By the time Will opened the studio door, I was there, my eyes full, stumbling into his arms. He drew me inside and held me while I trembled and cried, sobs that had everything to do with Nathaniel Ryeburn and the discovery this morning, and yet had nothing to do with that at all. When I was calm, we went into the house and sat in the kitchen.
The three-quarter length windows looked out past the birch trees and tall spindly oaks to the blue of the lake. The calm surface of the water never failed to lull me, rocking me into a sense of peace and happiness that I would never take for granted.
Will made lunch while I talked, telling him every detail. At the tale of the picture clutched in Nathaniel's hand, Will stopped me. "Isn't that strange, Em? I mean, the guy's in agony and all he can think of..."
"Not if you knew Nathaniel." I took a cracker and a piece of cheese from the plate he held out to me. "He's just so dedicated to his parents and to those pets of his. He takes—took—such good care of them all. I don't know what the Ryeburns will do without him."
"I've seen old Mr. Ryeburn a few times out by the locks." Will leaned over the counter and sipped his lemonade. "He looks in pretty good shape for a man his age. He and Nat could've been twins."
"I think he's had a heart attack, but seems to be in fairly good health right now. From what I can gather, he just has to take it easy. God, imagine what the stress of this might do to him."
"I don't think I've ever seen Mrs. Ryeburn. Is she sickly?"
"She's pretty much confined to a wheelchair. Nat brings her to church now and then... I keep talking about him as if he's still here. I've never heard her speak a word, even when spoken to. Some of the townspeople have said that she was always mean-spirited, even before she was ill." I tapped my glass pensively. "They were a town mystery, even before this happened."
"Really?" He sat on the stool beside me. I could feel the warmth of his body, the intensity of his attention. Langford had an unerring quality of what I called deep listening that could unnerve people who didn't know him. His propensity for leaning toward the speaker, head on a slight tilt, towering over them, his eyes direct and carefully scrutinizing, could be intimidating. But it was this spotlight of care and concentration that also endeared him to those who knew him well. For me, I sensed that I was beginning to return to a semblance of normality, buoyed by his support, even as my mind rejected the absurd events of the day.
"Yah. One of our parents, Ruth McEntyer—she seems to know everything—once told me that there are all kinds of strange rumours about the Ryeburns. Walter was reportedly a wild man. Mrs. Ryeburn was a town beauty who all but disappeared into the house when she married him. Ruth seemed to suggest that Annie and Nathaniel were prisoners of sorts."
"Obviously, you doubt her word."
I looked over at him, smiling, hearing the patience in his voice. I took a moment to study him, his dark hair shot with silver, his brown eyes crinkled in interest, the curve of his lips, his strong fingers curled around the glass. I knew he was encouraging my thought process, knew it was the beginning of healing. I never tired of him, looking at him, touching him. I would always appreciate his nearness, I thought, remembering the times when I hadn't been free to reach out for him.
"It just seems to me that if you really want to get out of something, you could in this day and age. Nathaniel did leave town for some time after he'd finished high school. And it was during this time that Mr. Ryeburn had a heart attack and Mrs. Ryeburn got whatever it is that put her in the wheelchair. They just didn't seem able to function without him. Then suddenly one day Nat arrived back home, as quietly as he'd left. No one dared ask where he'd been. They just talked about it behind his back—still do in fact. He immediately stepped into his father's shoes and resumed taking care of them. Plus he took on the caretaker's job at the school."
Will traced the delicate hairs along my fingers. "Do you think Walter and Nathaniel could've had a huge row? Maybe Nat was shot accidentally in the process."
I shivered. "That sounds so abhorrent, but I guess you never know." I gazed out at the lake, watched as a seagull dipped its beak below the surface. I followed a gentle wave as it lapped against our dock. I love this house, this lake, this town. I wondered if it would be the same from now on, or if this experience would always darken my thoughts. "Will, I asked the Constables from Ottawa if they thought I could have saved Nat. I mean, I followed my regular routine, showered, even started making coffee, and there was the poor guy, dying in the basement…" A shiver ran through me, prompting Will to pull his chair close, put his arms around me.
"And they assured you there was nothing you could have done, right?"
I looked up at him, my eyes filled with tears. "Yes, but I still feel weird. I mean, there I was…"
"Completely innocent," Will interjected. "It looks and sounds weird to be following some regular routine when a tragedy is occurring right before you. But remember, if no one had killed poor Nathaniel, your routine would have made perfect sense."
His words brought me back to another time when a sensible routine had been made to seem sinister. 'I'm not even a suspect', and the words, 'We know where to find you', even though they were spoken innocently, even kindly, were really unsettling. I can't imagine how…
Will removed his arms and snatched up the dishes, cutting me off with the movement. I recognized his need to disconnect and honoured it by remaining silent, by pulling back to the present, by forcing my thoughts to be distant and logical. It was a technique that I had not quite perfected, because it went against my innate nature to deal with things openly, immediately, emotionally.
"Would you like to lie down for a while, Em? In case you haven't noticed, I unplugged all the phones except for the one upstairs, which I connected to the answering machine. I can just imagine the calls you're getting and are going to get. Feel like sleeping or talking to people?"
I tapped my glass, considering. I wasn't sure if I could face the darkness of sleep just yet, but didn't know if I wanted to talk to irate or upset parents either. "I think I'll talk, at least for a while. Depending on the reactions I get, I might be able to talk for a long time—or maybe I'll just be able to handle a little. At least I know what to say now that our newspaper item has been hashed out. We're just giving the bare facts for now, letting them know an investigation is taking place and we can't really talk too much about it. Protect the children, stifle curiosity if you can, blah blah blah. By the way, how's Silver Lake?"
"A few finishing touches, and I'm done."
I hugged him. "How about if I talk on the phone and you put those finishing touches on the Lake? Then do you think I should go and see the Ryeburns?"
"I think it would be perfectly acceptable if you waited until morning, Em. You've been through a lot. I'll go with you."
We decided to go to the Ryeburns' around ten the next morning. While Langford Taylor headed out to his studio, I climbed the steps to our bedroom, suddenly tired, my legs aching with the sudden release of tension. Standing in the doorway, I drew in a breath of strength, drawing from the sunlight as it made silhouettes of our furniture, the quilt, the curtains, Will's pictures. This was my favourite room, the main reason I had told Will that this was the house we'd live in forever.
A huge room, it ran the entire length of the house and had been modernized with the addition of a small en suite bathroom and a walk-in closet. Our four-poster bed, the exact kind I'd dreamed of for years, stood near the bay windows, the curtains gently blowing inward. When I lay down, I could hear the waves lapping at the rocks, smell the scent of the woods and the deep fresh water. From the bedroom, I could step out onto a balcony that was almost a duplicate of the porch below. Here I was able to revel in every season, in the lush green of spring, the bustle of summer, the iridescent colours of autumn, the pristine white of winter. I had always felt that some part of my soul had been missing, until I came to this house in Burchill. Now it seemed that I was complete, that my body and mind had blended with the lake, with
the peace of this house, with Will's presence.
The blinking light of the answering machine in the den was like a warning, a siren, a shattering of that fragile tranquility. For a moment, I thought I wouldn't have the strength to listen, to cope. But once I began to play back the messages—the plaintive voices of the parents, the inquisitive tone of a reporter from Ottawa—my resolve returned and I began to return some of the calls. An hour later, Will found me there still speaking calmly, reassuring others, with a strength and conviction I didn't always feel.
He began to rub my neck, kneading the tension in my shoulders, letting his hands play over the small soft hairs at the nape of my neck. Standing very close to me, touching me, I could feel his body begin to respond, as I snuggled into his arms. I turned as I finished the last call, my arms around his hips, my face buried in his t-shirt. I loved the smell of him, slightly sweaty mixed with a little of the fragrance of paint and soap. He tilted my head up, smiled at me, his eyes tracing over my face with the gratitude and wonder of someone who had almost lost his love and would forever appreciate regaining it.
We kissed for a while, slowly at first and then more urgently, before he led me to our bed. Once we were undressed, he caressed me, his artist's hands exploring my body with tenderness and knowledge. I allowed my mind to drift, became aware only of the soft hairs of his body, the gentleness of his fingers, the wetness of my response. When he was inside me, I let myself blend into him, felt the strength flowing between us, knew that whatever else happened in our lives, this was all that was really important.
Later he held me close, while I slept, the images of the day crowding through my mind, the questions, the voices, the image of Nathaniel and the picture clutched in his hand. When I awoke the next morning, I actually felt refreshed, still flushed with love and the confidence that comes from knowing you're truly loved in return. It was with this certainty that I set out with Will to see the Ryeburns.
Chapter 6
An outrageous river tumbled through Burchill, bursting into a beautiful little falls that hit the town with enough power to run a woollen mill. There was a canal and a system of locks that by-passed the wildest sections of Kanawhe River. All along the canal, picnic benches dotted the lush green grass, tucked under the shade of huge, ancient sugar maples, oaks and evergreen trees.
In the summer the town was inundated with tourists. They gathered at the locks, fascinated by the parade of yachts and pleasure craft. Many of the seafarers joined the residents for a day or a week at a time. No one in the village minded. In fact, several fancy shops and restaurants had sprung up and people made a good living from the tourist industry.
The lockmaster's house was built by the Ryeburns' ancestors in the early 1800's, when most traffic came by way of the lakes and rivers, and the first canal had been built. It was a small house, built of limestone and timber, designed only to house the lockmaster and his family. Very little had been done to change it, except for the huge wooden fence that encircled the large backyard.
Here Nathaniel Ryeburn kept his beloved pets, acting as refuge provider for any stray or abandoned animal.
From the small, closely cropped lawn, it was only steps to the canal and the lock, which was now mostly electronic. Nat had trained many college students over the years to run the locks in the summer, when the pleasure craft traffic was heavy. He and his father had become overseers on a job that used to consume all their ancestors' time. Across the canal were the lawns of the provincial park, dark green and manicured, and beyond, the lake could be seen with its startling blue and white waves. Although I could not imagine anyone other than the Ryeburns living there, the view alone would attract any admirer of older homes.
Will knocked at the thick wooden door and the echo could be heard in the hallway. For a few moments I thought they wouldn't answer, and I was almost glad at the idea of turning around and heading for home. This was not something I was looking forward to. Then suddenly the door opened and Walter Ryeburn stood framed in the darkness of the hall behind him.
"I told you, I ain't giving no interviews." He leaned a little into the sun, where Will and I could see the puffiness of his eyes as he glared in anger at the shadowed figures in his doorway. His big hands, spotted with age and hard work, clutched the doorframe as if he were ready to hurl himself at us should we come any closer.
"Mr. Ryeburn, it's Emily Taylor. The school principal." When there was no response, I added, deliberately past tense, "I worked with Nathaniel."
The old man grunted, leaning further into the sunlight in order to see his visitors more clearly. "Eh?" Studying my face, his eyes became less pinched, almost friendly. "Oh, yeah, he likes you. He says you're good to him." The latter was said with cynical surprise.
"I just wanted to tell you and Mrs. Ryeburn how sorry I am. I really like Nathaniel and he's—he was a wonderful person to work with."
"I think the missus would like to hear that. Come in." He opened the door into a huge hallway, cavernous because of the twelve-foot ceiling and the grey, nondescript walls. Walter Ryeburn, despite his six-foot frame, seemed dwarfed in the semidarkness. As we followed him, I noticed that his shoulders were rounded. He was stooped and old, no longer 'in good shape for a man his age'. What was the death of his only son going to do to him as the reality of it began to last day after day?
He led us into a huge room filled with sofas and chairs, tables and rugs, an ancient television set, and several cats. Despite the partitions and the carpets, it still looked like an old, converted warehouse. In fact, the air in the room was musty and damp. The windows were small, and behind the curtains, only a little of the afternoon sun filtered in.
"Have a seat. I'll get the missus."
I caught Will's eye, as we gingerly sat on the edge of one of the sofas, squeezing his hand for reassurance. His look told me that he was wondering the same thing. What would it have been like to grow up in a house like this?
"Nat must have thought a lot of you for his father to let you in," Will whispered in my ear. "It doesn't look like they've had visitors since the war." My look warned him to be quiet, but I couldn't help grinning at him.
We heard her voice first, high and querulous, echoing from somewhere in the darkness. Suddenly she appeared in the doorway, an apparition in white, Walter right behind her, carefully manoeuvring the wheelchair past the furniture.
Annie Ryeburn's hair flowed long and thin over her shoulders, almost matching the paleness of her face. Her veined, trembling hands flitted over her nightgown, smoothing and pulling, tugging over her long legs, despite the fact that it almost reached the ground. It was a thin gown, and I, embarrassed, could see the woman's pale, almost bluish, skin through the material. Confused, I looked up at Walter's face, wondering why he would allow such an intrusion. His eyes crinkled at me in a friendly smile, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort in the room.
I got up and went forward, sympathy and pity propelling me to the woman's side. I grasped the thin, cold hands in mine and leaned over to look into her face. I met fear, anger and strength in those blue eyes, not confusion or weakness. I felt as though Annie Ryeburn were trying to give me a message in that icy stare.
"I'm so sorry about Nathaniel, Mrs. Ryeburn. I cared for him very much. He was always there to help me." To my surprise, I felt tears slip down my cheeks. I had to bite my lip to keep from dissolving into weeping.
Mrs. Ryeburn's glare softened. A look of pain crossed her features that deepened the wrinkles and made her look even older. When she spoke, her voice was shaky and high-pitched. "Thank-you, Mrs. Taylor. Nathaniel thought very highly of you. It was nice of you to stop by with your sympathy. You as well, Mr. Taylor. Nat always enjoyed your paintings." With those words, she was suddenly a dignified lady. Her proud head nodded to dismiss us. We quickly gave our good-byes and let ourselves out of the musty hallway.
We ran-walked to the bridge, hand-in-hand, saying nothing until we had reached the other side of the canal.
"How the h
ell could he do that to her, and why?"
"She was so embarrassed—you could see right through that gown. Do you think he realized...?"
Will nodded his head angrily. "I do, Em. She's so thin and light, he probably picked her right up out of her bed and stuck her in the wheelchair. The only question in my mind is why he would do that."
"I've never really seen them together. As I told you, Nat sometimes brought her to church, but I've never actually seen Mr. and Mrs. in the same room together. Maybe they actually hate one another and Nat was all that kept them from disintegrating totally. Maybe he really did keep her a prisoner in her own home, abused her, whatever. I wonder what will happen now."
As we approached Rideau Street, children could be seen playing on the swings and slides in the park. To me, it appeared as though their parents hovered even closer today. We met Timmy McEntyer and his mother, Ruth, at the top of the incline. "I'm so shocked to hear about Nat," she said immediately. "It must have been awful for you, finding him like that, Mrs. Taylor. To have something like that happen in the basement of our own little school—unbelievable."
I nodded. "It certainly is. I'm very shocked, too." I thought, but of course didn't say, that I was shocked at her level of knowledge and wondered how many of the details she really did know.
"Nat was such an amazing man. People are going to miss talking to him."
Confused, I repeated, "Talking to him?", even as I pictured Nathaniel, stoic and silent, washing the floor or changing a light bulb, smiling with his eyes lowered, bringing me coffee without ever looking me directly in the face.
"Oh, yes, didn't you know? The bridgeman was practically the town counsellor." She turned quickly as she spotted Timmy racing toward the swings. "Well, I'd better go. I guess we'll all be gathering at the funeral...." Waving, her words disappearing as she walked away, Ruth McEntyer followed her child into the park.
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 4