The Book of Murdock Read Online Free

arrivals and marble vaults for the well-heeled.
    Even old graves need tending, however, and vandals and thieves with spades need to be discouraged. A dwelling had been built for caretakers and their families on the last plot of unturned earth—some said atop the bones of forgotten pioneers whose wooden markers had burned or been carried away. It was a doll’s house really, designed along the lines of the stately mansions of the suddenly rich on Benton Avenue and Lawrence Street, but scaled down to proportions more appropriate to its humble tenants. It was the same mansard roof, the same mullioned panes in Roman arches, the same gracious wraparound porch; but twelve paces would take you from the front door into the backyard, and even from the outside you could tell that a man not much taller than myself would have to duck when he climbed the stairs to the second story. And I am not tall.
    I worked the bell pull and took off my hat when the door opened, as I would have upon entering a place of worship. The man who opened it was in his middle forties, my height
(I wondered if he’d been hired for his slight stature, to preserve the plaster ceilings), and to my observation the owner of the only other shaven male chin and upper lip west of Pennsylvania. His cheeks were high ovals, his hair cut short and black without gray, and his eyes were that pale shade of blue that photographers have to touch up on the glass plate to keep them from reproducing dead white. He wore neither coat nor collar, but with his black waistcoat buttoned and white shirt fastened to the throat he appeared fitted out to preach the gospel in any church I’d ever entered.
    â€œFather Griffin?”
    â€œEldred Griffin.” He had a low, even voice that never strayed above or below a straight line—or so I thought then. It had the quality of a chant. “You’re Page Murdock.” He touched a pocket in his waistcoat. I’d sent him Judge Blackthorne’s letter by way of a messenger, with a note of my own, but I hadn’t expected him to keep either on his person. The way he touched it made me think of an amulet to ward off—well, me.
    I showed him the simple six-pointed star. “Am I interrupting anything?”
    â€œOnly my retirement.”
    I pocketed the star and took out his response. “You invited me here.”
    He glanced at it without interest. “It isn’t my hand.”
    â€œEldred, you know very well it’s mine.” This was a new voice.
    He half turned from the doorway, giving me a straight shot across the shallow entryway at a small woman standing
framed in an arch leading to the rest of the house. Her hair, brown with streamers of gray, was skinned back and fastened behind her head, and her face was round, without a single feature that called attention to itself. She wore a dark brown dress, nearly black, and plain to the point of pride; a placket concealed the buttons. An egg-shaped stone the color of slate in an old-fashioned setting showed on the index finger of her right hand, folded over its mate at her waist. It was her only ornament.
    Griffin didn’t forget his manners. “My wife, Esther. Page Murdock.”
    My hat was already off, so all I could do was incline my head. I had the impression she was older than her husband. Her gaze acknowledged my gesture, then went to him. “How often have you said you wanted to pass on what you know?” she asked. “I thought it an opportunity to learn whether you have the gift.”
    â€œYou might have discussed it with me before you acted.”
    â€œOh, Eldred. When have you ever discussed anything with anyone? If I hadn’t acted, you would still be clipping weeds ten years from now.”
    â€œIt’s honest labor.”
    â€œNot if it’s not what God intended.”
    â€œHe speaks to you, whereas with me He is silent.”
    â€œMr. Murdock did not come here to listen to us quarrel. Invite