The Ghost of the Mary Celeste by Valerie Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

back.”
    She dropped her fresh-wrung sheet into the basket and brushed her hands together to dry them. Her sharp eyes swept over me so that I straightened my spine, but then she smiled and in a most amiable tone bid me follow her to the house. “He dotes on letters from home,” she observed as we entered the house. “I think if you go straight to Dr. Allen’s there should be time for it to get to Livorno. That’s his last stop before he turns for home.” She went to the kitchen cupboard and took out a page of printed addresses, then carefully copied out the one I required. I accepted it gratefully, wondering at her changeability. All her children love her, that I know, and surely that speaks well for her. “I’ll go at once,” I said, and I did.On the walk I wondered what she would think of the lines I was sending to her son. And what, after all, did I think of them? Would he have preferred a long, newsy screed about the family doings, the town gossip? I thought I should consign my silly poem to the rubbish; it would only make him think the less of me. But in the end, I arrived at Dr. Allen’s office, where he tends to the sick and the mail, copied the address onto the envelope, and consigned it to the whims of the postal service. I consoled myself with the notion that it might reach its destination too late.
    This morning a dreary young man appeared at the door and announced that he had come to see the Reverend Leander Cobb. When I asked if he was expected, he said he should be, but probably was not. His name was Richard Peebles and he had spoken with Father after his sermon in Wareham last Sunday. Father goes over there every few weeks; he and Rev. Huntress exchange congregations so as not, Father says, to become “stale.” I informed Mr. P. that I would alert the Reverend to his presence and invited him to wait in the parlor.
    With reluctance, I tapped at Father’s door. He dislikes being disturbed when he is working on his sermons, but I saw no alternative. “Come in,” he barked, and I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
    “What is it, Sallie?” he asked, laying down his pen.
    “A Mr. Peebles is here to see you.”
    “Mr. who?”
    “Peebles. He said he spoke to you after service in Wareham.”
    “Peebles,” he repeated, scanning his brain for a recollection.
    “Short, stocky, thick yellow beard, dressed all in gray, a very odd hat, like a basin, yellow hair protruding at sides.”
    Father nodded at each detail, checking it against a mental list. At the hat, he sighed. “Oh merciful heavens,” he said. “Mr. Peebles.”
    “Shall I show him in, or will you join him in the parlor?”
    “He knows I’m at home?”
    “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t think …”
    “To lie, Sallie. Well, that’s as it should be. And it’s base of me to want to avoid Mr. Peebles, but he’s one of a company I truly believe to be comprised entirely of charlatans and fools.”
    “Is he a lawyer?”
    Father laughed. “Worse, much worse. He goes about writing on slates and he tells his poor victims the messages are from their dead relatives.”
    “He’s a medium.”
    “Why did they choose that word? It irritates me.”
    “What shall I tell him?”
    “Hannah’s not in the house, is she?”
    “She’s at the Academy.”
    “Good. I’ll have him out of here before she returns. She has enough nonsense in her head.”
    “Why does he want to see you?” I asked.
    “I foolishly gave a sermon on Ezekiel over there. I didn’t know it, but it’s one of their sacred texts. Mr. Peebles accosted me afterward and I was polite; I was mollifying. I didn’t tell him I think his view is a sacrilege, but now it looks as though he’s going to push me to it.”
    “What can we do?”
    “Nothing. I’m trapped. There’s no way out of it. Send the fellow to me.”
    I found Mr. Peebles inspecting the bookshelf, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted at an odd angle to take in the title on the spine