steps, staying close enough to see and hear all that went on. I was certain one of the people who came forward when Dr. Bright beckoned would know her. A woman who wears exquisitely made clothes cannot be a waif or a stray. But one by one each man and woman shook his or her head and moved on.
Last to come was a personage of some repute, by the name of Euphemia Wells. Hettie had pointed her out to me and warned that I should be careful of Euphemia, whose leadership in Pacific Grove goes back to its founding some thirty years ago. Hettie had also told me that the town was founded as a summer religious retreat for one of the larger Protestant denominations, so the religious influence is still strong, which was why my transgression at the boardinghouse had been dealt with so severely.
Euphemia is a large woman, with a bosom like a shelf.She wears outmoded dresses of black bombazine and I have never seen her hatless. Even at seven in the morning, if you should happen to be out for breakfast or having your morning constitutional and you pass Euphemia, she will be wearing one of those dreadful forward-sloping hats. The hat will be black also, and her dress will rustle stiffly (not, God forbid, enticingly) as she moves by. She rustled stiffly now, and her corset creaked as she bent down to get a closer look at the poor drowned woman.
“Humph!” she snorted, backing off. Then she gave me the evil eye, for absolutely no reason I could think of, but she soon enlightened me. “Distinctive dress, my foot. It’s disgraceful, that’s what kind of dress it is! Only a certain sort of woman wears such a dress, and you won’t find that sort of woman in Pacific Grove. If you want to find out who she is, you’d better ask those bohemians on the other side of the hill!” With that, she rustled and creaked away.
By “the other side of the hill” she meant Carmel—where Michael Archer lived, with those bohemians.
A year ago I would have gone ahead to Carmel even though night was falling as the coroner bore the body away. A year ago I would not have let little things like dark, seldom-traveled roads and inexperience in handling a rig get in the way of satisfying my curiosity. A year ago—that is to say, before the earthquake—I had not yet had certain experiences which have since caused me to make some attempt at occasional prudence.
There are only two ways to get to Carmel—that is, assuming one does not go by water: by the Old Mission Road or on Seventeen Mile Drive through Del Monte Forest. The latter is a picturesque, winding route that was built mainly to impress the guests of the Hotel Del Monte in Monterey. Indeed that drive gets its name from the seventeen miles between the hotel and the forest’s Carmel gate. The Old Mission Road is more direct, but goes over a hill (the very one aforementioned by Euphemia Wells) so steep that anywhere but in California itwould be called a mountain. Furthermore, that hill is supposed to be haunted—and while I do not believe in ghosts, if ever there were an apt place for one it would be the summit of Carmel Hill. There is something about the summit that compels a look over the shoulder to see what might be behind.
“It can wait until tomorrow,” I said aloud, giving a shake to the reins. Hettie’s bay mare, Bessie, twitched one ear backward but obliged me by picking up her pace. If the drowned woman was from Carmel, or had any connection to Carmel, Michael would know—and he would still know tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile I still had to drive through the Point Pinos woods on my way back to the lighthouse, at twilight, when tree trunks seem to waver in the gathering gloom and creatures that hunt at night come out with their glowing eyes. I am a city person—all my life I have lived either in Boston or San Francisco—and there are times, especially at night, when in the midst of all this glorious nature I feel isolated and alone.
CHAPTER TWO
KEEPER’S LOG
January 10, 1907
Wind: SW
Last to come was a personage of some repute, by the name of Euphemia Wells. Hettie had pointed her out to me and warned that I should be careful of Euphemia, whose leadership in Pacific Grove goes back to its founding some thirty years ago. Hettie had also told me that the town was founded as a summer religious retreat for one of the larger Protestant denominations, so the religious influence is still strong, which was why my transgression at the boardinghouse had been dealt with so severely.
Euphemia is a large woman, with a bosom like a shelf.She wears outmoded dresses of black bombazine and I have never seen her hatless. Even at seven in the morning, if you should happen to be out for breakfast or having your morning constitutional and you pass Euphemia, she will be wearing one of those dreadful forward-sloping hats. The hat will be black also, and her dress will rustle stiffly (not, God forbid, enticingly) as she moves by. She rustled stiffly now, and her corset creaked as she bent down to get a closer look at the poor drowned woman.
“Humph!” she snorted, backing off. Then she gave me the evil eye, for absolutely no reason I could think of, but she soon enlightened me. “Distinctive dress, my foot. It’s disgraceful, that’s what kind of dress it is! Only a certain sort of woman wears such a dress, and you won’t find that sort of woman in Pacific Grove. If you want to find out who she is, you’d better ask those bohemians on the other side of the hill!” With that, she rustled and creaked away.
By “the other side of the hill” she meant Carmel—where Michael Archer lived, with those bohemians.
A year ago I would have gone ahead to Carmel even though night was falling as the coroner bore the body away. A year ago I would not have let little things like dark, seldom-traveled roads and inexperience in handling a rig get in the way of satisfying my curiosity. A year ago—that is to say, before the earthquake—I had not yet had certain experiences which have since caused me to make some attempt at occasional prudence.
There are only two ways to get to Carmel—that is, assuming one does not go by water: by the Old Mission Road or on Seventeen Mile Drive through Del Monte Forest. The latter is a picturesque, winding route that was built mainly to impress the guests of the Hotel Del Monte in Monterey. Indeed that drive gets its name from the seventeen miles between the hotel and the forest’s Carmel gate. The Old Mission Road is more direct, but goes over a hill (the very one aforementioned by Euphemia Wells) so steep that anywhere but in California itwould be called a mountain. Furthermore, that hill is supposed to be haunted—and while I do not believe in ghosts, if ever there were an apt place for one it would be the summit of Carmel Hill. There is something about the summit that compels a look over the shoulder to see what might be behind.
“It can wait until tomorrow,” I said aloud, giving a shake to the reins. Hettie’s bay mare, Bessie, twitched one ear backward but obliged me by picking up her pace. If the drowned woman was from Carmel, or had any connection to Carmel, Michael would know—and he would still know tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile I still had to drive through the Point Pinos woods on my way back to the lighthouse, at twilight, when tree trunks seem to waver in the gathering gloom and creatures that hunt at night come out with their glowing eyes. I am a city person—all my life I have lived either in Boston or San Francisco—and there are times, especially at night, when in the midst of all this glorious nature I feel isolated and alone.
CHAPTER TWO
KEEPER’S LOG
January 10, 1907
Wind: SW
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