Gilkey’s derisive snort conveyed what he thought of interference from anyone from away. “I met Miss Dunbar when she and Somener came across to file their marriage intentions. She seemed a proper young lady to me.”
“All I’m asking is that you not issue the license until this matter is settled.”
“I make no promises,” Gilkey said, and cut off further protests by showing them the door.
“Pigheaded old man,” Diana grumbled as Ben assisted her into the buggy.
“Let’s hope we can convince the justice of the peace. If Gilkey goes ahead and issues the license, it will only be good here on Islesborough. They’ll still need the J.P. to marry them.”
“You’re certain they wouldn’t prevail upon a preacher?”
“Highly unlikely. The only churches on the island are Baptist. Graham doesn’t practice any religion, but he was raised Catholic.”
At the Sprague house they had better luck. Joseph Sprague was appalled by what Ben told him. When he heard that another man claimed to be married to Serena Dunbar, he began to sputter indignantly. “I want nothing to do with bigamy, Dr. Northcote. Nothing at all.”
Ben, Diana noted, had neglected to mention to either Mr. Gilkey or Mr. Sprague that the man who’d said he was Serena’s husband was now deceased.
“I’ve already filed a caution with Mr. Gilkey,” Ben told Sprague.
“That’s that, then. If they don’t have the license, I can’t marry them.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Gilkey expressed some doubts about our contentions. We have no solid proof, you see, so it’s possible he will—”
“Stubbornly insist upon believing Miss Dunbar?” Sprague’s grimace suggested that he knew his fellow islander very well. “Rest easy, Dr. Northcote. No matter what Gilkey does, I will refuse to conduct the ceremony.”
Ben’s step was lighter, his bearing less tense when they left the justice of the peace’s house. It was a pity, Diana thought, that they had to rush back to Bangor. It was very beautiful on Islesborough—green and peaceful. Although she knew they were on not on the mainland, Diana did not have the uncomfortable sense of being cut off from civilization that she’d experienced while on Keep Island.
When they were once more in the buggy, Diana glanced at the sky. “We have a little time yet before the
Electra
leaves. Is there enough for you to show me the place where you used to dig for artifacts?”
She saw that her request had pleased him and looked forward even more eagerly to the detour, but before they had gone very far, she caught sight of a familiar figure. A sudden foreboding had her grabbing Ben’s arm and pointing.
“That’s Paul Carstairs,” she hissed. “What on earth is
he
doing on Islesborough?” She was certain Serena had said she planned to get as much work done at the excavation site as possible this afternoon. Surely that would require the presence of her remaining assistant ... unless she
had
changed her mind in consideration of her coming nuptials.
Ben brought Bernice to a halt. In silence, they watched Carstairs walk rapidly away from the building he had just exited. There was something furtive about his movements. A moment later, he had passed out of sight around a curve in the narrow, winding dirt road.
Ben’s brow furrowed as he stared after Serena Dunbar’s assistant. “Perhaps he came to Islesborough for supplies.” He didn’t sound convinced.
Still beset by an uneasy feeling about Carstairs’s presence on the larger island, Diana wondered if she had been careless in overlooking the fact that Serena’s so-called assistants had to also be her accomplices. “I think,” she said to Ben, “that it would be a good idea to ask a few questions.”
Chapter Nine
The establishment Paul Carstairs had been visiting was Pyram Hatch’s netmaking business. The entire Hatch family—husband, wife, young son, and three daughters of assorted ages—produced more varieties of net than Diana had dreamed existed.
Mrs. Hatch pointed with pride to a crab net. “Constructed of #12 thread twine, that is. Fourteen inches long with one and three-quarters mesh and a selvedged edge.”
At a loss how to respond, Diana merely nodded. She and Ben had agreed to pretend she was interested in writing a story about Islesborough for the
Independent Intelligencer
. He’d taken Mr. Hatch aside and left her to interview the missus, who required no encouragement to talk Diana’s ear off. Between comments about the virtues of each of three kinds of nets for lobster pots and descriptions of casting nets, pickle nets for ladling pickles out of barrels, and hammock netting, Mrs. Hatch related a capsule history of the island.
“A great many of us are descended from the first settlers. That’s why you’ll still find so many Gilkeys, Trims, and Pendletons about. I was born a Pendleton myself. So was Lincoln Gilkey’s mother. Hear you stopped by to talk to him earlier.”
“News travels fast.”
“People know that buggy you’re driving. And the horse.” She waited, hoping for an explanation. Diana did not oblige her, lest whatever she said be repeated island-wide within the hour.
“What are these?” she asked instead, fingering a stack of what looked like black silk doilies.
“We make those for use in dentists’ offices. We also make tennis nets, fly nets for horses, and ear-tip nets to cover and decorate horses’ ears. Made of fine bleached cotton, they are. And these here are minnow nets, made of linen thread. They come in twenty inches or twelve.”
“Did Mr. Carstairs require some particular sort of net?” Diana asked.
“Know him, do you? Nice fella. As a matter of fact, he stopped by to place a special order. Don’t know what he means to use it for. Some archaeological thing, I’m guessing.”
“You’re aware, then, that there is an excavation on Keep Island?”
“Lord, yes. Would be some strange if anyone on Islesborough didn’t know.” She chuckled. “If it weren’t for being on the other side of the county line that runs right down the middle of Penobscot Bay, Keep Island would be part of our town, it lies that close. Used to belong to an Islesborough man, too. My pa knew him well. Delmar Pingree was his name. Cantankerous old cuss, or so Pa used to say.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be surprising, then, if one of the islanders stopped when he was out in his boat to take a look at the excavation?”
But Mrs. Hatch shook her head. “No time to lollygag when there’s lobster or fish to bring in. Got a good many master mariners on the island, too, and they’re even busier.”
“Tourists then? I understand the island has many visitors in the summer.”
“As to what they’d do, I couldn’t say. Might go and gawk, I suppose.”
“And how would they do that?” Diana fingered the rough texture of a net hanging from the rafters. “Are there boats available to rent?”
“Some. Why is it you’re asking, missus?”
“There was a small rowboat anchored off the south end of Keep Island the day of the diving accident. A dory?” She was certain that Mrs. Hatch knew all about Frank Ennis’s death. “I was wondering where it came from.”
“Rowed Nova Scotia style, was she?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s standing up and rowing forward.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”
“Never mind. I expect it was young Billy Showalter’s boat. Born in a tar-bottom dory, that Billy was. He’ll rent her out, or row a tourist. Is he in trouble for taking that old man from the mainland out? Fella wanted a look at the ... what did he call it? Oh, yes—site.”
“Billy’s not in any trouble. But this old man—do you recall his name?”
“Don’t think he gave it. I’d have heard if he did. All I know is that he’s white-haired and he walks with a limp. Has a cane. Seen him here on Islesborough once or twice before, but he’s stand-offish. Never stops to chat.”
Lucien Winthrop? Diana was about to ask more questions when Ben called to her.
“We need to leave. Now.” The urgency in his voice was goad enough to get her moving. She took only time enough to press a monetary token of her gratitude into Mrs. Hatch’s hand before hurrying back to the waiting horse and buggy.
“What’s wrong?”
Ben untied Bernice’s reins from the hitching post and vaulted into the driver’s seat. “Carstairs isn’t headed back to Keep Island. Hatch says he plans to go to Belfast on the
Electra
. This may be our best chance to question him about Serena. If we can get on board before he does, we can keep out of his sight.”
“But if you want to confront him—”
“I want to find out where he’s headed first.”
Diana regretted losing the opportunity to question young Billy Showalter about the passenger he’d taken out in his dory, but she saw the logic of Ben’s plan. Winthrop might have lied about knowing there was an excavation on Keep Island, but Carstairs had to be involved in Serena’s scheme up to his eyebrows. If they cornered him, made him think they knew more than they really did, he might confirm their suspicions. If they were very persuasive, he might even present them with the proof they needed to stop Serena once and for all.
They secreted themselves on the little steamer without much difficulty. She was sixty-four feet in length, carried two lifeboats atop the pilot house, and had an enclosed saloon below. There was room enough—just—to avoid being seen while still keeping an eye on their quarry.
It helped that Carstairs spent the entire crossing at the rail, watching as the
Electra
drew ever closer to Belfast. When they docked, he obligingly set off without looking back. He left the steamship wharf at the foot of Miller Street on foot and made his way steadily uphill ... directly to Lucien Winthrop’s house. Winthrop himself opened the door and did not seem surprised to find Paul Carstairs on his front porch.
“He lied to us,” Ben said. “Winthrop knows Carstairs.”
“And he knew about the excavation.” She repeated Mrs. Hatch’s description of the man in the dory.
“You realize what this means?”
“It means Winthrop knows Carstairs. It doesn’t mean Serena has suddenly become a paragon of virtue.”
But Diana’s conscience troubled her, as she knew Ben’s must bother him. Based on the assumption that Winthrop was telling them the truth, they had concluded that the woman was guilty of far worse sins than lying about her training as an archaeologist. Without proof of her villainy, they’d taken extreme steps to thwart her wedding to Graham Somener.
Better safe than sorry, Diana told herself. But the possibility that they’d constructed a house of cards based on a tissue of lies left her feeling faintly ill. “We could go in. Confront them both together.”
“No. I want to hear Carstairs’s story. And I don’t want him to realize we followed him here. We’ll wait, see where he goes next, and then ‘accidentally’ bump into him.”
“What if he’s spending the night at Winthrop’s house?”
“Doubtful. He has no luggage with him.”
“Then he must plan to return to Keep Island today.” She wondered how he’d gotten to Islesborough. If he already had a boat, why would he take the
Electra
to Belfast? She supposed he must have borrowed the tender.
Ben caught her arm, pulling her into cover behind a convenient hedge. Carstairs had reappeared on Winthrop’s porch.
Twigs poked at Diana through the fabric of her shirtwaist, but she remained immobile until Carstairs had passed by. They let him get some distance ahead before they followed and did not approach him until he’d reached the center of town. There he was obliged to stop at a crosswalk to let a half-dozen young men on shiny new bicycles pass by. The steel wire spokes of the large main wheels reflected the blinding rays of the late-day sun directly into Diana’s eyes.
“Mr. Carstairs,” Ben called out in a jovial voice. “We did not expect to see you again so soon.”
Carstairs gave a guilty start. “Dr. Northcote. Mrs. Spaulding.” He tipped his hat. “This is a surprise.”
“Members of the Belfast Bicycle Club, I presume,” Ben said, indicating the riders. “They are quite famous around the state.”
Taking her cue from Ben, Diana pretended this was a chance encounter and attempted to engage Carstairs in small talk. “I’ll never understand how they keep their balance on those awkward-looking machines.” The back wheels were disproportionately small and the seats, mounted directly over the larger front wheel, were little more than perches.
“I imagine they take their share of headers,” Carstairs replied, forced into making polite conversation.
When the last cyclist had gone past, Carstairs stepped off the curb. Diana seized his right arm, obliging him to escort her safely across the street.
“I’ve heard that on good road with rubber tires, a bicycle can outrun a horse.” She tightened her grip as they reached the opposite sidewalk.
Ben closed in on Carstairs’s left. Trapping him between them, they moved in unison towards the nearby Windsor Hotel. “This is where we’re staying, Carstairs,” he said, stopping in front of the entrance. “You?”
“I ... uh, no.”
“Headed back to Keep Island, then?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. “
He looked so flustered that Diana took pity on him. “What is it that brought you to Belfast, Mr. Carstairs?”
“Oh, that. Well, I have an ... er ... acquaintance here.”
“That would be Professor Winthrop?” Diana asked. She ignored Ben’s scowl. They would get nowhere by beating around the bush.
Carstairs’s eyes widened. “Now how in tarnation did you know that?”
She sent him a brilliant smile. “Very simple, Mr. Carstairs. Professor Winthrop is an archaeologist. You’re an archaeologist. It seemed a safe guess.” Except that
Winthrop
had claimed Carstairs was not. He’d said he’d never even heard of Paul Carstairs.
“Oh, I see,” Carstairs said. “Yes. Well, the professor heard I was working in the area and sent word he’d like to see me, so I thought the least I could do was oblige. He was one of my teachers, after all.” Carstairs was talking too fast, and a thin film of sweat had broken out on his forehead.
“At Harvard?” Ben asked.
“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”
“And Miss Dunbar was a student there, too, was she not?”
“Well, yes. That is, not at Harvard, precisely. She was a private student at the Peabody Museum. Now that’s part of Harvard, but separate, too, if you take my meaning.” He fumbled for his handkerchief and mopped his brow.