He regarded this Amazon with astonishment and grudging admiration. "You must be very strong." "Gotta be strong to live here." "Where do the islanders live? I don't see any houses." "In Providence Village, back in the woods." "Is that what the mainlanders call Piratetown?" "Ay-uh. Makes me mad!" The clenched fist hit the ta-bletop and made the dishes dance. "How do your people feel about the new resort?" "They're afraid. They think they'll be chased off the island, like they were chased off the west beach when the rich folks came."
"What do they think about the tourists?"
"They don't like "em. Some of the tourists are cocky . . . rowdy ... half-naked. Last coupla weekends, a bunch of "em camped near the lighthouse and flew kites big enough to ride in."
"Hang gliders," Qwilleran said, nodding. "Was that considered objectionable?"
"Well... they sat around with no clothes on, drinking beer and playing the radio loud."
"How do you know?"
"Some rabbit hunters saw "em ... Want more coffee?"
For the first time in his life Qwilleran declined a second cup; he could feel drums beating in his head. "What's your personal opinion of the Pear Island Hotel?" he asked her.
"Too much stuff about pirates. Makes me mad!"
"Are you saying that there were no pirates in the history of the island? Maybe they were here before your ancestors came."
Harriet looked fierce and banged the table. "It's all lies! Made-up lies!"
He thought it a good idea to change the subject. "There's a plaque at the lighthouse, honoring three light-keepers. Do you know what happened to them?"
"Nobody knows," she said mysteriously. "I could tell you the story if you want to hear it."
The drums stopped beating in Qwilleran's head, and he snapped to attention. "I'd like to hear it, but you've had a long hard day. You probably want to go home."
"I don't go home. I have a bed upstairs."
"Then let me take you to lunch on your day off. We'll eat in the Corsair Room."
"I don't take a day off. I work seven days a week. Wait'll I get another cup of coffee. Sure you don't want some?"
Qwilleran had a feeling that he had just found buried treasure. The lighthouse mystery had never been mentioned by Homer Tibbitt.
Harriet returned. "My grampa told this story over and over again, so I practically know it by heart. My great-grampa was mixed up in it."
"Is that so? Was he a lightkeeper himself?"
"No, the guv'ment never hired islanders. That made "em mad! It was like saying they were too dumb, or couldn't be trusted. The guv'ment hired three men from the mainland to live on the rock and keep the light burning. It was an oil lamp in those days, you know. Every so often a guv'ment boat delivered oil for the beacon and food for the keepers, and it was all hauled up the cliff by rope. There were some zigzag steps chiseled in the side of the cliff—you can see "em from the lake—but they were slippery and dangerous. Still are! When the guv'ment boat brought a relief man, he was hauled up like the groceries, by rope."
"How did your great-grandfather become involved, Harriet?"
"Well, he was kind of a leader, because he could read and write."
"Was that unusual?"
"Ay-uh. They didn't have a school. The settlers were kind of a forgotten colony—not only forgotten but looked down on."
"Where did your great-grandfather get his learning, then?"
"His pa taught him. His pa was kind of a preacher, but that's another whole story."
Qwilleran said impatiently, "Don't keep me in suspense, Harriet. What happened?"
"Well, one dark night my great-grampa woke up suddenly and didn't know why. It was like a message from the Lord. Wake up! Wake up! He got out of bed and looked around outside, and he saw that the beacon wasn't burning. That was bad! He put on his boots and took a lantern and went to the lighthouse, to see what was wrong. It was about a mile off. When he got there, there weren't any men around, and then he shouted—no answers! The fence gate was locked, so he climbed over. The door on the keepers" cottage was standing open, but there was nobody there. He thought of trying to light the beacon himself, but the door to the tower was locked. He didn't know what to do."
"There was no wireless at that time?" Qwilleran asked.
"No wireless—no radio—no telephone. That was a long time ago, Mr. Q. So ... my great-grampa went home. Passing ships must've reported the beacon being out, because . . . pretty soon the island was swarming with constables and soldiers, arresting people, searching houses, and even digging up backyard graves. They didn't have regular cemeteries then."
"Did they think the islanders had murdered the men? What would be the motive?"
"The guv'ment thought the islanders really wanted ships to be wrecked so they could rob them. They believed the old lie about pirate blood. That was a hundred years ago, and people still believe it! Makes me boiling mad!"
"Old legends never die," Qwilleran said. (They only get made into movies, he thought.) "Were the bodies ever found?"
