We were still speaking with Nick when Bill Percival appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. His round red face lit up with delight. "Ladies! I'm so glad you came over. You deserve a break from all that stress and trouble!" Bill was a loud, flamboyant man who seemed to want to be the stereotype of an Inn Keeper, as if he were the 'master of the house' from Les Miserables.
"Where's Marj?"
"Oh, she's here, May, but off in the kitchen supervising as usual. Leaving Teddy to do his usual schmoozing! So I'm all alone in here, serving these brave souls who have come our way. I just might have to call Ruth to throw on her uniform and come on over if this keeps up. How about something to warm your insides, like your favourite martini?" Bill literally said this with a flourish, almost bowing to May, his clipped British accent even more pronounced than usual.
I almost giggled, a reaction of stress and fatigue. "Not for me, Bill. I want a glass of merlot. That'll warm me just fine, thanks."
"Martini for one, then, and a glass of the lovely merlot." He disappeared behind the bar.
May looked right at me and crossed her eyes. Once again I was afraid of erupting into huge inappropriate laughter. Everyone in town would soon think I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "Tell her to stop, Nick," I begged. "I'm too tired and stressed to resist guffawing in public."
"Huh! A loud guffaw would do this place good! It's getting a little uppity in here," Nick returned, laughing.
"And don't let me have more than one glass of wine," I added. "I have to drive."
"We could always call Alain to pick us up. He's practically next door. After what we've just been through, I'm not promising to stick to only one martini." May's dark eyes roamed the restaurant, stopping to gaze at Lost Ring Island, Will's painting. "I still think that's such a great story, how you lost your ring on that island and years later Langford paints it for you."
"You're such a romantic, May." I could feel myself blushing, cursed my fair skin for still betraying me, despite the other defence mechanisms I have been able to perfect. I never could lie, and I felt uncomfortable that May believed the story I'd told her about Lost Ring Island. If she knew the truth...Bill's noisy return to the table interrupted my thoughts.
"Here we are, ladies." He placed May's martini in front of her, swept a wine glass onto my place, showed me the wine bottle, and proceeded to pop the cork. He continued to speak as he went through each of these motions. "You must be exhausted and in such a state! I'm so flattered that you picked my little restaurant to rejuvenate in. Poor Nathaniel! He was such a sweet man. I can't believe someone would want to kill him. Why, Friday this place was filled with reporters. Didn't take them long to clear out yesterday, though. Guess someone more important was killed somewhere else. Poor Nat. Now I guess no one is paying attention. I heard from a few customers earlier that the school is being kept closed though." The last was said not quite as a question, but close enough.
"No one's told you then, Bill." I took a deep breath, surprised that I had to steady my voice before speaking. I was astonished that no one else had told him, particularly Ruth McEntyer, who often worked here part time. Obviously she was too busy calling the neighbours and she hadn't gotten around to talking to Bill yet. Perhaps there still weren't too many, outside of parents of the school children, who'd been informed about what had happened. "Someone killed Nat's pony and left it at my office door, inside the school. Some kind of message they think."
Bill froze, the wine bottle still clutched in his hand. His eyes were wide and his face paled. He looked genuinely shocked. "Message? What kind of...?"
"No one has any idea."
"Someone is pretty sick, I'd say," Nick said, his voice filled with disgust.
Bill blinked, then poured a little of the wine in my glass to taste. When I nodded my approval, he filled the goblet to the rim. "Bill, enough. You don't want me to be tipsy on a Monday afternoon, do you?" I looked up at him, smiling, and saw that his eyes were still wide with shock. It seemed ironic that it appeared he was taking the death of an animal somewhat harder than the death of a human being.
He shook his head. "Sorry, Emily, but I just can't...I guess that means the reporters will be back and our little town made a circus again."
I had my own private fears along those lines, but I was surprised to hear that Bill did. "It might mean a full house again, Bill."
His smile was thin and forced. "I'd rather have no one than..." He carefully wiped the wine bottle of its slow moving red drops, concentrating on that small act rather than meeting our eyes. He sighed. "Let me tell you our specials to get our minds off all this tragedy." And he recited, with something close to passion, the tempting list of dishes that Theodore Lavalle had created for the day.
Once May and I had chosen—she a creamy pasta dish with shrimp and crab and I a small pepper steak with roasted vegetables—Bill went away and left us sipping our drinks and nibbling on bread. Nick returned to the table right next to us. I tried very hard to ignore the fact that he appeared to be listening over my shoulder.
Within a couple of minutes, though, we were engrossed in conversation and I forgot everyone else in the room. May and I never have trouble talking, and this day, despite its horrors and its shocks, was no different. We were discussing the latest special education cutbacks and didn't notice Marjory Percival enter the room.
"Hi Emily, hi May," she said, standing close to our table and speaking in a loud, unnatural voice. I literally jumped.
"Oh, hi, Marj," May said calmly, as I swallowed my wine and tried not to look as though my nerves were still shattered.
"Marj, I didn't see you. How are you?" As I turned to her, I was struck by the paleness of her face, the largeness of her pupils, the way her lips twitched from a smile to a frown and back again.
Marjory was much younger than her husband, though he hid his age very well. At this moment, she looked as though the age difference were reversed. She was a thin, petite blond with wide blue eyes, whose classic features were normally extremely attractive. Coupled with her British royalty accent, Marjory Percival was a woman who turned heads.
"I'm okay. How are you ladies doing out here? How about some water?" She went to the sideboard and filled our glasses with water and lemon.
"Is this yours, Emily?" To my embarrassment, May held Nathaniel Ryeburn's diary in her hand.
"Yes, yes, it's—it's mine—from school..." Aware that I sounded odd, I took the little book and stuffed it into my purse. "It must have fallen out of my pocket..."
I could feel everyone's eyes on me. I felt their questioning looks at the loud, unnatural sound in my voice. Every movement in the room stopped momentarily. It seemed to me that everyone was looking at me, gazing pointedly at the stolen diary. I was uncomfortably aware of Nick's stare from the table next to us. Marj appeared not to notice and left to fill other patrons' glasses with water. May, her eyes filled with curiosity, blessedly said nothing.
I shook my head. My old paranoia was resurfacing. It was hard not to be shaken by the events of the last few days, though, I told myself forgivingly.
We indulged ourselves that afternoon with lots of wine and martinis, fresh warm multigrain bread with butter, our meals, and a shared Apple Betty with ice cream and coffee at the end. Bill and Marjory were attentive, witty and yet not intrusive. May and I talked a lot about Nat, and in our own way, gave tribute to his life and work.
The dining room slowly emptied until we were the only customers remaining. Alain Reneaux did drive us both home, after all, some time after six o'clock, after the Burchill Inn had paid the bill for one of the longest lunches in history.
It was still pelting rain when I let myself into the house, noticing the light in the workshop out in the yard. The front hall was lit up and I could smell the fragrance of logs in the living room fireplace. As soon as the door opened, Angel appeared at my feet. Giving a small cry, she lay down, paws spread out, begging for hugs. Which she got, plenty of them, me down on the floor, snuggling and pet
ting and putting my face in her fur. After a few minutes I shook out my coat, took off my wet shoes, and went upstairs to change into a robe.
There was a note on my pillow. "Almost done! If the fire goes out, I brought in more logs to light it up again. Love ya, Will." Which was how I ended up in the chair by the fire, feet propped up, dog snuggled in beside me, coffee in hand, reading Nathaniel Ryeburn's diary.
At first I felt guilty, prying, but as I got used to the scratchy writing, I was drawn into a story so well written, so intriguing, so terrifying, that I might have been reading fiction written by a great author. In fact, had events not happened the way they did, I might never have believed a word of it.
Chapter 11
The Life of N. Ryeburn by N. Ryeburn
The struggle always begins at dawn. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, tracing the tiles with tired eyes. Prayers and petitions, promises to Our Mother, fill my soul with strength. I vow never to let it happen again. I get up, pour myself a small glass of milk, and go into the bathroom. I see my face in the mirror—large, shadowed, my eyes dark with sleep and horror—and I hardly believe it is really me. In my mind, I am still a young boy, eyes unclouded, face unobscured by hair, lines, time, by cruelty and weakness. I force myself to shower, to shave, to prepare my body for a day with people. My heart pounds at the thought of seeing them. Their faces are expectant, their lives unfurled before me, wanting me to relate. Except for her, they do not really see ME.
I sat up straight, my own heart pounding. This writing looked like Nathaniel's small, compact and scratchy style. But the words were so unlike his simple, childlike speech. The language did not match the Nathaniel Ryeburn I thought I knew, or at least had a working relationship with. "I never showed this to nobody else. You won't tell, will you?"
In this journal, no hint of the shy, country 'accent', the misuse of grammar, the slight deferential way of speaking. "I jes' keep some personal papers in there, Mrs. Emily. Hope you don' mind. Ain't got much of a private place at home. Wouldn't want nobody readin' my personal stuff, doncha know?"
And who was the 'her' to whom he referred? A secret love, his mother? I felt that I was, prying, laying open what appeared to be some kind of confession or treatise of a life lived in sadness and regret. Yet I kept reading, fascinated, frightened, intruding yet compelled to continue.
Burchill is asleep every morning when I open the door of my father's house and step onto the dock. In summer, there is an orange tinge over the horizon, but in winter it is deathly quiet and relentlessly dark. In those times, my eyes must adjust to the blackness. I must shuffle along the dockside listening to the sounds, acquainting myself with the environment before I can proceed. The front porch is only a few steps from the canal, and even in the winter, I can hear the water lapping against the sides of the locks. A faint fishy smell has permeated the walls of my ancestral home. I can smell it in the living room. It invades every pore of my body from here onto the canal walkway.
In the quiet, I can hear the past echoes of fishing boats and pleasure crafts and their loud, crude owners who shout impatiently at me or at each other. In the silence, I can still hear the voices.
I am the bridgeman, as my father was before me, and as his father had been before him, down the ages of my family history like a brand. And yet now it is a lost art, no longer respected, no longer needed, in the age of computers and electronics. I am the son who will see the end of my family's profession, the end of Ryeburn history, the completion of lives lived in serving others for whom the service went unnoticed or unappreciated. I am the last true bridgeman. I deserve no more than this ignoble end.
Tears sprung into my eyes at the power of these words. I thought of Nathaniel Ryeburn's strong, yet unassuming, presence as he gave one of his infrequent smiles, usually apparent only when he talked about his animals and his dreams.
"Some day I hope to have a farm, Mrs. Emily. Mebbe when I retire and my parents…when I kin sell the house, I kin buy a nice farm in the country an' take all my animals with me an' get me some more an' live quiet-like." His big head was nodding, the rare smile lighting his face into something almost attractive, appealing in its openness and the raw hope that it displayed. "Yeah, I'd sure like that."
Yet if this chronicle before me was truly written by this same man, his life had been lived in hopelessness. He saw himself in the darkest of lights, never knowing that the people who 'didn't see him' would mourn his death as if it were the passing of a hero, not the end of the history of an undeserving nobody.
It is in the summer when my work on the dock is full. It is in the summer when the voices are loudest. It is in the summer when the people come.
Each day, with the sun barely peering over the horizon, I stand at the canal edge, hands on hips, sniffing the air. I can tell how many boats will come through just by the weather. It is the rich who mostly use the locks now, the ones with the loud yachts and huge cavernous monstrosities that are practically ships, and which the men use as measures of their masculinity. The women use their words, spitting obscenities at me or the youngsters who work for me, screaming at us if they are not allowed to go first or even second into the locks, hurling vindictive at the slowness of the process, as if we have control over how fast water flows. I am constantly surprised and frightened by their passion, wondering if they know how their anger twists their faces into an ugliness that almost matches my own.
When the rare woman passes by with a smile, a nod and a thank-you, I cannot help but be caught in her beauty, in the light of her smile, in the absolute astonishment of kindness and the loudness of a sweet gentleness that feels like feathers and silk and fur. That is when I dare not look up, lest she see the glare of my need, the nakedness of my weak and sickly soul. The stain of my deeds, the flush of my anger as I turn its full force onto the animals, hating them for their compliance as much as I despise myself for mine, might leak from my space into this woman's, and her kindness will turn to horror and disgust. For within my eyes she might glimpse the maggot that lives underneath.
Just as I never look at HER, afraid she will discover the person who really inhabits this hideous body. The outward repulsiveness is only a small reflection of the ugliness that writhes beneath. I long to turn my eyes on her face, feast on her smile and the melody of her voice as she asks me my opinion—my OPINION! Or how I am feeling—HOW I AM FEELING—and oh God, oh Mother Mary of God, I wish I were not the monster that I am, fervently wish I could return the look she has given me, touch the hand that rests so innocently and friendly upon my sleeve. But I dare not, for she, with her insight and intelligence and connection to people, would instantly see me for what I really am.
So I shuffle beside or behind her, eyes down, voice disguised, hungers abated, evil a thick pounding in my head. A voice in the background, noise as grating as the sound of people's voices on the canal, the monster never leaves me, even as I stand beside her, humbled and awed by her exquisite acts of friendship and affection. Even surrounded by the light of her goodness, the horror that lives within me will, as long as my heart continues to beat, be reawakened by the dark of night—each and every night—no matter the prayers and petitions and promises and memory of her smile. It will not ever leave me. I deserve no more smiles, no more friendship, no pity, no love, no feather or silk or fur, no soft skin touching my hand in affection or even respect.
I stopped, a knot of tension in my neck and a nausea spreading from my stomach to my throat. Was this really written by Nathaniel? From my limited experience with his writing, it looked like his. Yet this language, this relentless self recrimination, the obsession and violence contained in the words, did not in any way reflect the man who came to work at the school day after day or who stood by the locks nodding and listening to the people who passed by to talk to him.
Who was the woman reflected in these pages, the one to whom he gave the attributes of 'insight and intelligence and connection to people'?
How could she have missed his self-hatr
ed, never discovered his hidden violent nature, never saw behind his mask? How much 'light of goodness' could the object of affection in this story have had if she did not ever notice his deep and unabated sorrow? And why had I, who had worked with him day after day, never known or seen or even suspected what lay beneath his gentleness?
I looked up into the orange and red flames in my fireplace and my hands absently stroked the sleeping dog's silky fur. Was this diary a work of fiction? Was it Nathaniel's sick joke on me, to whom he practically bequeathed the tome? Had he hoped I'd read it while he was still alive? Was he watching for some kind of change in my attitude toward him, as evidence I knew the truth? Was he exacting some kind of revenge on the rest of the village by pretending to be someone he was not and then laying it all out in writing? Was he laughing at all of us? What was the horror that lived within him?
I pictured the Nathaniel I had met day after day, the one with the big, gentle hands, the shy sideways glances, the soft voice that seemed odd emanating from such a large man. I remembered how kind and sweet he was with the children, how accommodating and helpful with the teachers, with me. Astonished by how completely I had been fooled, I kept reading, hungry for some kind of explanation.
All of Burchill sets their clocks by me, as they did with my father before me. At precisely 5:30 every morning, I am up checking the huge joints of the swing bridge, even in winter, sometimes oiling, sometimes cleaning, sometimes chipping ice. One by one, as the lights snap on and the people begin to enter the day, they start out at different times to go to work. So many pass the canal, so many stop to talk. Their voices go on and on, like the water flowing through the locks, like nails on a chalkboard.
Yet I stand there, morning after morning, letting them flog me with their grating sounds, their faces open to the new day, their minds elsewhere, already at work, or back home with a problem, worrying or whining or complaining or judging or damning. Little do they know whom it is they stand beside. If I could only tell them, they would be reassured that their lives are harmless, that they need not worry, that their sins are nothing. I could forgive them, send them more happily on their way, but I do not. I cannot.
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