Mrs. Page swallowed dryly. “My father is the cruelest man I have ever encountered. His need to dominate was so excessive that he browbeat my mother at every opportunity. He ridiculed. He demeaned. He degraded. I grew up in constant terror of him. Nothing I could do was good enough for him. And certainly nothing my mother could do was good enough. I used to cry myself to sleep out of pity for my mother. Divorce? For a career diplomat with immense ambitions? In those days? Unthinkable. My mother raised the subject only once, and my father’s reaction so terrified her that she never mentioned it again.”
Mrs. Page thought for a long moment. Her perfectly poised shoulders weakened. “So my mother began to drink. Neither my father nor I realized that she had a problem with alcohol until her addiction was far advanced. At the start, she evidently did most of her drinking when my father was out of the house and I was at school. She drank vodka, so the alcohol would be less detectable on her breath. A vicious cycle developed. Her drinking impaired her ability to strive for the perfect standards that my father required. Dinner parties weren’t organized to his satisfaction. My mother’s behavior became indifferent. She no longer helped organize, let alone appeared at, required society charity events. At diplomatic receptions, she showed the boredom she’d been hiding. Naturally my father criticized her. The more he criticized, the more she drank, and that of course further affected her performance, causing him to be more furious with her, and in turn causing her to drink more.
“Eventually my mother’s slurred speech gave her away. In the days before the wives of public figures had the courage to admit their problems with alcohol and other substances, this had the capacity to be a major scandal. For a man of my father’s strict standards and boundless ambitions, the situation was horrifying. Not because my mother had a problem, but because she had given him a problem. She couldn’t be allowed to embarrass him and compromise his image. The first thing he did was search the house and find every bottle that she had hidden. The second thing he did was hire someone whose sole responsibility was to make sure that my mother didn’t get near alcohol. The tactics worked, but they didn’t achieve what my father intended. My mother didn’t return to her former ways and strive to match his image of perfection. Instead, with no escape, feeling even more repressed, my mother had a nervous breakdown.
“This was equally horrifying to my father. If the diplomatic community discovered that his wife was emotionally and mentally unstable, he feared that he would be tainted. He worried that his colleagues would feel he was too distracted to perform his duties to the maximum. His career would be ruined. After my mother managed to break out of the house and caused what my father called a drunken scene at a nearby tavern, he decided to remove her from Washington.
“In those days, there wasn’t any such thing as the Betty Ford Clinic, of course, or its equivalent—places where a problem could be dealt with openly and thoroughly. But there were clinics of a different sort, where problems that the wealthy had were treated with utmost discretion. My mother’s alcoholism, the instability caused by her nervous breakdown, these were addressed through drug therapy—sedatives. It was felt that my mother needed a rest, you see. Fatigue had to be the cause of her problems. After all, no woman with my mother’s advantages of wealth and prestige could possibly be unhappy. For three months, as a consequence of the sedatives, she was in a stupor, little better than a sleepwalker. She needed help to go to the bathroom. She didn’t recognize me when I came to visit. When the clinic decided that the alcohol was fully out of her system, gradually the sedatives were taken away. She came home. She seemed to be more satisfied.
“Then one day she disappeared. After a frantic search, the servants found my mother drunk, collapsed, mumbling next to the furnace in the basement. After that, my father’s attitude became quite different. The excuse he’d given Washington society for my mother’s three-month absence, her stay in the clinic, was that she had been visiting relatives in Europe. Now he concocted a different excuse. This was during July of 1953. He rented a summer estate on Cape Hatteras. He sent away all the servants. He bought my mother several cases of vodka. To this day, I vividly remember the sneering tone with which he told her, ‘You want to avoid responsibilities? You want to have a drink now and then? Here. You’re on vacation.’
“He poured her a drink, poured her another, and another. When the supply of vodka diminished, he bought more. He made sure that her glass was always full. If she appeared to be losing her taste for it, he would berate and humiliate her until she again felt the urge to drink. Sometimes in the night, I would hear noises and sneak from my room, to discover that my mother was sprawled in the bathroom, where she had vomited. My father would be kneeling beside her, calling her disgusting names, pouring vodka down her throat. When my father realized that I was noticing too much, he arranged for me to visit his parents at their summer estate on Martha’s Vineyard. I hated to be near him, but I was afraid for my mother, and I begged not to go.”
Mrs. Page had been staring toward a violently colored Abstract Expressionist painting across from her all the while she spoke in a monotone, her flat, bleak voice communicating no hint of the intense turmoil that her eyes indicated she was feeling. Now she paused, her normally rigid shoulders drooping as she turned her attention to Pittman and Jill. “I never saw my mother again. She was dead by the end of the summer. I was told that the medical examiner’s explanation for the cause of death was alcohol poisoning. My father talked to me in detail about what had happened. He tried to make me interpret what I had seen in such a way that his behavior was understandable. ‘Your mother had a greater problem than you can imagine,’ he said. ‘I encouraged her habit because I hoped that if she got sick enough, she would stop drinking. I made her drink after she’d vomited in the hopes that she would associate nausea with alcohol.’ My father hired an expert on alcoholism who claimed to have advised my father to try this approach.”
The room became silent.
Pittman spoke softly. “I’m very sorry.”
Mrs. Page didn’t reply.
“But there’s something I don’t understand,” Pittman said.
“And what is that?”
“If your father was afraid of scandal because of your mother’s alcoholism, if he tried to hide it initially, why did he suddenly change his attitude and cause her death, especially in that particular way? That certainly would have attracted attention and caused a scandal.”
“My father is an immensely devious man. He came to realize that if he made himself appear the victim, he would gain his colleagues’ sympathy. He told them that the problem had been going on for quite a while, that he had done everything possible for her, that his life had been a nightmare. He pretended to be inconsolable, distraught from the effort of having tried to control her all summer. He’d done everything possible, he kept insisting. And the diplomatic community believed him. Then, in his greatest piece of hypocrisy, he created the impression that with great pain he was overcoming his grief to devote himself to his profession. Each day his colleagues admired him for his strength. His reputation grew. He became ambassador to Great Britain, and after that, ambassador to the Soviet Union, and eventually, of course, secretary of state. But I know him for what he is. He killed my mother, and I’ll never forgive him.”
“Because we both hated him, Vivian and I joined forces,” Denning said. “In an effort to help her, I managed to obtain a copy of the medical examiner’s report. Vivian’s father had lied to her. The cause of death was alcohol poisoning in tandem with the use of Seconal.”
“Seconal?” Jill straightened. “But that’s a tranquilizer.”
Mrs. Page nodded. “The type of sedative that my mother was given while she was away for three months in the clinic.”
“Wait a minute,” Pittman said. “Are you suggesting that your mother wasn’t dying fast enough to suit your father, so he helped her along by adding sleeping pills to the vodka?”
“That is correct.” Mrs. Page tightened her li
ps.
“Either way, it’s murder,” Jill said. “But the second way, using the sleeping pills might be easier to prove.”
Mrs. Page shook her head. “My father somehow discovered that I’d read the medical examiner’s report. He anticipated my accusation and confessed that there was a secret he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell me. He said that when my mother was in the clinic, she had apparently stolen a container of the tranquilizers that she was being given. The container—with a label that indicated where she had obtained them—was discovered after her death. The night she died, she had swallowed so many of the Seconal capsules that he had no other choice except to conclude she had committed suicide.”
Pittman’s stomach soured.
“You believe he was lying,” Jill said.
“What I believe makes no difference. Proof is what matters. And there is no way to discount my father’s story. I want to destroy him, not throw my own integrity into question. Unless I have indisputable evidence, he will simply use the reports from the mental hospital and the medical examiner to disparage my claims. Any further accusations I make won’t be treated seriously. I will have only one chance. For most of my life, I have struggled to find a way to punish him for what he did to my mother, with no success. And now, as other grand counselors”—she said the words with contempt—“have died, I am forced to consider the possibility that my father is old enough that he, too, might die before I succeed in punishing him.”
Denning stood. “That’s why I came here tonight. I may have found a way.”
Mrs. Page focused her intense gaze upon him.
“There’s a chance we can prove that your father and the others may have allowed their sexual orientation to compromise their work.”
“Sexual orientation?”
“Were they homosexuals? It never occurred to me until my discussion with these reporters tonight. Did you ever have any suspicion that—?”
Mrs. Page widened her eyes.
The sound that came from her throat made Pittman’s skin prickle. At first he feared that Mrs. Page was choking on something. Then, as the sound became louder, he recognized it for what it was: laughter, full-throated, contemptuous laughter.
“Bradford, you are a fool. Is that what you rushed here to tell me? Even if my father had engaged in homosexual conduct, what use would that be to me? You keep behaving as if you’re still in the State Department in the late forties and early fifties. Socially, those were the dark ages, Bradford. These days, only religious fanatics care if a person is a homosexual. It seems as if celebrities are standing in line waiting to proclaim that they are gay.”
“Diplomats aren’t celebrities,” Bradford said indignantly.
“Of late, some behave as if they are. That isn’t the point. What one does in private is no longer a matter upon which one’s reputation is judged. It’s how one performs one’s public duties that matters. To accuse my father and the others of being homosexuals would serve no other purpose than to make me look bigoted. It’s a distasteful, pointless charge.”
“But what if their sexual orientation compromised them in some way?” Denning insisted. “In the fifties, it would have been a serious charge. What if they were blackmailed?”
“By whom? The Soviets? If so, the attempt at extortion didn’t work. No diplomatic group was harder on the Soviets than my father and his associates. And on anyone suspected of being sympathetic to the Soviets. You above all should appreciate that.”
Denning’s face became redder.
“But even if I thought that it was a ruinous matter to accuse someone of being a homosexual,” Mrs. Page said, “I wouldn’t make that accusation against my father.”
“Why not?”
“Because my father is an asexual being. In his prime, he had no interest in sex of any kind. My mother once confided to me that the only time they’d engaged in what my mother called the marital act was the night I was conceived. I’m convinced that he was too worried about his career to risk taking on a mistress—and given the repressive nature of the 1940s and ’50s, he wouldn’t have risked consorting with men. His ambition was all he cared about. That was his mistress. Henry Kissinger said it best for all men like my father: ‘Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.’” Mrs. Page glared at Pittman and Jill. “Surely you know how valueless it would be to attack my father on the basis of sexual conduct.”
“Yes,” Pittman said. “All the same, there’s something that makes him feel vulnerable. We know the grand counselors have a secret that they’re prepared to do anything to keep hidden.”
“A secret?”
“About the prep school they went to. Grollier Academy.”
“That’s another matter I wanted to tell you, Vivian,” Denning said. “It’s been suggested that one of their teachers made advances to them.”
“But this is the same subject we just dismissed,” Mrs. Page said sharply.
“It goes beyond that,” Pittman said. “We’re not sure in what way, but…”
“Mrs. Page, did you ever hear anything about a man named Duncan Kline?” Jill asked.
“Duncan Kline?” Mrs. Page cocked her head, searching her memory. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“He taught your father and their friends at Grollier Academy.”
Denning interrupted. “A man who was probably Duncan Kline showed up at the State Department in the summer of 1952. Your father and the others were shocked by his arrival. They met him behind closed doors, reacting as if to a grave situation.”
“What type of grave situation?”
“I don’t know, but I thought that you might.”
Mrs. Page concentrated, tightening the already-tight skin on her face. “Not if it’s about Grollier Academy. My father was extremely loyal to the school. Throughout his career, he contributed generously to the alumni fund. When did you say this man came to see my father? The summer of 1952? That was an important year for my father. I remember his mood well. After Eisenhower was nominated at the Republican convention that summer, my father was convinced that he would win against Stevenson.”
“I already explained that to these reporters,” Denning said.
Mrs. Page glared. “Let me finish. My father and the others focused all of their energy on ingratiating themselves with Eisenhower’s people. And then of course, Eisenhower won in November. Having declared their loyalty before Eisenhower’s victory, my father and his friends had an advantage. Throughout November and December, up to the inauguration in January, they increased their attempts to impress Eisenhower. The tactic succeeded and made possible their various promotions. Within a few years, the group controlled every major diplomatic position within the government. It was the beginning of the myth about the grand counselors. That’s why—given the importance of their need to impress Eisenhower after the November election—I was surprised that they took time off to go to a December reunion at Grollier Academy. It’s a measure of how much affection they felt for the school. Obviously if they were sexually molested there as students, they wouldn’t have wanted to go back.”
“Unless they consented to Duncan Kline’s advances,” Denning insisted.
“Bradford, I refuse to hear any more of these sexual accusations,” Mrs. Page said. “They’re a waste of time to consider. My father is so skilled a diplomat that if anyone accused him of this type of activity at his prep school, he would turn it to his advantage and make himself appear a victim of a molester. He’d attract sympathy, not blame.”
“That’s what we told Bradford earlier tonight,” Jill said. “But there is some kind of secret that the grand counselors are determined to go to any lengths to hide, and it has something to do with that school.”
“Any lengths to hide?” Mrs. Page sounded pensive. “How do you know this?”
Jill hesitated.
Pittman answered for her. “Reliable sources we’ve interviewed.”
“Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal their names,” Pittman sai
d. “They spoke to us on condition of anonymity.”
Mrs. Page gestured in frustration. “Then they’re useless to you. And to me. How can I add to what you know and how can it help me punish my father if I don’t understand the connection that your sources have with him?”
“Does the expression ‘the snow’ mean anything to you?” Pittman asked. “One of the last things Jonathan Millgate said was ‘Duncan. The snow.’”
“Before he was murdered,” Mrs. Page said.
Pittman nodded, waiting.
“No,” Mrs. Page said. “I haven’t the least idea what Jonathan Millgate would have been talking about.” She studied Pittman, Jill, and Denning. “And that’s all? These are the important subjects that you came here to tell me? This evening has been worthless.”
“Millgate,” Denning said unexpectedly.
They looked at him in surprise.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Page said.
“Millgate.” Denning stared at Pittman. “You mentioned Jonathan Millgate.”
“Bradford, have you lost your senses?” Mrs. Page asked.
Denning suddenly pointed at Pittman. “Now I remember where I’ve seen you before.”
Pittman felt a chill.
“Your name isn’t Lester King or whatever you said it was! It’s Matthew Pittman! I met you several years ago! I’ve seen your photograph a dozen times in the newspaper! But you had a mustache and—You’re the man the police want for killing Jonathan Millgate!”
“Bradford, this is outrageous. Do you realize what you’re saying?” Mrs. Page demanded.
“I’m telling you this is the man!” Denning said. “Do you have a newspaper? I’ll prove it to you! I’ll show you the photographs! This man killed Jonathan Millgate!”
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