he felt a danger growing. He judged that if it came to a fight, he could take the older man, but he would much rather just leave and assess this development later.
“Ye’re guests in my home. Of course, this isn’t the only home I own here in Cape May. I bought this one back in the 1950s. Can I get you something hot to drink?”
Nathan decided to play along, to see if he could get Tipton to move away from their exit path.
“That would be very kind of you, sir. I’ll have coffee and, Sarah, what will you have?”
“Sarah? Is that yer name, missy?” Tipton shifted his position and leered at Sarah, who was still cowering behind Nathan. “What a pretty name for a pretty lady. Sure, and I’ll be glad to get you drinks. Just have a seat in the parlor there, and—“
Sarah broke away from Nathan and raced toward the door, past Tipton, who reached out a hand to grab her, but was too late. She dashed past him and began struggling with the door.
“Let me out of here!” she screamed. “Let me out!”
Tipton looked at Nathan with a helpless expression. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to upset her. Whatever can be the matter?”
Nathan crossed over to Sarah and enfolded her in his arms. “It’s nothing, Mr. Tipton. We’ve just had kind of a trying morning, exploring some secret passageways between the houses. Did you know about them?”
Tipton looked pensive. “Secret passageways? I’ve heard of such but never seen one. Ye came into my Gaming Room from another house? How extraordinary. Ye’ll have to show me.” He smiled again, but this time Nathan didn’t think it looked sincere.
“Perhaps another time,” Nathan said. “Right now, I think we’d best just go on back to our house and rest.”
Sarah had stopped whimpering and just stood silently behind Nathan. She waited for the big front door to open, so she could escape like a rabbit.
“As ye wish,” said Tipton, walking over and unlocking the door with a brass key. “But I’d be careful exploring these old houses, lad. They’ve secrets of their own, or haven’t ye learned?” He cocked his head and gave a chuckle. He swung the door wide and Sarah pushed her way through, pulling Nathan with her.
“Thanks, Mr. Tipton. I’ll keep that in mind,” Nathan said as Sarah dragged him down the walk. Snow was beginning to fall again in great soft flakes from a noon sky. They crossed the street to the sidewalk in front of the crashing seawall and began to make their way back to Nathan’s.