The Pariah by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online Page A

‘Mr Orwell,’ I told him, ‘I’ll make you a promise. I won’t sell the picture to anyone else until I’ve taken my time with it, done some research. And when I do sell it, I’ll give the Peabody the opportunity to match any price that I’m offered. Now, is that fair?’
    ‘You’ll take care of it?’
    ‘Sure I’ll take care of it. What makes you think I won’t take care of it?’
    He shrugged, and shook his head, and said, ‘No reason. It’s just that I wouldn’t like to see it lost, or damaged. You know where it comes from, don’t you? Who sold it?’
    ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
    ‘Well , I think, although I can’t be sure, that it came out of the Evelith collection. You know the Eveliths? Very old family, most of them live up near Tewksbury now, in Dracut County. But there’s been Eveliths in Salem ever since the 16th century, of one kind or another. Very inbred, very secretive, the kind of family that H.P. Love-craft used to write about, you know H.P. Lovecraft? From what I hear, old man Duglass Evelith has a library of Salem history books that makes the Peabody look like a shelf-full of paperbacks in somebody’s outhouse. And prints, too, and paintings; of which that painting is more than likely one. He puts them on the market now and again, who knows why, but always anonymously, and it’s always hard to authenticate them because he won’t discuss them or even admit that they were his.’
    I glanced back at the painting. ‘Sounds interesting,’ I admitted. ‘I suppose it’s nice to know that America still has some original eccentrics left.’
    Edward Wardwell thought for a moment, his hand pressed against his bearded mouth.
    Then he said, ‘You really won’t change your mind?’
    ‘No,’ I told him. ‘I’m not selling this painting until I know a whole lot more about it; like for instance why the Peabody wants it so badly.’
    ‘I’ve told you. Very rare topographical interest. That’s the only reason.’
    ‘I almost believe you. But you don’t mind if I do some checking up of my own? Perhaps I could talk to your Director.’
    Edward Wardwell stared at me tight-lipped, and then said, resignedly, ‘All right. That’s your privilege. I just hope I don’t lose my job for missing the auction.’
    He opened the car door and stepped out. ‘It’s been interesting to meet you,’ he said, and waited, as if he half expected me to relent, and hand over the painting. Then he said, ‘I knew your wife quite well, before she … well you know, before the accident.’
    ‘You knew Jane?’
    ‘Sure,’ he said, and before I could ask him anything else, walked off towards Margin Street again, his shoulders hunched up against the cold.
    I sat in my car for quite a long time, wondering what the hell I ought to do. I took the painting out of its wrapper again and stared at it. Maybe Edward Wardwell was telling me the truth, and this was the only view of Salem Harbour from the north-west that anybody had ever done. Yet, I was sure I had seen an engraving or a woodcut of a similar view before. It seemed hard to believe that one of the most sketched and painted inlets on the Massachusetts shoreline should only once have been painted from this particular direction.
    It had been a strange, unsettling day. I didn’t feel at all like going home. A man was watching me from across the street, his face shadowed by an unusually large hat. I started up the engine, and switched on the car radio. It was playing Love Is The Sweetest Thing.

    FIVE

    As I turned off Lafayette Road and drove northwards up the Granitehead peninsula towards Quaker Lane, black Atlantic storm clouds began to rise from the north-east horizon, like a horde of dark and shaggy beasts. By the time I reached the cottage, they were almost overhead, and the first drops of rain were beginning to spatter the hood of the car, and measle the garden path.
    I hurried up the path with my coat-collar tugged up on one side, and