by Janice

Saturday, 9 April, 1994

The sun was sinking low as the car drew up in front of the tiny seaside cottage in Easthampton. Larger, grander houses had sprung up around it, but this house held a simple charm from another time. From somewhere close by, but out of view, the soothing sound of the surf could be heard. In the waning light, Trixie could tell that she was going to like it here. She sighed with contentment and stepped out of the car.

Jim was close behind her. He had stopped to get their bags before joining her on the front doorstep of their honeymoon cottage. They would be spending only three nights here before returning to Sleepyside.

“Have you got the keys?” Trixie asked, admiring the red and white door. Next to it, stylised metal letters spelled out the name ‘Sea Mist’. “I can’t wait to see inside.”

Jim handed her a small bunch and she quickly found the right one and opened the door. The interior was simple but cosy, decorated in a nautical theme. A few minutes were enough to look over the entire house: one bedroom, a combined living-dining area, a kitchen and a bathroom.

“Alone at last,” said Trixie, as Jim set the bags neatly against the wall.

“At last,” he repeated, joining her on the bed.

A long moment passed, while they looked at each other, trying to digest the real meaning of those few simple words. Alone. At last. Their lips met and they kissed, softly, slowly. Outside the window, the day was ending. Inside the cottage, something had just begun.

The next day the newlyweds went for a midmorning walk around the neighbourhood. The sun was shining brightly and the air was clean and crisp, with a strong hint of the approaching summer. After some time, they came across a small group of shops.

“A second hand store,” Trixie said, surprised. “I wouldn’t have expected one around here.”

“Would you like to look inside?” Jim asked.

His new wife nodded and the two entered. At first glance there seemed to be no order to the place, but soon the chaos inside resolved itself into a number of rather messy aisles. The two separated to look at items suited to their own interests.

Fairly soon, Trixie found something which interested her: an old musical jewelry box. “Doesn’t this remind you of Grandpa Crimper?” she asked, as Jim joined her.

He laughed. “I guess so. Do you want it?”

“Actually, yes,” Trixie responded. “Buy it for me?”

Jim took the old wooden box from her and handed it to the storekeeper along with his payment. Minutes later, Jim and Trixie were once again on the street, walking aimlessly. Turning a corner, the ocean suddenly came into view, fringed with golden sand. Not far away, a pathway led down onto the beach.

“Let’s go down there,” Trixie suggested, setting off at a jog. She paused to pull off her shoes before running down towards the water’s edge.

Following at a more sedate pace, Jim smiled at the picture she made: curls bouncing and cheeks flushed. He took his time, having no intention of getting his feet wet. His new wife, apparently, had found the water to be chilly and had retreated out of reach of the waves.

“Are you coming down here, or do I have to come and get you?” Trixie yelled, as he stood at the top of the beach.

Jim pretended to think. “I suppose you could do that,” he said, slowly. He took a few steps forward, dropping his shoes next to where Trixie had left hers. “But I think this might be more fun.” He darted towards her and scooped her up in his arms.

“Oh, no, Jim!” she cried, as they came closer to the ocean’s edge. “It’s cold in there. Please, Jim! I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?” he asked. “Anything at all?” He thought for a few moments, then whispered something in her ear.

“Deal,” she said, and he set her down. She added, as she tore up the beach: “Though, I would have done that, anyway!”

Jim laughed and sank down on the sand, next to his shoes. Moments later, Trixie joined him and they settled into a comfortable silence.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said, as they looked out over the breaking waves. “This is the most perfect honeymoon that anyone could ever have.”

When they returned to the cottage, Trixie decided to examine her earlier purchase in more detail. Settling herself on the bed, she tipped the music box this way and that, looking at every surface. A soft tinkling sound made her stop. Had something fallen inside? She peered through the small hole which had once been adorned with a plastic ballerina.

“What’s up?” asked Jim, seeing her intent looks. “Is it broken?”

She shook her head. “It tinkles, like there’s something in there.” She tipped the box over, trying to make the object fall out. “I can see it, but it doesn’t want to come out.” For several minutes she worked back and forth until suddenly an old brass key dropped onto the bedspread in front of her.

“That’s a strange one,” Jim said, picking it up. “Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

Trixie shook her head, taking it from his hand. “I wonder what it opens.”

Her husband smiled. “I think that’s too much of a mystery for even you to solve,” he said. “After all, we have no idea of who owned it before, let alone where they may have lived.”

“I guess,” she replied reluctantly, dropping the key into one of the compartments and closing the lid. She carefully set the box in the middle of the dressing table. “But I can wish, can’t I?”

“Sure,” Jim replied. “But I think you’ve got a better chance of finding a mystery in the historic district. There must be plenty of things that need solving there.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Trixie, grabbing him by the arm. “Let’s get going!”

A few hours later, the promised mystery had failed to materialise, but Trixie was happy, nonetheless. She had visited South End Cemetery, almost driving Jim to distraction with her speculation on the lives of those buried there; she had wandered along streets, looking at the buildings and trying to decide which were the oldest; she had even taken some guided tours. Now, they found themselves wandering aimlessly across the Village Green towards Town Pond.

“I wonder what it would have been like, a hundred or so years ago, when the green went right through the town,” said Trixie, not watching where she was going. In her mind’s eye, she peopled the area with women in long skirts and smartly-dressed men; everyone in their Sunday best.

“Keep your eyes open, or you’ll land in the pond,” said Jim, guiding her by the arm. “Knowing my luck, you’d take me with you, too.”

“We’re nowhere near it,” she said, waving an arm in its general direction. “And I haven’t been that clumsy in years!” She waved her arm again, in a wide circle. “But can’t you just imagine how it must have been: all this green grass, right through the middle of town, and the cows grazing-”

“And leaving behind piles of manure,” Jim added.

“-children playing and horses and carts taking goods- Oh!” There was a small splash as Trixie slid off the grass and into the very edge of the pond. “Jim!”

“I warned you,” he said, laughing at her predicament. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your eyes open?”

“Stop lecturing and get me out of here,” she cried, almost losing her balance. Cold water and dark mud splashed up her leg and onto her clothes. “Please?”

For several moments, Jim contemplated his new wife. “Against my better judgement,” he muttered, as he reached out to her. His strong hand encircled her wrist and, slowly, gently, he pulled. Trixie put one foot back on the bank. “Easy, now.”

“What, exactly, do you mean by that?” she asked, stopping short.

“I mean, don’t pull me in.”

Splash!

“What did you say, Jim?” Trixie asked sweetly, as her husband tried to keep his balance. The bottom few inches of his jeans were underwater and the remainder splattered with water and mud.

“I asked for that, didn’t I?” he muttered, setting first one foot and then the other on dry land. “Come on, then.” With a sharp jerk, he pulled Trixie up next to him, so that she almost toppled forwards onto the ground. “You’re just lucky that I have some towels in the car, otherwise you’d be cleaning it for weeks!”

While Jim removed stray bits of mud from the inside of the car, Trixie went inside to change into something clean and dry. After stripping off her wet jeans and cleaning up a little, she returned to the bedroom. She frowned at the clothes she had brought with her. Why can’t I ever seem to take the right thing? she wondered for what seemed like the thousandth time. Wherever I go, I always have this problem.

Next to her side of the bed was an old dressing table, with a painted wooden chair. She sat down at the table with a sigh. Something about the music box caught her eye and she picked it up. The lid wasn’t quite closed. Turning it around, Trixie noticed that the lining was poking through on the hinged side. I might have to fix it back down, she thought, opening the box and working to free the material. She ran her finger along the edge, trying to feel how much of the lining was unstuck.

That’s funny, she thought. There seems to be something behind it. Gently, she lifted the lining away to reveal a label, marked with small printed letters. “Elspeth Ryder, Sea Mist,” she read aloud. Next, there was the address. “Jim!” she called loudly, throwing open the window. “Come here!”

A minute later, Jim appeared, still somewhat dishevelled. “What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Is something wrong?”

Trixie held out the music box. “Look! I found a name and address,” she said. “And, Jim! That’s this house, isn’t it?”

He took the box from her and read the label for himself. “You’re right,” he said, amazed. “But that’s not the name of the lady who owns the house now. Her surname is Fletcher. Though, I think Mrs. Hall mentioned that she had inherited the place recently. Maybe they’re somehow related.”

“I’m going to start searching right away,” Trixie said happily, her half-dressed state forgotten. Jim smiled indulgently and went back to his cleaning.

For the next half hour, Trixie searched high and low for a keyhole to fit. At the end of that time she had to give up. The tiny cottage had only so many possible locations to check. She returned to the bedroom, to find Jim in the process of changing his clothes.

“I give up,” she said, sinking onto the wooden chair at the dressing table. “It must have been something that got taken away after she died.” She sighed deeply. “And I was so sure I’d find something here.”

“Never mind,” said Jim, rubbing her shoulders soothingly. “I think we can find something to take your mind off it.”

“I did come in here to change my clothes,” Trixie reminded him, with a giggle. “Maybe I should do that.”

“Clothes?” he asked, beginning to undress her. “You don’t need new clothes. I like you better without them, anyway.”

“Oh! My ring!” Trixie cried, as he pulled her shirt off and the ring with it. “I think it went on the floor.”

“Find it later,” Jim whispered, and Trixie did not object.

It turned out, when she looked for her ring, that it had rolled under the bed. Trixie had to lie flat on the floor and reach full length to get it. She could see it there, halfway across, but could not quite reach. “Jim,” she asked, “can you shift the bed a little?”

He lifted it slightly in preparation to moving and suddenly Trixie could reach the ring. Just as she touched it, though, it disappeared from her grasp.

“Jim!” she cried. “It’s gone!” For several long moments she scrabbled around on the floor, trying to get closer to the place she had last seen it. “Help me move the bed. Quickly!”

Her husband groaned softly, but did her bidding. There was a small indentation in the floor, with a metal handle set in it, and Trixie’s ring right in the middle. She scooped it up gratefully and put it back on her finger.

“There’s a keyhole,” Jim pointed out, as soon as she was out of the way. “It must be a kind of trapdoor.”

Trixie looked. “My key!” she cried, suddenly. “Where’s my key? This must be it.”

Soon, she had fitted the strange key into its hole. It turned easily, letting out only the faintest of sounds, and Trixie lifted the panel out of the floor to reveal perhaps a dozen cardboard cartons in the space underneath.

Trixie opened the nearest box gingerly, her eyes wide with curiosity. Jim saw her reach inside and draw out a book. Her face creased into a frown. She looked into box after box, leaning as far as she could reach to draw them to herself. The frown deepened into a look of sheer disgust.

“How do you like that?” she said, seemingly annoyed. “It’s just a whole lot of old poetry books and they’re all the same.”

Jim took one from her. “‘The Wind Cries the Name of My Love Who was Lost at Sea in 1956,’” he read, opening it, “‘by Elspeth Ryder.’ Self published. This looks like it could be almost the entire print run.” He opened it somewhere in the middle and read aloud.

Every day the wind blows in from the sea
And I hear my love calling to me
Saying, ‘Elspeth, Elspeth, come to me here in the sea and be free.’
But I don’t go.
I have a sore knee,
Which he should know, since he was there when I hurt it and it’s never been the same since.

Every night I hear him call
It sounds like he’s outside in the hall
Saying, ‘Elspeth, Elspeth, all you have to do is fall
Into the sea and we’ll be together again after all this time.’
But I just turn over and go back to sleep.
And, really, he should know better than to disturb me as I always rise early.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Trixie exclaimed with a giggle. “It’s no wonder she didn’t sell very many.”

Jim’s face assumed a serious expression. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “I think there could be some merit in it. It’s rather like my own style, really.” He shut his eyes, thinking.

My lovely wife is called Trixie
And every day she calls to me
Saying, ‘Jim, Jim, come quick! There’s a mystery!’
But I don’t go.
I’m allergic to mysteries,
Which she should know, since she has dragged me through about a hundred already and I always come out in a rash.

Trixie tried hard to keep a straight face, but soon dissolved into giggles. “Is that so?” she said. “Well, I think I might be able to make up some poetry of my own.” She thought for a few moments.

My husband, Jim, said to me
‘Trixie, solve this mystery!’
But he’ll have to do it himself this time, because of the crack he made in that other poem.

“I think this book is a bad influence on us,” Jim said, shaking his head. Laughing, Trixie returned the book to its grave under the floor and firmly shut the trapdoor.

The End