by Rhys Bowen
This was an annoying discovery as I had just come through North Adams on the train. It had been the stop before Williamstown, some six miles away. So it was back to the station and another train ride. I’m sure those who do not make their living as detectives have no appreciation for the amount of time we take coming and going. The job turns out to be hours of travel, hours of nothing happening, coupled with the odd minute of excitement every now and then.
North Adams was less prosperous-looking, and terraces rose up the slopes of an impressive mountain. The mill itself dominated the town, a square red brick building, with white-framed windows and tall chimneys. I made for it and was shown into the office of the mill manager.
He was a large, florid man with a perpetually worried expression but he greeted me cordially enough.
“Now, what can I do for you, miss?” he asked.
I told him I was sorry to trouble him but I’d been asked to track down any surviving relatives of Lydia Lynch, née Johnson. I understood that Mr. Lynch owned the mill.
“He does,” the man said, “but he doesn’t come near the place often these days. Leaves all the running of the business to me.”
“So have you been here long enough to remember Mrs. Lynch?” I asked.
“Aye, I’ve been here twenty-two years, man and boy,” he said, staring out past me with a wistful look. “I started here as an apprentice and I’ve worked my way up. Haven’t done at all badly for myself, have I?”
“I’d say you’ve done very well.” I gave him an encouraging smile. “So what can you tell me about Mrs. Lynch? Did the family come from around here?”
He nodded. “From Williamstown,” he said. I tried not to let my annoyance show. As usual my impetuous nature had driven me to leave that town before I’d asked the right questions. I probably could have saved myself a journey.
“Williamstown. I see. I don’t suppose any Johnson relatives are still living in these parts?”
“No relatives that I know of,” he said. “There was only her parents, and I believe they’d come over from Scotland when her father was a young man. He made quite a fortune for himself with this mill—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “He owned this mill?”
“He did. He and his missus were killed in a buggy wreck when Miss Lydia was a young woman. She married Horace Lynch soon after. He took over the mill and they moved into the old Johnson mansion.”
“And when did they move away from this area?”
“Ah, well.” He sucked through his teeth. “That would have been more than twenty years ago. They hadn’t been married long. Mr. Lynch had done very well for himself. He’d got other business interests down south and he wanted to be closer to them. At least, that’s what I heard. So they upped and moved to a swank part of New York City. I expect it was Mrs. Lynch’s doing—she always was one for parties and dances and smart society. There wasn’t much for her in Williamstown or North Adams, that’s for sure.”
“They must have moved away when they took on the baby,” I said.
“Baby? I never heard of no baby,” he said. “That was one of Mr. Lynch’s disappointments, that he had no heir.”
“Not hers,” I said. “A cousin’s orphan. She took over the rearing of a cousin’s baby. Its parents were missionaries in China, so I’ve been given to understand. They died in a cholera epidemic and Mrs. Lynch took on the baby.”
He frowned. “Maybe I did hear something about that, but Mr. Lynch isn’t one for conversation when he comes here. And since she died, he never mentions her. He’s not one to show his feelings, you know. All business and then he’s off again. And he’s not the easiest man in the world to work for, but by and large he’s fair. He pays a decent wage.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I stood up. “Thank you for your time,” I said, and we shook hands.
So it was back to Williamstown and the old Johnson mansion. By now it was obvious that I’d need to stay the night somewhere in the area, so I booked myself at an inn on Main Street near the college. The landlady looked at me suspiciously to begin with as she showed me up to a clean but spartan room.
“Are you visiting a sweetheart at the college?” she asked.
“No, I’m a businesswoman from New York City,” I said. “I’m here checking for relatives of the Johnson family.”
“Johnsons? You mean the old Johnson mansion?”
I nodded.
“There’s nobody here now,” she said. “The old couple died, of course. Tragic accident.”
“What happened?” I asked.
She sucked in air through her teeth. “Their buggy went off the road in a storm. They were both swept into the creek and drowned. And then their daughter married and moved away.”
“What about the house? Who owns it now?”
She shrugged. “As far as I know Miss Lydia’s husband still owns it. I never heard of its being sold and it just sits there, going to ruin. I can’t see why. He’d have got a tidy sum for that when it was in good condition, years ago.”
This didn’t tally with the picture of Horace Lynch that I’d been given—a man who was keen on money would surely have sold a vacant property, wouldn’t he?
“So where is this house?” I asked. “Is it in town?”
“On the edge of town on the Petersburg Road. You just follow Main Street and you’ll get there. About a mile’s walk, I’d say.”
“So I’d have time to go there today?”
“If you’re not afraid of a good walk.”
I smiled. “I’m from Ireland and we thought nothing of walking five miles into the nearest town.”
“Ah well, then. Off you go, but you’ll find nothing there but weeds and a ruin. Supper’s at six o’clock sharp.”
I set off, quite enjoying the pace of a small town, the passing buggies, the men chewing the fat outside the barber’s shop, a group of Williams College young men in earnest discussion as they crossed the road. I thought they might be debating Plato or Shakespeare until I heard one of them say, “Of course the beer isn’t better there, but the barmaids do make up for it, don’t they?”
I smiled to myself as I walked on. At first there were college buildings on either side of me, then shops and businesses until Main Street became Petersburg Road and meandered out of town. At last I came to a high brick wall. I continued along it until it was broken by a wrought-iron gate. Ivy grew up the wall and spilled over the top of the gate. I pushed the rusty latch and the gate swung open with much creaking and groaning. Cautiously I stepped inside. A gravel driveway led to a tall mansion in the neo-Gothic style. Tall Scotch pine trees surrounded it and creepers covered much of the walls. It looked like the house from one of those dreadful Gothic novels and I half expected to see the heroine, clad only in her nightgown, run screaming from the front door, pursued by a man with an axe. I could see why Lydia Lynch had been keen to leave Williamstown for the elegance and bright lights of New York City.
I tiptoed up to the house itself and peered in the windows. The rooms were almost empty, apart from an occasional piece of furniture, hidden under a dust sheet.
As I walked around I was overtaken by the stillness and the melancholy. Sounds from the lively world outside did not penetrate this forgotten estate. I could tell that there had been lovely gardens here once, but the flower beds were an overgrown tangle of brambles, the lawns were full of weeds, and shrubs had grown rampant to form an impenetrable barrier across the back part of the yard. Why had Mr. Lynch let the place go to rack and ruin, I wondered. If he no longer wanted it, then why not sell it? And surely he must come here occasionally to check on his mill, so why not keep a suite of rooms open in readiness? I knew he had a reputation for being a skinflint, so perhaps he would regard the latter as an extravagance, but letting a valuable asset go to waste did not ring true to his character as described to me.
As I peeped through an arbor that was now a tangle of wild roses, I glimpsed a pretty little lawn area beyond, with a swing
hanging from the branch of an old oak tree. And I imagined young Lydia Johnson sitting on that swing, dreaming about the world that she longed to see.
I let myself out of the gate and closed it behind me again with a final sort of clang. The melancholy of the place was overpowering and I walked quickly to get away. Was it the tragedy of Lydia’s parents’ untimely death that still lingered here? I crossed the street to distance myself from it and came upon an old man, digging in his yard. On impulse I went up to him.
“That house over there,” I said. “I take it that nobody lives there anymore.”
He looked up, squinted at me, then grunted. “That’s right. Don’t take a genius to see that.”
“But it used to be owned by the Johnson family? Have you lived here long enough to remember them?”
“I was born in this very house, miss,” he said. “And I remember that house when it was newly built. William and Mary Johnson—foreigners they were, from Scotland. He spoke with such a thick accent you could hardly understand him. But it seemed he’d made a killing in timber up in Vermont and he bought the mill over in North Adams, and had himself this fine house built.”
“And they had a daughter?”
His grim face softened. “Pretty little thing, and the sweetest, gentlest nature you could imagine. I did some gardening and heavy work for them over there and she used to come out and talk to me. She’d swing on her swing and chatter away.” A smile crossed his face. “I don’t suppose there was much lively conversation with those parents. Dour, that’s what would describe them. They belonged to one of these religions that thought that dancing, singing, merrymaking were a sin. I don’t believe they even celebrated birthdays. And Miss Lydia—well, she was a friendly little soul. She just loved to dance and sing. I don’t understand why she married that Lynch fella. He was a good deal older than her and about as unpleasant and dour as her father was. Well, maybe I do understand it—her pa had just died and she was looking for another father figure, I suppose. There’s no accounting for taste, is there?” He chuckled.
“So you were closely connected with the place,” I said. “Did you happen to meet any of the Johnsons’ relatives ever? I’m trying to trace a couple called Boswell, who were missionaries in China. I’m just wondering if they ever came to visit or you heard anyone speak of them.”
“I don’t recall any relatives coming to stay,” he said. “Those Johnsons pretty much kept themselves to themselves. But I can well believe they had relatives who were missionaries. Very much into their religion, they were. They used to make a terrible stink if anyone hereabouts made music or had a party on the Sabbath.”
“Lydia and Horace took over the rearing of these relatives’ baby when they died in China,” I said. “So they weren’t living here when that happened?”
He shook his head. “I never saw a baby at that house. They must have already upped and gone to New York.”
“So they moved to New York, did they?”
He grunted again. “I’m not sure if that was her doing or his. Some said he’d acquired a whole lot of other business enterprises and wanted to be in the thick of things. Others said that she’d bullied him into going because she wanted to be closer to society and the bright lights. I think it was probably a bit of both. You’d have thought it would have suited them both but I heard that she took sick soon afterward and died. Great pity, that. As I said, she was a lovely little thing. She deserved a better life.”
“And when they went, they just left this place untouched, did they?”
“That’s right. They’d kept a pack of servants and gardeners and whatnot. They just fired them all. Didn’t take a single one to New York with them. I suppose none of us was grand enough for their new life. Always did have airs and graces, that Horace Lynch.”
“So you lost your job with them?”
“I was never a regular employee with them. I worked at Paine’s Lumber Mill for forty years. I only helped out at the Johnsons’ and then the Lynchs’ on the side. So it didn’t affect me much, but I can tell you that a lot of noses around here were put out of joint. Servants that had been with the family for twenty years or more, kicked out without so much as a thank-you. Still, that was Horace Lynch for you. Good riddance, I say.”
I thanked him and left him, my mind fully occupied with what he had told me. If the Johnsons came from Scotland then I’d probably been searching for my missionaries in the wrong places. Now I’d have to start from the beginning again and contact all the missionary societies in England and Scotland. I sighed. Perhaps I could save time by contacting some of the names I had been supplied of missionaries who had worked in China. Surely the British missionaries and their American counterparts must have worked in cooperation with each other. I thought of the men I had spoken with the other day at the Presbyterian missions headquarters, but I couldn’t remember their names. I’d have to go back there and ask them.
Then my thoughts turned to the Johnsons and their daughter, who liked to sing and dance and have fun, and the unpleasant Horace Lynch. It didn’t seem like a love match and I wondered if Horace had been more interested in acquiring her mill, her mansion, and her money. Either way, I felt sorry for Emily and her miserable upbringing.
Twenty
Supper was a good hearty pot roast with plenty of root vegetables, followed by an apple betty and fresh cream. I ate enthusiastically.
“So did you find the old Johnson place?” the landlady asked as she brought in a pot of coffee.
“I did. It seems such a shame that it’s being left to fall down.”
“A waste, that’s what I’d call it,” she said. “Sarah here recalls what it was like in its heyday, don’t you, Sarah?” She addressed this remark to the large, red-faced woman who was clearing the dishes from the table.
“I do,” Sarah confessed.
“Sarah was a maid there, you know.”
“Really?”
She smiled. “That’s right. I went to work for the Johnsons when I was fourteen and I stayed with them until they left. I helped look after Miss Lydia when she was a girl. Sweet little thing she was. Sweet and gentle and eager to please.”
“I heard she didn’t take any of her servants when they moved to New York. She didn’t ask you to go with her?”
“No, miss. Didn’t take a single one of us, not even Cook, who had been with the family all those years. But then it wasn’t Miss Lydia’s decision, I’m sure of that. He ruled the roost from the moment he showed up, didn’t he?”
My landlady nodded. “Pity that the Johnsons had to go and die.”
“It was. It was a grand place to work at one time,” Sarah said wistfully. “The house always just so and the gardens were really lovely. Old Mr. Johnson loved his garden, didn’t he. Employed a pack of gardeners—mostly foreigners . . .”
“I remember you were sweet on that one Italian gardener,” my landlady said, giving Sarah a nudge in her amply cushioned side. “What was his name? Antonio?”
Sarah snorted, then chuckled. “Go on with you. That was just girlish fantasies. He never looked at me twice, even though I have to say I was a good deal slimmer and better-looking in those days. If you ask me, it was Miss Lydia he was sweet on. Not that anything could have come of it, given the difference between their stations. But I remember how he used to push her on the swing and she’d look up at him, just so. . . . My, but he was handsome, wasn’t he?”
“What happened to him?” the landlady asked. “Did he go back to Italy?”
Sarah’s face clouded. “No, don’t you remember? He was killed. They reckon he drank too much at the saloon and fell off the bridge on his way home. His body was found floating in the river. Poor man. So young, too.”
She picked up the tray of dishes. “I dare say I’m better off with my Sam. Even if he’s not a barrel of laughs.” She chuckled again as she carried out the tray.
The landlady and I exchanged a glance.
“So would you know of any families around here who were f
riendly with Miss Lydia and the Johnsons?” I asked. “Someone must have stayed in touch with her when she moved.”
She stood, the coffee pot poised in one hand, and a cup in the other, thinking. “I never had dealings with the family personally, you understand, but Miss Lydia and I were around the same age, so I did hear of her from time to time. Those Johnsons kept a close rein on her, I can tell you. She wasn’t allowed to parties and dances like the other girls. And any young man who showed up on the doorstep was deemed unsuitable. Old Pa Johnson thought the world of her. No man was going to be good enough for her.”
“But she chose Horace Lynch,” I said, thinking of the unpleasant, bald-headed face and the sagging jowls.
“After her father died,” my landlady said. “I think she needed someone to boss her around the way her father used to. It’s funny how we women make the same mistakes over and over, isn’t it.”
“But as to friends around here?”
“The Johnsons were not what you’d call social people,” she said. “He was caught up in his work and she was a shy thing. I suppose they must have given dinner parties and ladies’ teas like anyone else but I can’t tell you who they invited to them. I wasn’t of that class. And as to the daughter—well, she went to the ladies’ seminary with the other girls of good families. Miss Addison’s, it’s called.”
“It’s still in operation?”
“Oh yes. Miss Addison—she’s an institution around here. On Buckley Street. That’s to the right off Main. I’m sure she’s kept a list of past pupils and will be able to help you.”
I drank my coffee, nodded to fellow guests, and went up to my room. That night a fierce storm blew through, rattling the window frames and howling down the chimneys. I lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, trying to think things through. What was I doing here? What did I hope to discover? I had heard the basic facts—Lydia’s parents died. Any remaining family was in Scotland. She had married Horace Lynch and moved to New York to be near the bright lights and high society. End of story as far as Williamstown was concerned. My thoughts turned to Fanny Poindexter, and her friend Dorcas. If Fanny’s husband had killed her, we’d have no way of proving it. I was glad Dorcas looked as if she was on the road to recovery, or my life would become impossibly complicated.