The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Read Free

blast.
    â€œI’m getting to that,” Fenimore roared over the din.
    The road to Lydia’s farm took them through the village of Winston, a colonial town nestled beside the Ashley River. The town was divided by a wide street lined on either side by ancient sycamores. It was one of the few streets that bore a sign, but not a very helpful one: Ye Greate Street, it was called. Because Winston was off the beaten track, it had escaped the sanitizing effect of historic preservation. It had the worn, lived-in look of a colonial town still occupied by the descendents of its founders. Some houses were in need of paint and some yards sported swing-sets and barbecue grills.
    Outside the town, they soon came upon a rusty vine-covered gate bearing a wooden sign. Although the letters were faded, the words Ashley Farm were still legible. The driveway consisted of two parallel ruts divided by a tangle of grass and weeds. Hitting an especially bad rut, Fenimore winced.
    â€œYou need shocks,” Horatio reproved him.
    Unlike most doctors, Fenimore drove second-hand cars and ran them into the ground. No wonder his colleagues, who would drive nothing but the latest Audi or Lexus, considered him eccentric. A “maverick,” they called him.
    Through a clump of trees he caught sight of a brick farmhouse.
As they drew nearer, they made out a design on the north wall. Fenimore halted. A complex pattern of diagonals and floral flourishes had been worked into the red brick with blue bricks. This intricate design was crowned by a pair of initials—J & A—and the date, 1724. He was reminded of a medieval tapestry. But these colonial craftsmen had substituted bricks for fine thread. Then he remembered—the houses in this area were famous for their “patterned brick ends.” A longtime admirer of brickwork, this sight almost made up for the disappointment with his bequest.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Horatio asked.
    â€œThat’s a fine example of the artistry of our first settlers.”
    â€œNot bad.”
    â€œCould you shut that thing off,” Fenimore glared at his box. “We’re nearing civilization.”
    With a groan Horatio obeyed.
    As Fenimore drove his car around the corner of the farmhouse and parked, he wondered fleetingly what Lydia Ashley would make of his companion. He fervently hoped the boy would watch his language. As they got out, they were met by a mixture of scents—newly-turned soil, freshly-cut hay, and a hint of salt from the bay. To city dwellers, this was heady stuff—as intoxicating as a stiff drink. Inhaling deeply, Fenimore cast his eye toward the river. Whenever he arrived at a new place, he instinctively took stock of his surroundings. In the city, he noted alleys, fire escapes, and exit signs. In the country, he looked for hedgerows, gates, and ditches. As a part-time detective, he knew escape routes often came in handy. So did Horatio, for reasons of his own.
    The bank leading down to the river was thick with violets and buttercups. Below, at the water’s edge, lay a wharf with a motorboat moored beside it. (Maybe Lydia would lend it to him one day.) About a hundred yards from the house stood a barn with a tractor parked nearby. Downriver, in the far corner of the field, he could just make out a smaller brick cottage.
    â€œWhat’s that stink?” Horatio wrinkled his nose.

    Fenimore took another deep breath. This time the country air was not so fresh—tainted by a different scent. Stench was more like it. He scanned the field for signs of a garbage pit. Trash collection, he knew, was a luxury of the city and suburbs. Another breath, and he identified the odor. “Rancid meat,” he declared. Once he had read a newspaper account about a haunted house. The hauntees had claimed that each appearance of their ghost had been preceded by the smell of rancid meat. The owner, who happened to be an ordained minister, had stated: ‘If evil