Everybody seemed present and accounted for. No graves missing markers. No new- looking headstones. In fact, the most recent headstone was 1953. A large hollow-metal monument of a beautiful white bronze decorated with anchors and chains.
In memory of
Captain JACOB HOVEY
He died
Nov. 27th 1950
in the 82nd year
of his age
HULDAH K. GREENLEAF
His wife
Dec. 14, 1916 Sept. 2, 1953
Hope we have as an Anchor to the Soul.
That was interesting. Not the part about Captain Hovey being a cradle robber. The part where the Hoveys and Greenleafs turned out to be kissing cousins.
Families did feud. Just ask the Hatfields and the McCoys—or anybody in Scotland.
The fact that Eric Greenleaf hadn’t mentioned being distantly related to the Hovey/Durrands didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe it was something he preferred to forget.
In any case, Jacob’s and Huldah’s seemed to be the first and final union between the two families.
If Havemeyer had died on the island, it didn’t look like his body had been hidden in this graveyard. Granted, there were two other burial grounds to check: the twenty-five military graves on the north side of the fort, and the Native American burial site on the other side of the island.
Jason took another look around the graveyard. The fog shifted, gauzy white whorls tumbling languidly over gravestones, spilling into urns, winding through bushes. A small building stood revealed.
A mausoleum?
Jason’s interest spiked. Was this possibly the so-called “crypt” in which Marco Poveda claimed to have been imprisoned?
He hiked over the muddy grass and weeds for a better look.
Yes, a mausoleum. A beautiful example of Gothic architecture with its pointed arches, ornate stonework, stained glass windows. A tall and ornate bronze grate served as the door.
In fact… Jason moved in closer. The door was slightly ajar, resting lightly against its keeper.
He gently tugged on the heavy door, and it swung open with silent and suspicious ease.
Those hinges were pretty well maintained for a building out in the middle of nowhere.
Jason stepped inside.
The single room was about the size of a large garden shed—if garden sheds had vaulted ceilings and flying buttresses. A single marble tomb rested beneath a pair of stained glass lancet windows below a trefoil oculus.
Jason moved closer, peering down at the inscription carved into the tomb.
On a sunny day visibility would be better. As it was, he could just make out the words.
Blessed sleep to which we all return.
The bronze door behind him swung shut with a heavy and decisive clang.