Meg Harris Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. R.J. Harlick
from her neck by a thin leather thong. Although it was probably once a fine example of Algonquin workmanship, its deerskin had worn down to a fragile thinness, and its decoration was missing too many coloured beads to be a recognizable design.
“Yes, but why me? I’ve got nothing to do with your ancestors.”
Marie pulled her amulet so hard I thought the thong would break. She stared out the window, then back at me and said, “You got the boat.”
It seemed a plausible enough reason, but I didn’t believe her. She knew how to operate the motor boat as well as I did.
However, realizing from past experience that it would be a tough battle to move her once she’d dug her heels in, I decided to ask her another question. “What do you know of Aunt Aggie’s connection to Whispers Island?”
“Who tell you that?”
“Eric.”
“He blowing in the wind.”
“Are you saying that Aunt Aggie had nothing to do with the island?”
“I know nothing. You want help, let’s get started. I got lots other work to do.” She picked up some empty metal tins lying on the floor.
“Marie, if you know something, tell me. It could stop a gold mine.”
“Know nothing.”
“Tell Eric then, if you don’t want to tell me.”
My answer was a loud clatter as she threw the tins into one of the boxes we’d brought up.
I gave up. Marie had a stubborn streak in her. I’d discovered the best approach was to leave her alone and hope she’d loosen up as her attention became caught up in her work. Sometimes she would relent as the day progressed.
I looked around, wondering where to begin. “What a mess. You’d think Aunt Aggie would’ve gotten rid of this junk long ago.”
Marie continued to ignore me. She touched the swollen side of her face. And then she answered, “Mooti told me Miz Agatta never come up here.”
There was that strange word “Mooti”. When I’d first heard it, I’d assumed it was Algonquin for “mother”. I’d since learned from Eric that it wasn’t, just a special name Marie’s family used.
“Miz Agatta keep Mooti away too,” she added, which reminded me of the time when Aunt Aggie had caught me sneaking in here.
I must have been about twelve or thirteen. I’d found a key labelled “attic” and couldn’t resist the temptation to go exploring. She was very upset and lectured me for what seemed like hours on sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. Next day she changed the lock.
“Mooti said she scared of something,” Marie continued.
“Maybe scared of getting hurt. Look at how wobbly some of this stuff is.” As if to prove my point, the stack of boxes I’d been leaning against toppled over, leaving us sputtering in the cloud of dust.
Then I noticed a likely possibility. “Don’t you think that if Aunt Aggie had squirrelled anything away, it would be in those trunks over there?”
There were five of them shoved against the wall, looking as if they were waiting to be loaded onto a steamship. Even the Cunard stickers plastered on the wooden sides and tops seemed to support this. But the thick layer of grime suggested it was more likely they’d missed the boat a very long time ago.
I was surprised at the discovery. I’d always assumed my great-aunt had never gone beyond the edge of the great Canadian Shield. She had a phobia about leaving Three Deer Point. The only time she left it was to make her annual trip to the village of Somerset, about twenty miles away.
“Marie, did your mother ever mention anything about Aunt Aggie taking a sea voyage?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders in response. Maybe the contents would provide the answer.
We pulled and shoved the smallest into the centre of the floor, away from the sloped ceiling. Although the brass lock was rusted shut, Marie soon had it open after a few sharp whacks with a broken chair leg.
Inside we found the answer, at least partially. On top lay some old menus from the HMS Lusitania, with a variety of dates ranging from July 8 to 16, 1913. While they did confirm the sea voyage, there was nothing to indicate Aunt Aggie was the traveller. The dates, though, did suggest the possibility. She would have been seventeen, old enough for a grand tour of Europe.
A faint whiff of lavender and cedar stirred the air when I removed the next item in the trunk, a richly embroidered Kashmir shawl. Underneath lay more magic.
We lifted out layer after layer of delicate fabrics; laces, silks and sheer muslin, which transformed into a mélange of elegant dresses, flowing ball gowns and other wonderful outfits. They looked Edwardian in style, which would place them in the same time period as the menus. I thought of sumptuous garden parties, glittering balls and romantic moonlight strolls.
“Aren’t these wonderful, Marie?” I pulled another feather-soft Kashmir shawl from the trunk and draped it over my shoulders.
“I never seen nothing like this, that’s for sure.” She held a cloud of pale yellow silk to her short sturdy body while she sashayed in front of a tarnished mirror propped against the wall. The simple Edwardian elegance of the dress seemed to complement rather than clash with her red scarf and long braids.
“Hard to believe, but do you think these could have belonged to Aunt Aggie?”
“I don’ know, Missie. They real pretty. I never seen Miz Agatta in this kind of dress.”
I hadn’t either. I’d only seen her wear plain, tired-looking dresses. However, I had to assume they belonged to her. My great-grandmother had died when Victorian overindulgence was still in style. She’d left only one daughter, Agatha. My grandfather was the other child, but he didn’t marry until after the war. Still, it was very difficult to imagine my great-aunt wearing such beautiful gowns. They spoke of another Agatha Harris, one I never knew.
The remaining four trunks were filled with the same luxurious ladies’ clothes. In none of them did we find anything that hinted at Whispers Island or even Aunt Aggie’s life at Three Deer Point. But we did confirm the trunks and the clothing belonged to Aunt Aggie, with the discovery of a passenger list for HMS Lusitania for the same 1913 dates as the menus. Agatha Harris, together with her brother, my grandfather, John Harris, and their father, my Great-grandpa Joe, were listed among the first class passengers.
When we moved aside a stack of hatboxes, we found another much smaller trunk. However, unlike the other trunks, this one was locked. After we jiggled and whacked the latch several times with no success, Marie came up with the idea of using a skewer from the kitchen. She quickly had it open after a few well placed prods.
At first, I thought it was empty, but moving the light closer revealed that the contents had shrunk to the bottom. When I removed the top layer of tissue, out fell the dried remains of a flower with one paper-thin petal still intact. It looked like a rose petal.
I reached in and pulled out what turned out to be the most exciting discovery thus far, an exquisite lace gown. Once it had been white; now it was a dull, slightly stained ivory. Beneath the lace was the satin under-dress, so soft it slid through my fingers like a breath of summer air. But this was no ordinary gown, for attached was a long lace train which would spread out into a magnificent fan on the floor.
“Wow, isn’t this fabulous, Marie?” I carefully held it up to my front. Like the other ones, it would never fit me. It belonged to a much smaller woman, one Aunt Aggie’s size. “What do you think? Is this a wedding dress or what? Sure looks like one to me.”
“Looks like a dress I seen in a picture.” Marie spread the long train on the floor.
“Surely, this couldn’t have belonged to Aunt Aggie? She never got married.”
“I don’