by Jane Langton
There was a sheaf of grubby typed pages in his hand. All his own work. He laid it on the desk and ran his finger along the lines, reading aloud. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Philosophy of Life, by Roland Granville-Galsworthy, Oxford University.
What a charlatan. Mary nodded as though she believed it, and then Roland Granville-Galsworthy asked for the complete works of Emmanuel Kant. In German. “I’m afraid we have it only in English,” said Mary.
“Thet’s quoite all roight. Thet will dew,” said Granville-Galsworthy. What a show-off. Mary bet he couldn’t read German anyway, the way he had pronounced Kant. She found him a watered-down version of the Critique of Pure Reason, and settled him down in the reference room. As she went out she could feel his eyes on her back like two dirty greyish-white balls. For the rest of the afternoon he kept coming to the doorway and staring at her, or going to the Men’s Room, gaping at her over his shoulder. He went to the Men’s Room twice, getting the key from her and returning it with his damp hand. Before he left he thrust his opus on Mary, writing on it graciously, “With the compliments of Arthur.” Mary showed it to Alice Herpitude.
“But it’s cribbed straight from that book by Claridge,” said Miss Herpitude. “What an incredible man.”
Mary started to laugh. “When I was in the sixth grade we had a health play, and I was supposed to be ‘Malnutrition, First Cousin to Death.’ I tried to make myself look just like that, with that same droopy posture and big lipstick pimples. I was a smash hit, too. I suppose I shouldn’t be so hard on the poor fellow. He probably can’t help being a wretch, a dolt and a fool.”
“But surely,” said Miss Herpitude, “he should have medical advice. I feel truly sorry for the poor man.”
Chapter 28
Lectured in basement … of the orthodox church, and I trust helped to undermine it.
HENRY THOREAU
Poor Mary. The sham graduate of Oxford, having once set his googly eyes on her, would not take them off. He showed up everywhere. He came every day to the library, asked for some ponderous work and read picture magazines instead, like a boy with a comic book folded in his speller. When Mary didn’t appear at the library on Thursday, he asked Miss Herpitude where she was and followed her to the Police Station, bobbing his Adam’s apple up and down like a yo-yo. Mary couldn’t understand him at all. His repellent skin was part of a hide so thick that he was sensitive to no hints and boggled at no excuses. Mary loathed the sight of him. When he began waiting for her at lunchtime, Jimmy Rower started to kid her about her boy friend. Mary took to ducking out the back door, but Granville-Galsworthy caught on to that trick, too, and she had no peace. Homer Kelly, shaking his head, would lift the corner of the shade and watch the two of them go off together, Mary marching firmly in advance, Roland Granville-Galsworthy skulking in the rear.
Even when one was trapped, one had to be polite. Mary, wedged into a corner behind a small restaurant table, would rack her brain for something to talk about. It was no good talking about Emerson. Rolandknew nothing at all about Emerson. She had tried reminiscing about the colleges at Oxford, where she and Gwen had once spent a summer. Oh yes, he knew so-and-so, and he had met so-and-so. Mary made up a few preposterous people, and he was old friends with them, too. The ass. Why did he bother? What on earth was the man doing in Concord anyway? How was he supporting himself? He paid only for his own lunch, always, and ate an unvarying diet of Coke, potato chips and fried clams. Over the weeks his pimples roved from one part of his physiognomy to another, changing the lunar topography. The Apennines receded, Eratosthenes rose up in splendor.
And then one Sunday he showed up in church. He had seen Mary striding across the grass with her black choir robe billowing behind her, and he followed her in. She didn’t see him, because she was looking up at the giant elm trees that stood on the lawn like old grandees, putting on new leaves like airs. Her transcendental jukebox was grinding …
Wasn’t this church a copy of the one that had burned down? So it must have looked much the same to Waldo Emerson. He had retreated from Unitarianism, of course, or vaulted over it, one or the other, but he had been a gracious friend of the First Parish, as a good neighbor and fellow townsman. And, old hedonist of sight that he was, how he must have relished the domed spire and the heavy Doric columns, part of his daily horizon down the road. Mary climbed the steps to the balcony and sat down with the choir. The bell began to ring, and she cranked up Emily—
How still the Bells in Steeples stand
Till swollen with the Sky
They leap upon their silver Feet
In frantic Melody!
Then she apologized to the shade of Lidian Emerson, who had thought it wicked to go to church Sundays, and began to indulge in back-worship, her own private form of idolatry.
There came Alice Herpitude, a sufficiently splendid icon in her Easter outfit. In the library Alice wore garments that were modest and retiring, but in church she glorified God. Her hat was a fountain of rosy feathers, erupting to the sky, her coat was white with cabbage roses. She was a paean of joy and praise. Mary felt like cheering. But then she leaned forward and looked more carefully. What was wrong? Within her finery Miss Herpitude looked frail and old. She was clinging to the pew backs as she walked along the aisle. Now she was collapsing into an empty pew. Was she ill? Mary half rose to go and see. But then Miss Herpitude squared her shoulders and sat up straight. She picked up her hymn book and started leafing through it. Mary sat down again. She would try to speak to Alice afterwards. Here came the Hands, led down the aisle by the genial usher, Howard Swan. (He was a member of the Prudential Committee, too—everyone worked him hard.) Tom would be having his mind on spraying the orchard. His hose was clogged and giving him a terrible time. Gwen would be thinking about dinner, wishing she could peel potatoes in church.
Oh, damn. What was that NINcompoop Roland doing here? Couldn’t she find sanctuary anywhere? Mary pretended not to see his dank salute, but he turned back when he saw her and climbed up into the balcony nearby, gaping at her. He was probably an Anglican or something. People should stay in the church they were born in, they had no right to go fishing around. She could see his pimples from here.
There was Charley Goss. Poor Charley. He was putting on a good front, coming to church. But he couldn’t seem to face the whole congregation, so he headed for the balcony, too. Women and children in the balcony, please, and suspected murderers. Charley sat down in front of Roland Granville-Galsworthy. Roland gave him his adenoidal stare. Mary, feeling intensely sorry for Charley, attempted to catch his eye and smile at him. But Charley had folded his arms and he was looking fixedly at the pew back in front of him. Granville-Galsworthy caught her look instead, and he wriggled all over with joy. Mary turned away angrily and looked down again at the congregation on the floor. She watched as Philip Goss came in with Rowena and Edith and Homer Kelly and sat down smack in the middle of the rows of pews. There was nothing on his conscience apparently. Edith rather stupidly waited to let Rowena go first, but Rowena frowned at her, and Edith, her heavy eyebrows lifting, scuttled in beside her brother. Rowena went in next, in her sensational black, and Homer sat solidly on the outside. Where had he got that outlandish haircut? His lank brown hair was shingled in layers. He probably did it himself, reaching around in back with the scissors. Mary had caught a glimpse of his tie as he sat down. It was one she had found in Woolworth’s, with zebra stripes and horseshoes tipped in with glitter. Oh, go on, Homer Kelly, get along with you. Boston policemen are all Catholics anyway. Mary stared at Rowena instead. Rowena had a little itch behind her ear, and she scratched it daintily. She had one of those clean little necks.
The minister addressed God. Mary closed her eyes. Before long it was time for the anthem. Mary saw Homer look back curiously as the choirmistress pulled out the stops and the organ emitted small sounds of rushing air. The choir was not at its best that morning. Mrs. Jellicoe wobbled heavily all over the soprano part (everyone wished to God she would retire), and
the choirmistress winced. The congregation sat through it upright and unflinching. After all, thought Mary, one didn’t come to a New England church to enjoy oneself.
After the service the choir waited for the congregation to go out. Mary looked at Alice Herpitude and decided that she was all right. She was standing up, talking and smiling with Grandmaw Hand. Rowena Goss and Homer Kelly were stalled by a knot of talkers in the other aisle. Better have a pleasant expression ready in case they looked up. But they didn’t. Mary’s cordial smile became set and grim. She began to feel foolish, so she turned and stared with the utmost concentration at the last hymn, “Gird Your Loins, O My Soul,” by the Reverend Maltby Trueblood, 1888. That’s what she would do, all right. That was precisely what she would do. When Homer did at last look up at the choir loft he saw a tall black-robed back, bowed over, turned away. He wasn’t aware that its soul was having its loins girt up, and that it was damning him straight to hell.
“Mary,” Mrs. Jellicoe was prodding her and looking at her with her codfish eyes. “There’s someone here to see you.” Mary looked up. Oh no, not again. It was Roland Granville-Galsworthy. Couldn’t the man leave her alone, even in church? He sat down beside her. He had written another opus. “Ralph Waldo Emerson, a Critical Bibliography.” He wanted to know if Mary would look at it. Why didn’t the man just forget the whole thing?
Everyone was gone. Mary got up to go. But Roland wouldn’t let her. To her horror he tried to make a pass at her. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, “don’t do that.” But he persisted, and Mary backed away. “Stop it,” she said. Good heavens. This was ridiculous. There was only one thing to do, and that was bolt. He was between her and the door. Mary found herself scrambling in undignified haste between pews. Roland seemed to think it part of a lover’s game.
“Oi know how yew American girls are attracted to we Englishmen,” he shouted, vaulting a pew back.
“You mean indiscriminately?” said Mary, trying to keep things, which had gotten out of hand, on a light level. She glanced back at him, and stopped for a second, appalled. What was that look on his face? The moon-calf expression had disappeared. There was a violent difference. The eyes were glazed—the lips were wet. Mary began scrabbling again at the backs of benches, pulling herself along, her heart in her mouth.
The balcony ran around three sides of the church. There was a door at the pulpit end. Mary grasped at the knob. It was locked. She turned and leaned against it. She was trapped. He was coming at her. Well, she could still scratch, bite and claw.
Then there was a laugh from down below. It was Rowena Goss. She was standing in the aisle with Homer Kelly, looking up. “Don’t let us disturb you!” On Homer’s face there was a look of pain. Rowena gave her enchanting giggle. “I’ll just get my glove …” She nipped into her pew, picked up her glove and hurried out, with Homer following her, his face glowering.
Mary, pulsing red, ducked past Roland and ran for the stairs. She was down them before he had recovered himself. He let her go and stood where he had stopped, swallowing rapidly, his Adam’s apple rising and falling, his chest heaving, a frustrated curtain falling on his vision of Sleeping Beauty. She was that smashing girl this time, but without the red, just white like wax, with her eyes shut. In his dream he came in to where she lay, just like that prince. But he didn’t wake her up. No, curse her. That wasn’t the way his dream went at all.
Chapter 29
He is not alert enough. He wants stirring up with a pole. He should practise turning a series of somersets rapidly, or jump up and see how many times he can strike his feet together before coming down. Let him make the earth turn round now the other way, and whet his wits on it, whichever way it goes, as on a grindstone; in short, see how many ideas he can entertain at once.
HENRY THOREAU
The District Attorney of Middlesex County was a devout man, passionately fond of his family, the Red Sox, freshly shelled peanuts and cold beer. Raised entirely in the city of Somerville, he had left it only once as a child for a single disastrous visit to the country where he had unexpectedly come face to face with a cow. Ever since that time he had been deathly afraid of cows; and even barns, hay, large dogs and the grass on Boston Common made him uneasy. He had been chosen to run for office for reasons other than his qualifications for the job, but on the whole he was an effective and conscientious public servant. His strong points were two. First of all, he was just intelligent enough to recognize his own deepseated befuddlement, and he made up for it by an elaborate system of self-prompting notes, charts and outlines written in his own painstaking rounded hand. Second, he was backed up by Miss Felicia O’Toole. Miss O’Toole was his secretary, a self-effacing homely woman with an I.Q. fifty points higher than the D.A.’s. She was incomparable.
Miss O’Toole had spread clean sheets of paper all over his big desk, and laid out four well-sharpened pencils and a big bowl of peanuts. The District Attorney pulled a sheet of paper toward him, and wrote carefully at the top, “Charles Goss.” On another he wrote, “Philip Goss.” Then he sucked his pencil and looked up at the vaulted ceiling. What other headings would he think of if he were smarter? Oh, well, they would come out in the discussion. Miss O’Toole sat a little to the rear, almost invisible in her grey dress, his shield and buckler and Excalibur invincible.
Homer Kelly reviewed the case swiftly. The D.A. scribbled things on his papers. Chief Flower was there, with Sergeants Shrubsole and Silverson and Patrolman Vine. Mary Morgan sat in one corner, listening and taking notes.
After two hours the men had all taken off their coats, a big fan was sucking in the tobacco smoke, and there were peanut shells and ashes all over the rug. Miss O’Toole went out for sandwiches. She had to march through a crowd of newsmen sprawled all over the wooden benches beyond the locked metal gate. “Plenty of time for you all to have lunch,” she said kindly. “We’ll be ages yet.” When she got back the D.A. was mopping his thin sad face and ruffling the three long hairs he combed sideways over his bald head. His papers were covered with round scrawls. They were sifting over each other and getting lost. He doubted if he wasn’t just getting more and more mixed up. Here is what he had.
CHARLES GOSS
Motive: strong. Revenge? Father a bast. Night before, was shot at by brother with musk. at command of Dad. Logical Ch use same gun bump off Dad.
Opportunity: last seen after parade-ride returning home horseback Barrett’s Mill Rd. 11:15. Next seen by Flower coming from barn where suit found 1:45. No satisfact. explan. whereabouts meantime. (Murder 1:00).
Fax supporting Ch as X:
1. Confessed. Loopholes in confesh don’t rule it out. Maybe diabol. clever ruse.
2. X wore Ch’s outfit.
3. X’s horse prob. Ch’s horse.
4. Scout idents X as Ch or Ph.
5. Had motive.
6. Had opportunity.
7. Ch had access old gun, knew how fire it.
8. Scout sez X limped; Ch had hurt leg.
9. What he doing in barn, unless taking off suit?
10. Ch family black sheep, unstable.
Fax NOT supporting Ch as X:
1. Loopholes in confesh. Maybe Ch continues boy hood custom, sez “I did it” when either brother accused. Ch assumes Ph did it, so protects him by confesh. Shocked when Ph doesn’t confess, too, then clams up, assumes Ph trying pin murder on him. Big blow. (GOOD.) But maybe diabol. clever ruse (see above).
2. If Ch intended murder Dad, why do it in public place wearing own fancy suit? Unless crime of sudden passion. In which case, why? Why have loaded musk with him? What reason for rondayvoo?
3. Not likely Ch would fall off horse, since expert horseman. But maybe unsteady becuz nervous?
4. Limp of X might be caused by fall off horse.
5. Boy Scout’s identif. don’t mean much, he only saw back of X.
PHILIP GOSS
Motive: weak. Suppose motive was revenge for Dad’s making him fire at Ch night before—this mean Ph fond of Ch.
Why, then, would Ph wear Ch’s Paul Revere suit to murder Dad, thus pinning murder on Ch?
Opportunity: Ph was with Conc. Ind. Battery on arrival Rod and Gun Club noon. Shortly after (he say), he left, walked around fresh air, went to bam, came back. No witnesses. So no alibi. Gone full hour. Time enough.
Fax supporting Ph as X:
1. Alibi fishy.
2. Scout idents X as either Ch or Ph. But see above.
3. Gun handy, could fire it.
4. Logical he use same gun on Dad that Dad made him use on Ch. (But see under motive, above.)
5. VERY IMPORTANT: Ph nearly killed Dad with can non same morning. Mistake, he say.
6. Ph’s car found in parking lot at bridge after murder.
Fax NOT supporting Ph as X:
1. Motive looks weak.
2. Character good.
3. Why commit murder in public place? See above.