The Fearing Street Mystery
In which Knowluck Jones and Dr. Piston are engaged by a challenging client.
It was one of those lazy Sunday mornings when ambition seemed to have mislaid itself and indolence was operational. I was occupying myself with the Hull Times; not really reading it but rather turning pages and letting my eyes meander the local happenings while sipping an Espresso Profundo. One of the by-products of my friend and roommate Knowluck Jones's predilection for chemistry studies in our living room was that the apparatus for his present experiment was eminently suitable for brewing espresso that would make a Sicilian envious.
Knowluck was hunched over his triple beam balance and thoroughly engrossed in the metering of a viscous black substance into one container while another was over the Bunsen burner and boiling like a lava pit.
"That is a foul smelling concoction you have going there." I said fully expecting to be ignored. Knowluck's powers of concentration make him quite impervious to my stray comments.
"Yes, foul smelling indeed Piston. I am afraid that the solution has eluded me once again and this experiment will join its predecessors."
"Not the toilet this time;" I entreated; "the last plumber complained to the EPA."
I was coming to the end of my page turning and was about to put the paper down when the chimes of our doorbell sounded.
"Rather early for a caller." I said.
Several loud raps on the door followed as I looked inquisitively at Knowluck.
"A new client Piston."
"Well" said I, "A visitor certainly, but not necessarily a client."
Knowluck paused to listen to another series of raps. "No Piston, this gentleman is certainly here to engage me on a professional matter and although far from obese he is rather heavy for his short stature, seriously hard of hearing and left handed. You had best let him in before he batters down the door"
My questioning look was enough for Knowluck to elaborate.
"He is short because our front door has eight raised panels in the standard pattern of two wide and four high for a total height of 6'-8". Then there is the 6" stoop below the door to consider as well. The force of his blows requires an overhand swing and, judging from the sound, he is hitting the split panel, third from the bottom on the left side. His height therefore is 5'- 5"give or take an inch. He first tried the bell and when he could not hear its sound he started knocking. Only someone near deaf would not detect the peal of our Westminster Door Chime. Oh, yes, he is heavy for his height because the stair tread creaked the same as when you stand on it. You are neither short nor light.
I had already descended the stairs and upon opening the door I saw the upraised fist of the fellow. In the fleeting moment of a first impression I noted that he was short and it was indeed his left hand that my nose interrupted in its mid-flight to the door.
"Jeezuz Jones! Get up! You damn near broke my hand?" the visitor yelled at me as I started to get up from the floor. "Damn; my hand! You don't have AIDS or that HIV, do you? You are Jones?"
"No;" I replied while I felt my nasal cartilage for fracture; "Heeshup th' stairths. Who are you?"
"Damn! I was beginning to think you weren't home or that maybe you couldn't hear me; these damn old houses are like barns and..." He paused when I removed my hand from my nose and held it, bloodied palm out.
"How may I be of service?" I heard Knowluck shout from behind. He led our guest upstairs and parked him in my chair.
"Wesley Rooters; Jones. I saw that story about you in the Format."
"That would be Dr. Piston's account A Study in Viscosity Mr. Rooters but before we continue might I suggest you turn on your hearing aid?"
"I don't care much for you pansy types but I need someone to do some snooping and I guess you're it."
"The hearing aid." said Knowluck pointing to the instrument in the pocket of Rooters' pink polo shirt.
"Oh yes;" Rooters replied, "The batteries don't last long so I don't normally leave it on."
It took only a moment and as soon as Rooters was ready Knowluck enquired: "You are a member of the Plus 4 club of Southern California?"
"Nah; I read it on-line."
Knowluck asked again: "How may I be of service, Mr. Rooters?"
"I don't believe in sprits or the occult. In fact I don't believe in much of anything except maybe myself. And I damned sure wouldn't want the neighbors to think I'm going goofy or anything like that but I've seen a ghost! In my own back yard. And I'm certain that what I saw was real."
Knowluck stared intently and said; "Ghosts are quite commonplace in Hingham but they are usually kept locked securely away in Yankee family closets. Please describe your encounter."
"I didn't say I was from Hingham?" said Rooters.
"Your polo shirt, pastel green trousers and knit whale pattern belt would not be tolerated anywhere else, except perhaps Cohasset or Harpswell, and I observed the Hingham Yacht Club sticker on the bumper of your Prius. Now please... your story."
"I was working in my garage yesterday evening. I have started restoring an old car that my wife bought for me a few weeks ago. It is a Morgan and it needs a lot of work but I have always wanted one and I love working on it. I don't know much about fixing cars, but hell, it's not rocket science. I have been working on it every evening after work. I get home from the office at exactly 5:50pm every day and go directly into the garage where my wife leaves me a tray with dinner and a change of work clothes. She has been very supportive. We've known of the car for years but on the spur of the moment she made the owner a very generous offer and surprised me with it. On Saturdays I spend the entire day in the garage. Last night I decided to try starting it so I opened the garage door and attached jumper cables to the Prius. They were new cables but obviously defective because when I clipped the other end to the Morgan; BANG! There was a huge spark and a flash and the damned things got white hot and melted. It only took a few seconds but I must have jumped twenty feet to the other end of the garage. The flash blinded me and; Damn, I'm gonna sue somebody for sure, I started thinking; but right then I... I saw a ghost run across my lawn."
Knowluck's fingers were pressed together and he stared at Rooters as if looking right through him. "Please describe the ghost", was all he said.
"It had the shape of a man, a naked man with glowing white skin that flew off as he ran."
"And you saw him through the open garage door?"
"No, I was in the back of the garage where I could see out the French door that leads to the back patio. I couldn't sleep all night. I thought of you this morning and came here as soon as I finished cleaning up the mess."
"A very interesting case don't you think Piston?" Knowluck asked.
My practice is limited to podiatry but I was sure Knowluck was enquiring as to my medical opinion. "It would seem that Mr. Rooters was dazzled by the electrical mishap and mistook a transient retinal image for a specter."
"Although possible; I think not Piston. In fact I believe I will be able to identify this ghost if Mr. Rooter would be so kind as to conduct us on a tour of the scene. After, of course, he signs the standard consultation terms and conditions contract."
And to Rooters: "There is no fee should I fail."
"You identify the ghost or no fee? Done! You can come with me in my car." Rooters said as he eagerly signed the document.
"It is a beautiful day for a ride in the Spagthorpe Outfit, don't you think Piston?" Knowluck replied speaking directly to me. "A ride in a Prius and Quaalude provide about the same visceral stimulation. Life is too short to drive a boring car."
Knowluck rummaged in his files for a few minutes, withdrew a folder and then methodically shut down his chemical apparatus.
"Mr. Rooters", said Knowluck as we made for the door, "Perhaps you would like to stop at a pharmacy to replenish the batteries of your hearing aid?"
"That won't be necessary", said Rooters. "My wife keeps me in supply".
"Ah yes." said Knowluck, "Of course."
The Rooter home was one of the larger colonials on Fearing Street. The house and its neighbors were built in the mid 1800s by owners and captains in the then flourishing shipping trade. All are on the national register and highly desirable both for their neo-classic detailing and their location, equidistant from and within walking distance to both Hingham Center and the yacht club on Crow's Point. The forsythia hedge secreting the house from the street was lush and, although well past bloom, neatly trimmed. A welcome shade covered the lawn and a complex blend of fragrances came from the untended flower beds.
Rooters opened the garage door as Knowluck clambered out of the sidecar and I completed the ritual of adjustments required to assure an easy restart.
"The Morris Minor van is yours also?" asked Knowluck pointing to the car on the pea-stone car park.
"No that belongs to the new landscaper" said Rooters, "I don't know why it is here unless there is something wrong mechanically. Old English cars are like that."
"Oh indeed?" replied Knowluck apparently having missed the magnetic sign on the door: Nigel's Lovely Lawns Ltd. Been with you a while, he has?"
"A coupla months. My wife would know why it's here. She manages just about everything to do with the house. I'm too busy."
The Morgan seemed tiny in the expanse of Rooters' garage. The wings were off and many of the smaller parts were in neatly labeled boxes on clean new metal shelving. Several small windows let sunlight in at the back giving the impression more of a sculpture studio than an auto workshop. Rooter took us to the door where he saw his apparition. Knowluck opened it and walked the twenty feet or so to the patio. He disappeared around the side of a breezeway. He returned quickly and walked past us, out of the garage, to the end of the drive where he paused before returning.
With his lens before him he turned his attention to the Morgan. "Mr. Rooters, This is as you know a Series II 4/4 and it still has the original Ford 100E flat head four cylinder engine. You are having serious problems with overheating, the doors stick, the screws holding the half round trim on the rear deck are loose as is the hood. And, oh yes, you can't get pressure on the brakes."
"Why all that is true, but how did you know?" asked Rooters.
"While it is often said that this Model Morgan has all the power of several gerbils running in a wheel it is unlikely that those rodents left the droppings you see in the spark plug depressions of the cylinder head. The radiator cap is new but the hoses and clamps are not and there are remnants of straw in the foot wells. May I presume that the previous owner stored it in a barn and that the original radiator cap was missing? Boiling the mouse nest, and maybe a mouse or two, out of the radiator should cure the overheating issue."
Without waiting for Rooters to reply Knowluck went on: "The sticking doors and loose hood are evidenced first by observing the distortion of the sheet metal joint below the door and following it to its root. The chassis is kicked up at the rear. Wood rot is the cause of the loose screws. Is there anything I missed?"
Rooters' hands shook noticeably as he put another battery in his hearing aid. Knowluck continued to examine the 4/4. "The box on your bench is filled with eight old brake shoes ready to return as cores. Since the package tray is out it is easy to observe that you have not correctly tightened the rear shoe adjusters and thus can not get sufficient pressure. As you said; it's not rocket science."
"Enough of the car," Rooters said sharply, "what can you tell me about the ghost?"
"Ah yes the ghost. I'm afraid that was Nigel."
"Nigel, the landscaper?"
"Yes so. Nigel is not landscaper and most certainly not a gardener either. Had you cared to look the flower beds would have evidenced the former and the forsythia the latter. No real gardener would have trimmed the forsythia this late in the season as it will prevent flowering next year. But Nigel had to do some yard work to prevent the snoops, I mean neighbors, from questioning his daily presence. You see your wife and Nigel have been having a rather torrid affair. And unless I am mistaken, not likely you understand, you are now almost penniless."
I looked up from my notes; Rooters' jaw had fallen.
"It is rather simple, allow me to explain. The affair probably began some time before spring. No doubt they met at the Jimmy fund car show. The Morris Van was one of the more mundane entries but it captured the "Peoples Choice" award and was featured in the Hull Times photo coverage of the event." Here Knowluck proffered a newspaper clipping that he had extracted from his files. "You, no doubt, read the Globe caring little for local news. Its owner is described as a yachtsman visiting for the summer and the picture shows him to have a near-albino complexion. And that, if we are to trust the caption, is your wife handing him the trophy?"
"While you were at the office they emptied your accounts and put your house on the market. There are two holes in the lawn next to the driveway where the broker's sign was placed. It was removed each evening before you arrived.
"Your wife bought you the Morgan several weeks ago. Given your obviously compulsive nature she knew it would keep you out of the way. Morgans can affect even normal people that way. As long as you were preoccupied with the Morgan and she kept you supplied with bad batteries you would remain oblivious while they removed the furnishings."
"It must have been quite a shock; yes pun intended," said Knowluck "when you connected the negative jumper lead to the Morgan chassis and the positive lead to the + side of the battery. The Morgan has a positive ground and the resulting Prius powered zap no doubt startled the lovers as they were celebrating their adventure's end in the hot tub behind the breezeway." Knowluck held up a champagne cork....
"Nigel, thinking lightning struck, ran across the lawn where the mercury vapor light from your deck illuminated the soap suds flying from his naked albino body. It must certainly have looked ethereal. They probably left on this morning's tide."
"If what you say is true all I have left is my Morgan." Was the slow reply from Rooters.
"I do like your positive thinking sir but I must remind you of our contract which, if you read it carefully, makes me first in line of your creditors and as it just covers my fee, I rather fancy the Morgan."
Knowluck plucked a flower from the overgrown bed at his feet and sniffing said: "Damn; I do so like pansies; don't you Piston?"