I told Tad and Mother how it all happened. I knew Mother was sympathetic and that she understood my distress—though of course she cannot speak. Tad didn’t say a word about it, but just patted my head and then told me to go to bed.
But I don’t think I shall be able to. I keep seeing the canvas on the floor—and that awful smell! To be sure, I have ruined Miss Ferguson’s picture!
Six
“Did you get some sleep?” Clare was handing me a bottle of wine and smiling up into my face.
“I slept almost all afternoon,” I said as I led her out to the deck. “My apologies if I seemed a bit groggy this morning.”
“You did look pretty beat. Am I allowed to ask you about the diaries, now that you’re properly awake?”
“Allowed?”
“Didn’t Miss Brice swear you to secrecy?”
I smiled. “No, Clare—this isn’t exactly top-secret stuff.”
“Good! Because I’ve been dying to ask you. Is your Perdita mystery solved?”
“I only got through the first diary.” I paused, enjoying her suspense while I extended the awning.
She eyed me wryly. “You know, these days you’ve only about five seconds before you lose your audience.”
I laughed. “The less-than-five-second answer is no. There’s not even mention of a Perdita in the first diary.”
She looked disappointed but then grew very interested as I told her about the Brices and Marged’s relationship with Allan and George Stewart. “Not the painter!” she exclaimed.
“The same. As you may know, his family once owned all the land around here. We’ve the Stewart family to thank for those beautiful, very old white pines in our backyards.”
“Hmm. I seem to remember something about the Stewarts having lots of run-ins with the logging companies. But I knew about George Stewart being up here through my grandfather. He saw him, you know, after he was supposed to be dead.”
“You mean after Stewart disappeared?”
“Yes, it happened before I was born, but I vividly remember my grandfather talking about it. It was sort of eerie—it was just before the war. He and two of his hunting buddies saw an elderly man sketching on a rock outcropping. The man scurried off as soon as he saw their canoe, but they found the embers of a fire and some food and a bottle of brandy that he left behind. My grandfather always claimed that George Stewart’s disappearance was staged. They never found his body, you know.”
I wondered why Stewart would disappear like that, but Clare shrugged. “Even before that, he’d become reclusive, not even attending his own shows. But the Group of Seven always acknowledged him. Did you know that Tom Thomson went on camping trips with him and sort of studied under him?”
I shook my head. I knew next to nothing about George Stewart—except that he was probably Canada’s most famous painter, and his canvases were worth small fortunes.
“You’ll keep me posted about what comes next, won’t you?” she said eagerly. I couldn’t help grinning. “It would be cruel not to,” she urged, smiling back, “especially if there’s a romance involved…”
Romance? But I hadn’t said anything—
“Have you ever seen a photograph of George Stewart?” she asked, guessing my thoughts. “He’s incredibly good-looking, and there’s a rumor he was secretly married. Wouldn’t it be something if your Miss Brice turned out to be a clandestine bride or his mistress or something like that?”
I reminded her that the Miss Brice of the Clarkson Home was almost certainly not the author of the diaries.
“But you’ll at least keep me posted?”
I promised—and then told her that I was planning to go to the county archives in the morning, possibly to clear up the whole mystery.
“What do you hope to find there?”
“A record of death for Marged Brice,” I said quietly.
Clare picked up Farley, her expression thoughtful. “But a record of death would only explain who she isn’t. It wouldn’t explain who she is.”
“You’ve a point there, but it would get me off the hook as far as Edna and the Longevity Project is concerned.”
“Don’t you want to read her diaries?”
Clare’s comments about George Stewart had certainly sharpened my interest, but I told her that I planned to follow a pretty tight writing schedule for my book.
“And if you don’t find a record of death at the archives?” she asked.
“Then I’ll be back at square one, I guess, and I’ll have to read the next diary.”
Just then we both heard a deep roll of thunder in the distance.
“Garth, I’m afraid I’ll have to cut out. I’ve left all the windows open.”
“You’d better go the back way, then.”
She followed me through the cottage to the back door, and I invited her to hitch a ride into town with me if she liked. “We can take my car, and you could do those errands you mentioned,” I suggested. “Then we could meet for lunch.”
“That would work perfectly! I’ve got to get Mars to the vet ASAP. I think he’s got fleas or something. He’s been biting and scratching himself constantly.”
I handed her a rain poncho, and Farley let out one of his piercing howls as she disappeared beneath the cape of plastic. Before I could grab him, he darted between her legs and she lost her balance, knocking a framed photograph off the wall.
“Sorry about that,” I said, helping her up. “Farley’s terrified of storms. Don’t worry about the picture. I’ve been meaning to tidy up back here.”
“It is a bit of a booby trap.” Clare bent down to retrieve the picture. Then—“Oh no! It looks like I’ve broken the frame.”
I was surprised by her concerned expression and gently took the photograph from her. It was an old shot taken in front of the boathouse. I had my arm around Evienne’s waist as she smiled coyly into the camera. Doug was there, too—and Davey Sullivan, the third musketeer of our summer gang. We all had cans of beer outstretched in our hands and Evi was holding up an extremely large whitefish.
I grimaced involuntarily—that had been a happier time—and then I placed the photograph facedown on the side table.
“I’m sorry.” Clare was looking at me apprehensively. “I hope I haven’t ruined it.”
“No,” I assured her. “It’s not ruined at all. Please don’t worry.”
Before I could stop her, she was crouching down, trying to pick up the broken glass.
“Clare!” I exclaimed—but it was too late, she had cut herself.
I insisted that she bandage her hand.
“It’s strange about that picture,” she mused as we taped up her finger.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve always hated it. I’m actually in it, you know. You probably never noticed, but the picture frame covers me up. I’m actually standing at the end of the row. If you look, you’ll see part of my leg.”
I went back to the side table and lifted the photograph out of the frame. There she was—standing off to the left, next to Davey Sullivan. Her towel lay in a heap on the ground at her feet and her long hair fell almost to her waist.
“I must have been about eighteen then—almost nineteen, because wasn’t that your twenty-fifth birthday, Garth?”
“Yes, I believe it was. But why do you hate this picture? I think it’s very—well, it’s certainly flattering of you.”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. It was your mother; she was always framing me out of your family photos. Douglas sometimes got in them, but not me! It used to really annoy me, but I never said anything about it.”
I was a little taken aback, but I knew that my mother had been rough on Clare—on everyone really—especially when she’d been drinking.
“And I bet you’ve forgotten it was me who caught that fish,” she said, opening the door.
&
nbsp; “I always thought Doug caught it.”
“I guess you award-winning historians sometimes forget the little details, don’t you?” She gave me a funny smile as she stepped out into the rain. “I’ll see you in the morning!”
I watched her walk swiftly down the driveway and then disappear beyond the cedar hedge. Then I went back to the table to take a closer look at the photograph.
Had it really been a happier time?
Evienne was bending forward, her head thrown back—only a miracle of gravity keeping the top of her bathing suit up. We had been together for about a month at that point and I’d been unsure of the whole thing. I recalled that she had gotten somewhat drunk that weekend and flirted with Doug, later insisting she’d only done it to make me jealous. Why did I buy it? I could see it all in retrospect; all the signs of a disaster brewing.
I looked at Clare. Her expression was hard to read, but she certainly seemed withdrawn—standing at the edge of our group, her face guarded. She had a fishing pole in one hand and her other arm was raised, as if the camera had caught her in the act of pushing her hair back and away from her face.
Suddenly I peered closer.
I had always wondered what Davey Sullivan was staring off at in that picture, but now I knew.
It was Clare, standing next to him. He was giving her a very penetrating gaze—almost wolfish—and it looked as if he was just about to place one of his hands on her bare shoulder.
Seven
I checked my watch, surprised to find that it was almost noon. There was no sign of the archivist.
I made my way toward the front desk and returned a large stack of books to the librarian. She handed me a note: Dr. Elliot was almost finished searching the death indexes and would be back after lunch.
I walked out to the parking lot just as Clare pulled up, and we drove into town for a bite at a local diner. It took a very long time for the middle-aged waitress who usually served me to come take our order. She greeted me warmly but glared at Clare with undisguised hostility.
“Coffee?” Rachel asked her brusquely.
“We’ll start with water.” Clare didn’t look up from her menu. “I’m trying to get my brother to cut back on his caffeine.” I stared at her in surprise. Rachel looked from one of us to the other and then ambled off.
“Clare? What the—?”
“Didn’t you see?” Her eyes followed Rachel’s surly retreat to the counter. “I’d guess you’re a favorite of hers, and she’s just a mite possessive. And besides, I practically am your sister.”
“You’re nothing of the sort!”
“Well, I’m hungry then,” she retorted. “And I have a feeling that as your sister, I’ll get my lunch faster.”
The service did seem to pick up after that.
“Did you find a death certificate for Marged Brice?” Clare examined her tuna sandwich doubtfully.
“Not yet, but the archivist is still working on it for me. He’ll probably have something for me after lunch.”
“Then what did you do all morning?”
“I’ve been reading up on James T. McTavish. He’s also mentioned in the diary. Do you know him?”
“McTavish? I seem to associate birds with him.”
“That’s right—every serious birder knows about Dr. McTavish. He’s a kind of Canadian Audubon.”
She took a bite of her sandwich and began to chew it carefully.
“Clare, is your food okay? I don’t think Rachel’s up to poisoning anyone.”
“Don’t mind me.” She laughed. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in a diner.”
“I’m sorry.” I frowned. “I should have taken you somewhere else. The only real attraction here is—well, the coffee.”
“Stop,” she protested. “I’m perfectly fine. Now, what were you saying—serious birders. Do you remember how I used to pester your father to do his birdcalls? I especially loved his chickadee. Didn’t he once say something about getting a higher pitch if you whistled out the side of your mouth?”
“My dad was pretty good, but he wasn’t in the same league as McTavish. Apparently the doctor had an extraordinary repertoire of birdcalls.” I told her about McTavish’s famous performance of a robin searching for worms on the lawn of Buckingham Palace. Queen Victoria had been delighted with it, and so with royal approval, he became an instant celebrity.
“A stuffy, proper Victorian pretending to be a robin? I can hardly imagine it—”
“I don’t think McTavish was all that stuffy, though no doubt he was proper. But there’s also a mystery associated with him.”
“A mystery?”
I waited as Rachel drifted past and then explained that when he was in his fifties, McTavish began to suffer from arthritis in his fingers and eventually had to hire assistants. There was one particular artist who worked for him for many years—someone who painted under the initials of DEJ. “Practically all of McTavish’s illustrations after 1898 are signed McTavish/DEJ.”
“Who was DEJ?” Clare asked.
“That’s the mystery. No one knows. But there’s been quite a bit of speculation.”
Clare waved at Rachel. “Could we have our coffee now?” she called out sweetly.
I told her about one theory that intrigued me: several art historians had speculated that DEJ was McTavish’s mistress, a much younger woman whom McTavish fell for in “a moment of indiscretion.”
“Hmm. Are you thinking of Marged Brice?” Clare asked.
I nodded. “But the mistress bit doesn’t fit. McTavish was very much—well, an avuncular presence in her life.”
“Perhaps it developed into something more romantic later on?”
I shrugged. “My guess is that it didn’t. But it seems that there are quite a few art historians who would give their front teeth to know who DEJ was.”
We drove back to the archives, and I invited Clare to come in with me, promising her that I wouldn’t be long.
Dr. Elliot met us in the reception area. “I’ve done a search of all the online death registries,” he announced, giving Clare an appreciative glance as he handed me copies of the death records for Hugh Brice and his wife, Fabienne, as well as those for Alis and Gilbert Barclay.
“Anything for a Marged Brice?” I asked hopefully.
“No, I’m sorry. There’s no record of death for a Marged Brice or a Margaret Brice. I’ve done a complete search, just as you requested.”
“Would you mind doing a national search as well?”
“I’ve done that—or rather, a colleague of mine in Ottawa did it as a favor to me. There’s no existing record of death for her in any of the death indexes. And I called the district office—there’s nothing in the county’s hard files either.”
My face must have showed my disappointment. “Of course,” he added, “death records are occasionally misplaced.”
Clare glanced at me and raised her eyebrows. “Square one?”
“Would you wait here for a few minutes?” Dr. Elliot asked politely. “I think I have something that might interest you.”
Clare started flipping through a book that Dr. Elliot had left out for me. “Garth, come look: here’s a plate of Stewart’s Sylvan Chapel. Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“Yes,” I said absently, looking over her shoulder—then it suddenly hit me. Could the painting of the cedar grove mentioned in the diary be George Stewart’s famous Sylvan Chapel? It was almost inconceivable, but Marged’s description of the painting above George’s studio fireplace was uncannily close to the reproduction before me. How had she expressed it? A grove of trees with smooth, twisting trunks—the tops of the trees seeming to move…
Clare turned a page, and suddenly we were both looking at a grainy photograph of the artist himself. Stewart was around forty years old and cut a ruggedly handsome figure as he stood before an easel at an un
disclosed location. Standing to his right was a young woman. He was holding her hand, but her features were maddeningly blurred.
“Clare, do you think the woman’s hair comes to a point in the middle of her forehead?”
She peered closely at the photograph—and then looked up nodding. “Yes, she definitely has a widow’s peak.”
The caption underneath the photograph read, Canadian artist George Stewart with model, 1900.
“He’s holding her hand rather affectionately, don’t you think?” I looked up and caught her smiling softly. “Didn’t I tell you he was very good-looking,” Clare murmured. “Maybe you should also do a search for a marriage certificate.”
“Professor Hellyer.” It was Dr. Elliot coming up from the basement. “I wanted to show you these. Just for interest’s sake. I found them quite by accident; they were in our newspaper files.” He gave me two photographs.
Together Clare and I examined the first one. It was a black-and-white shot of the November 25, 1958, installation of Sylvan Chapel at the National Gallery of Canada. George Stewart’s younger brother, Allan, was shaking hands with Prime Minister John Diefenbaker while Governor-General Vincent Massey looked on.
“Allan was tutored by Marged Brice,” I explained to Clare. “He’s probably well into his seventies in this picture.”
“How much older was Marged Brice?”
“She was five or six years older than Allan.”
“So she would have been in her early eighties in this picture.” She bent over the photograph. “Here’s a woman who looks to be about that old.” She pointed to a white-haired woman sitting in the front row of dignitaries. The woman’s eyes were riveted on Allan Stewart, and her hands rested quietly in her lap. There was something eerily familiar about her long, sinuous fingers.
“I think she has a widow’s peak!” Clare exclaimed. Then she turned to me and said in a lowered voice, “I’m guessing that your Miss Brice at the Clarkson Home also has a widow’s peak, doesn’t she?”
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