The Transcendental Murder

by Jane Langton

  “How much is it, Mary dear?” said Rowena.

  “A buck,” said Mary gruffly. Oh, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t she say yup or nope while she was about it?

  They drove away. Mary caught Homer’s little pig eyes looking back at her, and she heard Rowena say something about a character. Damn. That’s just what she was, a big bumbling character that you stared at to see what queer erratic thing it would do next. Damn, damn.

  Chapter 8

  They congregate in sitting-rooms, and feebly fabulate and paddle in the social slush.

  HENRY THOREAU

  Preliminary report of the Committee on Public Ceremonies and Celebrations Relative to the 19th of April Ceremony. Chairman, Thomas S. Hand.

  18 April, 8 P.M.

  Military Ball at State Armory, Everett Street, sponsored by Company D, First Medium Tank Battalion 110th Armored Regiment Massachusetts National Guard.

  10 P.M.

  Grand March.

  Before the Military Ball Ernest and Elizabeth Goss were giving a dinner party. Mary and Gwen and Tom were invited, but at the last minute the phone began to ring again, and Tom found himself bogged down. He sat by the telephone with the receiver pressed against his ear, bobbing Annie’s yo-yo up and down, listening to a purist.

  “Mr. Hand! I just want to know if you’re planning to have those dreadful drum majorettes again in the parade? It’s bad enough with those Highland Pipers—what they have to do with 1775 is beyond me. Why doesn’t everybody just dress up like Mickey Mouse?”

  “Hello, Tom? Harold Quested here. Say, you know that kid in my bunch of Cubs, Julius Spooner? Well, he came to the last pack meeting with spots all over him and guess what? Yup, I’m afraid so. Every last one of ’em. Chicken pox. Except Julius, of course. He’s radiant with good health.”

  “Well, let Julius carry the flag,” said Tom.

  “Mr. Hand? This is Mrs. Shuttle, you know, the little boy that’s going to play the piccolo’s mother, in the Spirit of ’76? With the bandages? Well, Howie’s sick. No, not chicken pox. He fell on the ice and skinned his face, and his embouchure is all swoll up. But Jimmy, that’s his little brother, he’d just love to help out. What? No, not the piccolo, the bongos. You know, like a drum? Would that do?”

  “No,” said Tom. “But the drummer boy is sick, too. Maybe we can work something out.” Gwen, her mouth bristling with pins, came up behind him with his old Navy jacket, and struggled him into it. She hummed with horror when she saw how far the buttons would have to be moved over, and stuck a pin viciously in the right place.

  “Ow!” yelled Tom. He put his hand over the phone and told Gwen to go ahead, he’d come along later. Besides, he had the pickup to fix because somebody had decided they needed it for a float. “I’ll see you at the ball,” he said.

  It was a fine night, so Mary and Gwen walked up the road and down the driveway that led to the big house by the Assabet River. Mrs. Bewley met them at the kitchen door and set up a cheerful shout. Mrs. Bewley was the maid of all work, a large, gaunt woman so nearly stone-deaf that one had to really holler to make her hear. She always hollered right back. She pulled Mary across the doorstep. “NOW, DON’T YOU LOOK PRETTY? I ALWAYS DID GO FOR PINK CHEEKS.”

  Mrs. Goss came hurrying into the kitchen to greet them. When she said, “How charming to see you,” it didn’t necessarily mean it was charming at all. It was just what she always said. Her command of any social situation was so stylized and flawless she might have been carrying it on in her sleep. Mary found it paralyzing. It wasn’t too different from the effect of her daughter Rowena’s bushel baskets. Mary sometimes wondered if that unshakable gentility could be jarred loose. What if she were to burst into tears and fall on Mrs. Goss’s shoulder, and cry “Help me, Mrs. Goss, help me”? Nothing would happen, probably, except veils and swathes of formulae, wrapping themselves swiftly over the harsh real nature of the event. No tears, anywhere, no true laughter. Emily had said something about it—

  I like a look of Agony,

  Because I know it’s true—

  Men do not sham Convulsion,

  Nor simulate, a Throe—

  “Won’t you take your things to my bedroom at the head of the stairs?” said Mrs. Goss. Mary agreeably started up the backstairs that led off the kitchen. “No, no,” said Mrs. Goss sharply, “please don’t go that way. I meant the front stairs.”

  But Mary was halfway up. “That’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind not being grand.” Gwen hesitated, then went along with Mrs. Goss, who looked disgruntled.

  At the top of the backstairs Mary discovered why she had not been wanted in that part of the house, and she felt a little ashamed of herself. There was an argument going on behind a closed door. She tiptoed past, trying not to listen. But she couldn’t help hearing Ernest Goss’s angry voice, talking rapidly. “I can take just so many of your threats, and no more. I’m not ashamed of my decision, I’m damned glad.” There were sounds of a scuffle, and the heavy crash of overturning furniture. “Now, now, you get away from me. You lay one finger on me and I’ll call the police. Get away from me, you hear?” Ernie’s loud voice rose in a high frenzy. Mary paused and looked back at the door. Should she knock? Call for help? But then Ernest Goss started talking again in a normal tone, so low that she couldn’t hear what he was saying. She didn’t want to. Mary walked down the corridor and found Mrs. Goss’s bedroom. Gwen was still downstairs, talking to new arrivals.

  Pulling a comb through her hair, Mary waited for her and glanced around the room. Over Elizabeth Goss’s bedroom fireplace hung a copy of the old Doolittle print of the Concord fight. There was another just like it in the Concord Library, with the same rows of little British soldiers, their backs straight as red-coated grasshoppers, and the same pretty patterns of smoke puffing out of the muskets. Then she turned to the bookcase and ran her eyes over the shelves. Except for a dutiful shelf devoted to Concord authors it contained a dull miscellany. Why, hello, wasn’t that Volume I of Johnson’s edition of Emily Dickinson’s poetry? It couldn’t be the Volume I that was missing from the library? Mary pulled out the grey book and looked inside the front cover. It must be the missing volume. The card pocket was mostly scraped off, but she could still see where the edge had been pasted. Mary riffled the pages. Why would anyone steal one volume from a set of three? Then she found the answer. The book had been defaced. One page appeared to have been roughly torn out. It was page 123. Why, Mrs. Goss, you old so-and-so.

  Gwen came in then and left her coat, and together they walked down the front stairs and into the living room. It was a large handsome room with the meaningless perfection that was the mark of the interior decorator. Mr. Goss hurried in behind them. He was almost aggressively hearty, the gay host. Charley wasn’t there, but Philip was, with his sisters Edith and Rowena, and Howard Swan and Homer Kelly.

  “Mary, dear,” said Mrs. Goss, “have you met Mr. Kelly? Oh, Mr. Kelly, I must tell you a secret about Mary Morgan. Both my sons are simply mad about her. Did you know? I just wish there were two of her.”

  Oh, damn. This again. Mary’s autonomic nervous system sent up a huge hot blush. Homer Kelly looked baleful and mumbled something. Then he asked her if she had read any of the works of Mr. Flotsam A. Jetsom lately. Rowena laughed dazzlingly, distributing bushel baskets, and Mary couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Oh, Homer,” said Rowena, “I forgot to introduce my sister Edith.” Edith seemed accustomed to being forgotten. Mary thought once more how extraordinary it was that two sisters so similar in feature could be so different in total effect. Edith had Rowena’s broad high forehead, her strong Goss eyebrows and narrow nose. But Rowena’s strong brows were a charming accent, while Edith’s were heavy and ugly. Rowena’s narrow nose was aristocratic, Edith’s was skimpy and queer. Rowena’s red hair was Titian, Edith’s was carrot. Both were as tall as their brothers, but Rowena’s carriage was statuesque (present-bosom!), Edith’s was stoop-shouldered and flat-chested. Already an old mai
d, Edith liked cats and romantic novels. Everyone was sorry for Edith, including Edith. It was hard to be fond of her. She was cloddish, tactless and dull.

  Apologetic for thinking so, Mary sat down beside her with her martini, But Ernest Goss was not one for letting corner conversations get started. He had a new toy. “I thought you’d all want to see the new addition to my collection,” he said. Mary winced. It wasn’t those letters again? No, no, it was his gun collection he was talking about this time. Thank goodness. He might be in the dark about Margaret Fuller, but he seemed to know what he was talking about when it came to Indian artifacts and antique firearms. He flourished a little gun.

  “Here you are, girls. Something to carry around with you on a dark night. A lady’s pistol, 1750. Isn’t it a cutie?” He passed it around. “See? It has a box lock. The barrel unscrews for loading. You use this special little wrench to undo it.”

  Homer Kelly professed interest. Ernest Goss was flattered. Nothing would do but Homer should be shown the entire collection. It was kept in a highboy built by Joseph Hosmer, one of Concord’s original Minutemen. Ernest pulled open drawer after drawer. “Here’s a pocket pistol of around the same time. See that pineapple design underneath? That means it’s English. This flintlock here is a duelling pistol, one of a pair. Oh, HELLO THERE, MRS. BEWLEY. HOW ABOUT BRINGING SOME MORE MARTINIS? Now, Homer, I know what you want to see, you don’t need to tell me. You want to see the gun the Minutemen used at the North Bridge. Well, I’ve got one. They don’t grow on trees, but I’ve got one. Had this cupboard built into the wall specially. Nothing too good for my prize piece. You should see what Philip can do with this to a tin can at 50 yards.” Homer took the long gun in his hands with awe. “It’s a musket. Five feet two inches long, that one. The farmers around here had ‘em for getting small game, grouse, waterfowl, and so on. So it’s called a fowling piece. See, it’s English, too. There’s the pineapple finial on the trigger guard. Here’s the flint, with the little piece of leather around it to hold it in. Say, Philip, let’s show Homer how it works. Make me up five or six balls.”

  “Where’s Charley?” said Howard Swan. “He’s the sharpshooter, if I remember correctly.”

  Ernie paid no attention. Philip got to work, while his father lectured. “That’s the ticket. The bar lead goes in the dipper, and the dipper goes over the fire. Doesn’t take long to melt. There. Now, here’s the bullet mold that goes with this gun. Makes a one-ounce ball. See, it’s like scissors, with a ball-shaped mold on the end. You just close the scissors, pour the lead in through the hole, wait a second, open ‘em up, and then, presto, see there? You’ve got a musket ball. You go on and make me some more, Philip, while I load up. Well, well, look who’s here …”

  It was Teddy Staples, looking ill at ease. “Crashing the party, are you?” said Ernest Goss. “Well, come on in and have a drink. What’s up, Teddy? You look fit to be tied.”

  Teddy looked around nervously. “Ernie, I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve been thinking about those l-l-l-l-letters, and the more I think …”

  “Not the time or place, Teddy. Sit down, here, make yourself at home. Take a look at these guns. Pass ‘em along there, Homer.” Ernest went out to yell at Mrs. Bewley for more drinks, while Teddy fingered the pistols and the fowling piece, frowning at them, hardly seeming to see them. When Ernie came back, Teddy made another appeal. “Five minutes, Ernie. Just f-f-five minutes. Your guests will excuse you, I’ll bet.”

  Howard Swan spoke up then. “Of course we’ll excuse him. Go right ahead, Ernie. Take all the time you want.”

  Ernest Goss turned red in the face. He ignored Howard and glared at Teddy. “All right, Staples, if you can’t join the party, why don’t you just leave. Go on. Get out.” Teddy stood up, looking uncertain. Then he rammed on his hat and faltered out the door.

  No one knew what to say. But then Elizabeth Goss brought out her veils and began covering up. Rowena helped out by trying to pick up the musket (oooo, it was so heavy), and her father took down the big powder horn from over the mantel and got on with the business of loading. He unplugged the end and tipped it to pour out powder. Nothing came out. “Where in the Sam Hill is all the powder? That Charley …”

  Philip stared at the powder horn, then hit his forehead. “Oh, I’m sorry, Father, I forgot. I used up all of it. I meant to fill the powder horn again, but I didn’t get around to it.”

  “Is that so?” His father sounded suddenly mild. “Well, we’ve got a canful right here, so never mind.” He poured a small amount of powder down the muzzle of the gun. “Now, in goes the ramrod to push in patch and ball—and what about a few buckshot for good measure?”

  Mrs. Goss was tittering gently. “Of course, Ernest, you know perfectly well that Charley is sure to confess to using up the powder, too. You know these boys of ours.” She leaned over to Gwen. “Double confessions, ever since they were children. You know how little children always deny everything they’re accused of? Well, Charley and Philip always did just the opposite. Both of them always confessed to everything. They still do.”

  “Well, this sort of unreliability is more like Charley,” grumbled Ernest Goss.

  “Father,” said Philip patiently, “I said it was I who used up the last of the black powder. Not Charley.”

  It sounded like an old argument. “Let’s see how she fires,” said Homer Kelly.

  Ernest Goss turned to Mary. There was a glitter in his eye. She was elected. Sportingly she agreed. It turned out that Ernest had to help her a good bit, the wag, with one arm around here, the other one there. She was aiming out the window at a tree across the lawn, the heavy gun wobbling against her shoulder. Ernest peered past her into the dark. Then suddenly he whipped the gun out of her hands and gave it to Philip. “Here, Philip, quick, show her how. See the elm down the road. Right now, go ahead. Fire!”

  Philip aimed and fired. The noise was terrible in the room. Rowena shrieked. But out of doors there was another kind of shout.

  “Jesus God,” said Philip. He dropped the gun and scrambled through the window. “I’ve killed him. Oh, God, I’ve killed him.”

  Chapter 9

  Our whole life is startlingly moral. There is never an instant’s truce between virtue and vice.

  HENRY THOREAU

  It was Charley. He had been outside, walking up the drive, beyond the elm tree. One of the buckshot had hit him in the leg. Mary looked at Ernest Goss. She couldn’t believe it. He had seen Charley out there. Of course he had seen Charley. The man must be mad. She caught the look on his face (ain’t I a naughty boy?) before he made an effort to wipe it off and look concerned.

  Charley came hobbling in, supported by his brother. Philip was nearly in tears. He looked at his father accusingly. “I might have killed him,” he said.

  Mr. Goss turned testy. “Nonsense. Of course not. The musket’s only good for fifty yards or so. Goes wild farther than that, Buckshot can’t hurt you much at that distance. Let me see there, Charley. Oh, that’s nothing. Don’t stand there getting blood on the Bokhara. Go take care of it.” He picked up the fowling piece from the floor and fussily gave it his attention. He cleaned out the barrel, wiped it all over and put it away in its cupboard. Charley limped out without a word, leaning on his brother, while the other members of the party didn’t know which way to look.

  But the evening was by no means a failure. Miraculously Mr. Goss turned into the jovial host once more and swept them along to dinner, occasionally letting someone else talk. Charley came back just in time to sit down at the table. He seemed his old debonair self. He had dressed up in his Dr. Prescott outfit, wig and all, and he was hamming it up, using a cane with dashing effect. Philip came back, too, looking solemn. Gwen promptly started talking to him about a town matter in which he was taking an active part, and he began to relax. The food was excellent, the table was beautiful, the candlelight was lovely. Even Mrs. Bewley’s attendance to their needs, although clumsy, was somehow baronial. She was a servant of the old school,
eager to please. But she had one well-known flaw. Gwen beheld Mrs. Bewley sticking the sugar tongs coyly into her bosom, the dear old kleptomaniac. It was just a habit she had. She didn’t mean anything by it. Mrs. Goss always frisked her sternly before she went home. Mrs. Bewley never seemed to mind at all. “WHY, HOW DID THAT GET THERE. OH, TAKE IT, TAKE IT,” she would say nobly, when the frying pan turned up in her shirtfront.

  There was no hurry to get to the ball. You just had to be traditional and be there for the Grand March. But at last it was time to go. Howard Swan excused himself. He had to go home and get a good night’s sleep because he was taking an early plane for New York in the morning.

  “What? And miss my great day?” said Charley Goss.

  “Believe it or not, there are some states in this country that never even heard of Patriot’s Day,” said Howard ruefully. “They go right on conducting business as usual, in spite of Dr. Samuel Prescott’s famous ride and the shot heard round the world.”

  Elizabeth accompanied Howard to the door. Mary, coming along to get her boots, could hear him murmuring to her politely. His voice had a gentle, pleading tone. Was this another attempt on Howard’s part at the suppression of the letters, getting at Ernie through his wife?” But Elizabeth was shaking her head. She sounded tired. “It’s been thirty years, Howard … told you that the first time …”

  The rest of the party had to wait for Rowena. She had undertaken major repairs, so her father improvised a sure laugh-getter to while away the time. He rummaged up a damp cocktail napkin and a hard lead pencil with a point like a needle. “Now, Edith, I want you to place the paper on the back of your left hand and write on it your name, address and phone number. Go ahead, now! Go on!”