Tranquillity House/Chapter 7

FTER our talking it over for an hour and looking at the situation from every possible angle, Connie concluded that Cook son must have come from some other direction, by some circuitous route, and approached the plot that way. If he had hurried he might have been able to do it in time to meet me as he did. But I soon squelched that theory, for I was able to assure her that there were no other footprints (except my own) coming toward the spot from any other direction. I had thought of that, myself, and taken a good look around before I rushed off to the house.

It was certainly the darkest bit of mystery we’d ever heard of, not to speak of encountering personally, and we were compelled to leave it as unexplained as we’d found it. Connie was able to be partly dressed and sit up in a chair that day, though of course she still couldn’t put her injured foot to the ground. But she said it was a great relief to be out of bed, and the doctor had promised her that from then on she could be up and dressed the better part of every day. As soon as she could be moved, Daddy and Mother wanted her to be brought home, for they didn’t think it right for her to stay on at Tranquillity, especially with Uncle so ill and away. But Connie did not want to go just yet, for she said (and quite rightly, too) that after she had left the house we should have almost no excuse for going over there, and goodness knows what might be happening in our absence. So she declared she wasn’t going to hurry her recovery too much!

That afternoon, while Miss Carstair was out, I went downstairs to get a little afternoon bite for Connie, from the kitchen. Beulah did not have it quite ready when I came, so while she was heating the broth and fixing the tray, I sat down and ate a piece of chocolate layer-cake myself. Of course Beulah was full of gossip about all the recent events, and an idea suddenly entered my head that here was a good chance to pump her. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done it, but I felt that, in the light of all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, even Uncle would think I was doing right. After all, it wasn’t just idle curiosity but a real desire to protect his interests that prompted me. Realizing that it would be useless to question her in the way I had before, I determined to carry the war right into the enemy's country, so to speak.

“What ever happened to Uncle Benham's twin brother, Beulah?” I asked abruptly. The effect of this was remarkable. She dropped the saucepan and spilled the broth all over the floor and cried:

“Jerusalem de Golden!” and then, as she always does in any excitement, threw her apron over her head. When she came to enough to be able to speak, she whispered: “Honey, who done tole you Mr. Azariah had a twin brudder?”

I replied casually that I’d known that for some time, but didn’t enlighten her as to the fact that it was rather a short time! But I added, as she mopped up the spilled broth, that I didn’t know much about him except that he occupied the room across the hall where Connie then was. This, of course, was a chance shot, but it served its purpose. Beulah seemed to feel that since I knew so much there could be no harm in talking the subject over, a thing she plainly yearned to do. So while she heated up some more broth she babbled on, a long and rambling and often incoherent tale. But from it I managed to glean the following items, some of them of vital importance, as will be seen.

According to her tale, she had come to Tranquillity some thirty or thirty-five years before (she’s very vague about dates or numbers!) straight from “ol’ Virginny,” having been sent by a relative of Uncle Benham's who lived there. She found here twin brothers—Azariah Benham and Ashbel—so alike that it was almost impossible to tell them apart, except that Ashbel had a little scar on one cheek, due to some boyhood accident. They were both unmarried (they must have been about thirty-five or so in age, as far as I could figure) and were utterly and absolutely devoted to each other. So alike were their tastes in everything that they even had rooms furnished identically. They lived alone at Tranquillity except for Tomkins, who was valet for them both, and one or two other servants.

Beulah spent a deal of time marveling about why they had never married, declaring they were both “as han’some as de Angel Gabriel, chile!” She spoke vaguely of a beautiful distant cousin by marriage who used to visit at Tranquillity occasionally with her mother—“Missy Margaret Spence,” Beulah called her—but though it had at first been thought that one of the brothers might marry her, neither had, and the girl had died unmarried some ten years ago. Beulah declared that every one thought the two brothers too devoted to each other to be separated even by matrimony.

Then, not more than a year or so after Beulah came (as far as I could make out), a strange thing happened. One terrible morning it was discovered that Ashbel had disappeared. No one knew how nor when nor where. Tomkins was certain he had gone to bed the night before as usual, since he himself had assisted, as was the usual custom, and had even returned to blow out the light after Ashbel was in bed. But Ashbel’s room was empty and the front door was unlocked, though not open. There was not a note nor a word nor a sign to indicate what had become of him. In the next day or two, Uncle Benham, who was almost distracted, set on foot every possible means of tracing him; and then, strangely enough, he suddenly stopped all those measures with curious abruptness and forbade his household ever to mention the subject again, under pain of instant dismissal if the order were disobeyed. Why, no one had ever found out. As for himself, he had changed, from that momentous day, into a prematurely old man. Week by week his dark hair had grown grayer, till at forty it was almost pure white. And for a long time his face wore the haggard look of one constantly fearing or worrying about something. Beulah declared that it was only in recent years that it had settled at last into the peaceful lines we knew. As far as she knew, nothing more had ever been heard of “Mr. Ashbel.”

This was all she knew about the matter, but, while it was thrillingly interesting, it didn’t help me out a bit with some of my problems. Where, for instance, did the teakwood chest come in? Beulah hadn’t mentioned the thing, and I was sure she would have if she'd known about it. I wouldn’t speak of it, of course, as Uncle Benham had asked me not to. But I did question her about Mr. Cookson and when he had appeared upon the scene. I knew Beulah didn’t like old Cookson any better than I did, and she scowled and made a dreadful face when his name was mentioned.

“Dat ol' snake in de grass!” she exploded, flouncing around and banging the silver down on the tray. “How come Mr. Azariah ever take up wid him, anyhow? He done come yere 'bout fifteen, sixteen years ago, I reckon, an I done hated him fust time I set eyes on him. He done got Mr. Azariah woun’ roun’ his little finger, he hab!”

But by that time the tray was ready and there was no more information to be had from Beulah, so I hurried upstairs, so bursting with the news of this latest discovery that in my excitement I almost dumped the refreshments over Connie. The toast did slide into her lap, but we rescued it, and while she ate, I repeated to her Beulah's story, with the bewildering new set of facts we had acquired to fit into our mystery.

“Elspeth, you’ve made the biggest discovery yet, in this story of Beulah's!” declared Connie, when I had finished. “Now we know, at least, what must have been the beginning of all this puzzle. Poor Uncle Benham! And we have always thought his life had been so calm and unruffled. If we had only known! But what do you suppose happened to his brother?”

I didn’t answer at once, for I had been thinking hard. Suddenly I burst into her reflections with this remark:

“Do you realize that that letter I saw the beginning of must have been from the brother to Uncle Benham? Can it—can it be possible that it explains anything? Perhaps that is what upset Uncle so much that it brought on his illness!”

Connie started up in her chair so violently at this suggestion that her broken ankle gave her a hard twinge and she sank back with a little howl of pain.

“It’s not only possible; it’s entirely likely! And, what's more, I think the time has come when we ought to read that letter and find out what it’s all about, anyway!”

“But, Connie,” I cried, aghast at such a breach of all the rules of courtesy and honor that we’d been taught, “how can you suggest such a thing? What would Daddy and Mother think? What would Uncle Benham think of such an awful thing? I wouldn’t do it for anything! I’m astonished at you!”

“Well, you needn’t be,” she insisted doggedly. “Of course I know as well as you that such a thing would be inexcusable under ordinary circumstances. But these are extraordinary circumstances. You can’t deny there is something very peculiar going on in this place. Uncle is ill and unable even to talk, and he certainly can’t be disturbed. Tomkins might be questioned, but he isn’t even here and we can’t get at him at present. Old Cookson is up to something—that’s as plain to me as the nose on your face—something that’s going to harm Uncle in some way. There’s no one else to speak to, not even our own parents, for Uncle clearly wanted this all kept a secret, for some reason. To read that letter might give us some light on the subject and show us what to do. How can you think any other way?”

But somehow I couldn’t see it in just that light, yet. All Connie said might be true—was true, undoubtedly. But still it seemed to me that there must be something else we could turn to before we went to the length of reading that letter. We argued and argued about it for a long while, but got no farther, for neither one of us seemed able to convince the other. Finally Connie clinched the matter this way:

“Well, Elspeth, in the excitement of hearing your story this afternoon, which I will admit is about the rippingest thing yet, I quite forgot to tell you mine. I do have some little adventures, even if I am cooped up here in this room with a game ankle. It was just at lunch-time. I’d had my lunch and Miss Carstair had gone down for hers, and I was lying here quietly reading when I heard some one come rather softly down the hall and go into Uncle's room. At first I thought it might be Tomkins, come back from the hospital for something, and, as I was awfully anxious to see him, for a lot of reasons, I decided I’d call out and ask him to come in a moment. So I raised my voice and called, ‘Is that you, Tomkins?” There was absolute silence for a moment, and then Mr. Cookson's voice answered in that irritated tone it has: ‘No, it’s not Tomkins. Is there anything you wish?’ I fairly jumped when I realized who it was, but I just answered that I had only wanted to inquire about Uncle, if it were Tomkins. Nothing more was said, and there was perfect quiet over in that room for a while. Then I began to hear him stepping around, very softly, and sounds as if he were turning a key or trying a key in a lock—a key that probably didn’t fit. After that there was a rattling and crackling of paper and then he came out again, closed the door and went up to his room.

“Now then, Elspeth Curtis, I’d be willing to warrant dollars to doughnuts that he went in there to get that chest out of the closet, and that he got it and wrapped it up and carried it away with him somewhere, when you saw him disappearing in that mysterious manner with a bundle, down by the river!”

“But, Connie, he could easily have seen that the chest was unlocked and empty, by simply lifting the lid!” I cried. “Why should he bother to carry it off when all its contents were gone?”

“You’d better believe me, he never stopped to find that out!” retorted Connie. “Of course, if he had, he would have left it, I suppose. But I figure that he just grabbed it and wrapped it up and took it off to examine later, probably glad enough to just have his hands on it. Wasn’t the bundle you saw him carrying big enough to be the chest?”

I had to admit it was, and shaped like it, too.

“But, oh! I’d like to have seen his face when he opened it—and found it empty!” I added, giggling.

“So would II” agreed Connie. “But now listen. Here’s something I’ve got to propose. When you think of all that’s happened just this afternoon, can you doubt any longer that the only thing for us to do now is to read that letter?”

“I don’t see how it has changed anything in regard to that matter,” I said stubbornly. “Mr. Cookson may not have taken that chest away at all; you can’t tell.”

“Well, will you at least admit that if he has, we ought to do something—read the letter, or anything to help solve the mystery?” she cried impatiently.

“Yes, I will admit that!” I agreed.

“Then go to that room and see for yourself!” commanded Connie, triumphantly.

It certainly did seem a logical solution of the matter. There was no reason in the world why I should not. No one unwelcome was around at the time and I had the key of the closet in my pocket. I walked boldly across the hall and into Uncle’s room, unlocked the closet, and flung open the door.

Connie had won: there was no chest standing on the closet floor!

When I got back to the room and told her, she only nodded her head wisely.

“I’m not surprised,” she declared. “I knew it would be so. Now, when you go back home this afternoon, be sure you bring the letter back with you and we’ll read it together after we’re in bed to-night!”