Read Online On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery by Sue Hallgarth - Free Book Online
Authors: Sue Hallgarth
Tags: Historical, Mystery
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tell when herring were playing in the area by their sweetish smell. When herring encountered a weir fence, they were forced to work offshore until they came to the opening at the haft and swam dead ahead, probably imagining themselves free, Edith guessed, until they met the mallet shaped head of nets at the tip and slipped into a continual swirl. Each weir, they had been told, held several tons of herring. Fishermen simply let the weir do its work until the owner negotiated a sale with a processor and a team of fishermen came to seine the weir and transport the fish to the smokehouses at Seal Cove.
Herring Weir
The only weir Edith had heard about before coming to Grand Manan was the one that drowned Eustacia Vye. But Thomas Hardy had never been to Grand Manan. Herring weirs worked just like cattle pens at the stock yards, Edith grinned at the thought, and fish farmers had about as much time as ranchers to negotiate a price for their perishable stock. Grand Manan, Edith and Willa had learned shortly before they arrived for their first visit in 1922, had been a major supplier of smoked herring since the 1880s, when the island’s weirs provided the world with more than 20,000 tons of herring a year. By now, Edith guessed, it must be more like 100,000 tons.
“I wonder what Eric Dawson was doing out there,” Edith interrupted her own thoughts.
“He told me he was going out to check the nets and see whether herring had begun to work their way in,” Willa stepped back several paces toward the woods and sat down on a rock. “Jason Logan smelled them in the cove the night before last.”
Edith remained on the ledge. It felt like the right place, precipitous, precarious. If someone were to rush from behind or give even the slightest nudge, well. The red-shirted arm again flung out in her mind and the man in the suit seemed to leap once more into his sideways dive. Edith took a step back. She could not see their cottage with her naked eye, only that portion of the cliff that swung out to form their lawn. It also held the small stand of pines that grew below their cottage, shielding it from the others in their conclave.
That was where she had stood the previous afternoon, she was sure. Just there, a few feet north and west of the first pine. Right on the edge, she had been, but probably not noticeable to anyone standing on Seven Days Work. Underbrush and tall grass camouflaged the edge. Behind, the evergreens on their cliff, nestled well into Whale Cove, stood tall, their limber boughs heavy and deeply green. Looking at them through binoculars, Edith also saw them for a moment in her mind. So still the pines were and erect, shading the moss-covered ground beneath, redecorated each year with fresh blankets of pine needles and cones. Edith knew those arms swung sometimes violently in high winds and hurricanes, but compared to the few stalwart spruce that braved the constant assault of salt winds off the sea at Seven Days Work, their pines, it seemed to Edith, lolled like overfed gods.
“W ELL , what do you think?” Willa’s patience was wearing thin.
“Oh,” Edith hadn’t noticed how far she had slipped into her own thoughts, “I was just thinking how deceptive this spot would be to someone who didn’t know the island.”
Willa’s eyes formed the question before she raised it. “Deceptive?”
“Standing here I could believe there were no cottages on this side at all,” Edith raised her binoculars to look at the shoreline on the other side of Whale Cove, “and if I didn’t know from having been there, it would never occur to me that across the cove was the trail to Hole in the Wall.”
“I doubt that anyone could see from there without binoculars,” Willa raised her hand to shade her own eyes.
Edith contemplated the shoreline, then swung the glasses back toward their cottage. For pinpointing the spot where the man had gone off the cliff, it was not important that all she could see were the pine trees and
Herring Weir
The only weir Edith had heard about before coming to Grand Manan was the one that drowned Eustacia Vye. But Thomas Hardy had never been to Grand Manan. Herring weirs worked just like cattle pens at the stock yards, Edith grinned at the thought, and fish farmers had about as much time as ranchers to negotiate a price for their perishable stock. Grand Manan, Edith and Willa had learned shortly before they arrived for their first visit in 1922, had been a major supplier of smoked herring since the 1880s, when the island’s weirs provided the world with more than 20,000 tons of herring a year. By now, Edith guessed, it must be more like 100,000 tons.
“I wonder what Eric Dawson was doing out there,” Edith interrupted her own thoughts.
“He told me he was going out to check the nets and see whether herring had begun to work their way in,” Willa stepped back several paces toward the woods and sat down on a rock. “Jason Logan smelled them in the cove the night before last.”
Edith remained on the ledge. It felt like the right place, precipitous, precarious. If someone were to rush from behind or give even the slightest nudge, well. The red-shirted arm again flung out in her mind and the man in the suit seemed to leap once more into his sideways dive. Edith took a step back. She could not see their cottage with her naked eye, only that portion of the cliff that swung out to form their lawn. It also held the small stand of pines that grew below their cottage, shielding it from the others in their conclave.
That was where she had stood the previous afternoon, she was sure. Just there, a few feet north and west of the first pine. Right on the edge, she had been, but probably not noticeable to anyone standing on Seven Days Work. Underbrush and tall grass camouflaged the edge. Behind, the evergreens on their cliff, nestled well into Whale Cove, stood tall, their limber boughs heavy and deeply green. Looking at them through binoculars, Edith also saw them for a moment in her mind. So still the pines were and erect, shading the moss-covered ground beneath, redecorated each year with fresh blankets of pine needles and cones. Edith knew those arms swung sometimes violently in high winds and hurricanes, but compared to the few stalwart spruce that braved the constant assault of salt winds off the sea at Seven Days Work, their pines, it seemed to Edith, lolled like overfed gods.
“W ELL , what do you think?” Willa’s patience was wearing thin.
“Oh,” Edith hadn’t noticed how far she had slipped into her own thoughts, “I was just thinking how deceptive this spot would be to someone who didn’t know the island.”
Willa’s eyes formed the question before she raised it. “Deceptive?”
“Standing here I could believe there were no cottages on this side at all,” Edith raised her binoculars to look at the shoreline on the other side of Whale Cove, “and if I didn’t know from having been there, it would never occur to me that across the cove was the trail to Hole in the Wall.”
“I doubt that anyone could see from there without binoculars,” Willa raised her hand to shade her own eyes.
Edith contemplated the shoreline, then swung the glasses back toward their cottage. For pinpointing the spot where the man had gone off the cliff, it was not important that all she could see were the pine trees and
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