Darkling

by R. B. Chesterton

  “Tell me about the house. I know you included it in your book—” I held it out to show him. “The pages about Belle Fleur were cut out.”

  “Damn hooligans! They burned up my shed. All my books—” He rocked furiously.

  “Mr. Petri, please.” I put out a hand and slowed his rocker. “I promised I wouldn’t upset you. I’ll have to leave if you get agitated.”

  He took a deep breath. A morning dove cooed from a hedgerow, and he leaned back into the chair. “I want to tell you. I need to tell someone. Folks should remember the past, so it don’t slip up on them again when they aren’t looking.”

  “You talk as if the past was alive and could … return.”

  “You think it can’t?” He laughed, but it was a grating sound. “Evil doesn’t die, Mimi. It just waits for the next opportunity to strike. Folks around here don’t like to remember Belle Fleur and Sigourney. Most of the ones who saw it are dead or getting old. They don’t want to think about the past, but if they don’t, they’ll see it again.”

  “You think Belle Fleur is evil?”

  “The house is heart pine timber cut from virgin forests. Never rots. Nothing wrong with the materials put into the house, but there was plenty wrong with the people who lived in it.”

  Cora had taught me not to believe in evil—that humans were flawed and often cruel, but evil was a Sunday-school concept that didn’t hold in real life. “Sigourney and Henri had only the one child, Chloe, right?”

  “According to the birth and death records of the county.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “My grandmother cooked for the Desmarais family. She was friends with Cora’s granny. They saw things. Heard things.” He withdrew into himself. “Terrible things. Grandma Bates tried to stop them, but everyone feared the power of Henri and Sigourney. They had money, and they employed many people in the gardens. My mother said that Henri controlled the law, and Sigourney controlled Henri.”

  “What did they do? Did they kill people?”

  “Only two.”

  “Who?”

  “Their daughter, Chloe. And her infant daughter.”

  This didn’t make any sense. “Why would they kill their own child and grandchild?”

  “They didn’t just kill her. They tortured her. They kept her a prisoner until she gave birth to the baby. Sigourney starved her, trying to force a miscarriage. When that didn’t work and the baby was born alive, Sigourney threw it into an old dry well that had once been used to supply water for the flowers.” Chad rubbed a finger between his eyebrows. “My mother said the baby screamed for a day before it stopped. No one was allowed to help it. Chloe was confined in the house, but she looked out the third floor window and begged the garden workers to save her child.”

  “That’s a terrible story.” For fourteen years I’d lived in this community and no one had mentioned a hint of such events—especially not my grandmother, who had been on a mission to paint Belle Fleur and the Desmarais family as some kind of folk heroes. “How could people ignore a dying baby and a girl being held prisoner?”

  “Sigourney and Henri made everyone on the property complicit in murder. Nothing was ever done. No one ever tried to do anything. Chloe disappeared. I think she was starved to death in her room. Henri died. I believe the guilt killed him. He didn’t live two months after. But Sigourney, she lived. She ruled the town until she died. My mother danced on her grave in that old cemetery behind Belle Fleur. You have no idea how much she was hated.”

  “Chloe is buried there, but there’s not an infant’s grave.”

  “A bastard child? Sigourney viewed that baby as nothing more than inconvenient rubbish. Far as I know the bones are still in the well at Belle Fleur. A child not of pure French extraction was no more than an unwanted cat to her. Chloe was to marry French aristocracy and bring financial support and a sophisticated heritage to Belle Fleur perfumes. When she got pregnant by one of the garden workers, she lost her value to Sigourney.”

  “What happened to the man who got her pregnant?”

  “The boy? Nothing. Chloe never told his name. He never came forward. My mother often wondered if he heard his own baby crying in that well and was too much of a coward to save his child.”

  “This is what was in your book about Belle Fleur?” I couldn’t believe that such controversial material hadn’t been the topic of much discussion in the community.

  “No. I didn’t write that in the book. I should have, but I didn’t. I wrote about the land and how Henri bought it for a pittance from the Terry family and how he built the house from trees milled off the land and how he hired the famous architect John Prefect, to draw up the plans for the house with a library and clever rooms and decorations. The blueprints for the house were included in the book. Now it’s all gone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell about Chloe and the baby?”

  He gave a half-smile. “I have no proof. My grandmother is dead. Everyone who knew the truth is dead. Cora knows it, but she won’t talk about it. To print that story would be to invite a lawsuit.”

  “They’re all dead.” A breeze chilled the sweat that had trickled down my spine. “Who’s left to sue?”

  “I always had the sense that someone connected to the Desmarais survived. Sigourney lived a long life, some of it away from Coden. She’d slip into town, and reappear, living at Belle Fleur like a queen come home. She died in that house, alone as far as anyone knew. I saw her body, sitting in that third floor room where she’d tried to starve her daughter into a miscarriage. Her face was frozen in this … she was terrified by something, likely the realization of her own deeds. She died of fright, and she deserved much worse.”

  “If there was only Chloe and the child, then they’re all dead. What happened to the house after Sigourney died?”

  “It was abandoned. No one wanted it. No one would think to live in it. For forty years it stood empty, going into ruin. The wood doesn’t rot, as I told you, but nails rust and timber warps. Eventually she would have come down, and that would have been for the best.”

  “Bob had to buy the house from someone. Maybe there is family left alive.”

  “That’s not something to wish for—or pry into.” He spoke sharply. “If there’s anything of Sigourney left alive in this world, stay away from it.”

  “You said she was evil. Do you truly believe she was?”

  “I meant it. No woman could treat her own child the way she did. She murdered her grandchild. That’s the work of Satan himself. She gave herself over to evil, and her blood is cursed.”

  A wind gusted, and the screened door behind me opened and slammed shut. My heart hammered, but I forced my mind to think logically. “Or else Sigourney was mentally disturbed and no one had the courage to confront her. This is something I’ll have to ask Cora. She’s kept such stories and talk from me. She doesn’t traffic in gossip, especially stories so vicious, but if there was something wrong at Belle Fleur, I deserve to know.” And so did Bob and Berta.

  “Be careful what hornet’s nest you poke with a stick, young lady.” He rocked slowly now. “This land, beside the water filled with seafood, is as close to paradise as humans are going to get. Until things get stirred up.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Petri.” I stood. “I have to get back to the Hendersons.”

  “What he did for that house, it’s remarkable. She looks more beautiful than she did when she was built. But don’t ever turn your back on her.”

  “It’s just a house, like you said.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But no one knows for certain what the surrounding woods absorb. And be careful. Keep alert and watch out for.…” He stopped.

  “For what?”

  “For—” He stood up and almost tottered over. “Watch your step, Mimi. I heard one of the Henderson girls is missing. I can’t prove it, but I don’t think she’s run away. I don’t think she ever had a chance to get away.”

  He walked into the house and closed the door.


  24

  Peggy Cargill was a polar opposite of her brother. Where he had been dark and brooding, she was pale and smiling. She came up the lawn from the bus stop with Erin, holding hands and laughing. In the golden October sunlight shafting down through the trees, I realized Erin was still a child. She wouldn’t be for long—puberty loomed. But for this moment, she was carefree and unspoiled.

  “Welcome to Belle Fleur, Peggy.” Berta stood on the steps with Donald at her side. I was reminded of the day Annie had come to stay. We’d welcomed her, too, and it had been a serious mistake. I couldn’t know how Berta struggled to open her home to this girl whose brother may have taken Margo, but I could see the strain in her face.

  We tramped into the kitchen, and Berta served cupcakes and milk. Donald, though he’d consumed at least four, was eager for more. As we ate the festive cupcakes, talk turned to birthdays.

  “Erin didn’t get her party this year,” Berta said as she ran her fingers through her daughter’s silky blond hair. “We were so upset about Margo.…” She turned to Peggy. “And your brother, Andrew. I suppose you’ve heard nothing from him.”

  I’d been at the sink, but I turned back to watch Berta.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” Peggy said. Sadness settled into the corners of her mouth. “I miss him a lot. He looked out for me. Made sure I had lunch money for school.” She struggled against emotion. “He would never hurt Margo.”

  Berta hugged the child to her. “No, he wouldn’t,” she said. “We’re both missing the people we love.”

  The sound of glass shattering made us all jump. “I’m so sorry.” Annie stood among the shards of Berta’s favorite pitcher. Glass and milk covered the kitchen floor.

  “Are you okay?” Berta asked Annie.

  “It slipped. I’m very sorry.”

  But she wasn’t. She’d dropped the pitcher because she was jealous of the attention Berta was giving Peggy. “We could still have a party for Erin,” I said as I got a broom and mop to clean up the spill before anyone was cut. “Better late than never. We could have a scavenger hunt. Those are a lot of fun.”

  Excited, Erin slapped the table. “Halloween night! We could all wear costumes.”

  “My birthday is November first.” Annie knelt in the disaster of her own making.

  For a moment no one spoke. Berta recovered first. “You remembered something, Annie! That’s wonderful. And we can celebrate your birthday, too. Two birthday girls, what fun.”

  “What about me?” Donald had green icing smeared from ear to ear.

  “And you, too,” Berta said, rumpling his hair, “though your birthday isn’t until December. Why not have a party for everyone? Mimi, you should invite Cora and some of your friends, we’ll celebrate yours, too.” Tears sparkled in her eyes and I knew she was thinking of Margo. Where would she celebrate her birthday?

  “Thanks. A group party. Great idea.” But there weren’t any friends I wanted to ask. When I went to college, I became something of an outcast. My high school friends thought I’d gotten above myself. It seemed only Mark felt otherwise, and at the moment he was miffed with me. Maybe a party would be the perfect way to breach our awkward issues.

  We gave Peggy a tour of the house, and I listened to Berta tell of the Desmarais family, the good version. This was the story I’d heard all my life—the French family who left a perfumery to come to the New World to harvest new, exotic blooms. Like so many things about my life, I now knew it to be a lie.

  When we went to Annie’s room, I saw past the swirl of fabric Annie created to the prison it had been for Chloe. But I said nothing. To invite the past into a house is never a good thing. I wouldn’t be the one who opened that door. I had to believe that wood and nails were only that—materials. If evil abided in Belle Fleur, it came from a human host.

  Annie and Berta retired to the kitchen to prepare dinner while I went outside with the girls and Donald. From the swing, I could see them in the kitchen, dark and light, their heads together at the sink. Annie spoke and Berta laughed. They had become closer in the last few days. The last time I’d broached the subject of finding Annie’s real home, Berta had shook her head. “Don’t even try. She’s a joy to me.”

  Erin came up beside me, watching the scene in the window that I was watching. Peggy Cargill hung several steps back. “Mimi, do you think the stories Annie tells are true?” Erin took my hand, pulling me out of my thoughts and into the present. It wasn’t often she played the little girl, and I enjoyed it.

  “Depends on the story.” Annie told of Jean Lafitte the pirate who sailed the waters of Mobile Bay. Those were true. She told of Civil War battles, also partially true. But she also had a romantic bent that I was cautious of. And there were stories that went to the dark side, scaring Erin and Donald to the point they were afraid. I had asked her not to tell those, but Annie was not inclined to obey me.

  “Sometimes at night, Annie invites me and Donald to her room. She tells us about another girl who lived here. A sad girl who wants someone to love her. She said you told her about Chloe.”

  I couldn’t define the fear that jolted through me, and I noticed that Peggy had crept up beside Erin. I fought to control my expression as I wondered how Annie had come to know things that had been hidden from me for a lifetime. “What does she say?”

  “That we have so much love, and that the girl wants to be part of our family.”

  “I think Bob and Berta have enough children to worry with.” I tried to make light of what she said though my chest felt bound with bands of iron. “You’re frightening your friend, Erin. You shouldn’t listen to Annie.” Peggy’s eyes were wide and upset.

  “Is there a girl all alone and hungry out in the woods?” Erin’s worry was clear.

  “Of course not. Annie’s just pulling your leg.” And I was going to break hers when I got a chance. “Did Annie describe this girl?”

  “Donald told me he saw something coming back from Crystal Mirror Lake.” She swallowed. “He said you saw it, too. A girl who looked like Margo.”

  I’d been foolish to think a nine-year-old boy wouldn’t tell. “We saw something, Erin. It was so quick, but it wasn’t a girl. I don’t know what it was. It could have been the light. The path there is really shady and the trees probably moved in a breeze.”

  She looked at me hard. “Sometimes I think I see something, just on the edge of the woods. A girl with dark hair. Like what you saw the night Margo disappeared. Before I can be certain, she’s gone.”

  Erin was afraid, and Peggy was terrified. Any moment she’d be asking for someone to take her home. “Your father and Mark both checked for evidence of someone hanging around. They didn’t find any trace of a person. Annie is scaring you. If your father knew what she was doing, he’d be really upset.” I wasn’t about to add fuel to Annie’s fire.

  “Daddy never gets upset with Annie. He thinks she’s perfect. She studies all the time about houses and buildings so she can talk to him.”

  Annie’s inappropriate attachment to Bob wasn’t a topic to discuss with Erin. I turned to Peggy. “Did you spend much time with Margo?” It wasn’t a graceful segue, but I felt pressured to change the subject.

  “A little. Sometimes on the way to town she’d stop by the house for a minute.” She looked around as if she expected to be reprimanded. “Not a lot. Just once in a while, after she got her driver’s license. I know she wasn’t supposed to be there and all. Mama said she was a really nice girl.”

  “I only met Andrew once, here, in the woods of Belle Fleur.” I forced a laugh. “He startled us. He’d hidden and jumped out. When we got over the scare it was funny.” Erin homed in on my lie, but I ignored her.

  “Andrew liked to play around like that. He jumped out of bushes and scared me, too.” Peggy made a face. “I didn’t like it when he did it, but now I miss him.” She bit her bottom lip. “He wasn’t as tough as he acted. He just didn’t get along with Dad. Andrew wasn’t going to knuckle under. He was like that. Even if Dad hurt h
im, he wasn’t going to give in.” She swallowed. “I hope he’s okay. I keep thinking he’ll call me or send me a letter. He told me he’d always take care of me, but he hasn’t sent any word.”

  So Peggy assumed Margo and Andrew were together. And alive. That was something. “Have the police found any clues as to what happened to him?”

  She shook her head, and I knew it was time to change the subject. I had one more question however, and though I knew it was cruel, I had to ask. “What do you think happened?”

  Erin glared at me. “We don’t want to talk about this anymore. If Peggy knew where Margo was, she would have told us weeks ago.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply she knew anything.” I put a hand on Erin’s shoulder. “I’m only asking for an opinion. The police can’t find anything. To them, Margo is just another rich, spoiled kid who didn’t get her way and took off. Maybe that’s what happened, and I just wondered if Andrew ever said anything. Like any plans they might have made or things they talked about. I’m only trying to help find your sister.”

  Peggy shook her head. “They met in the woods around here all the time. Margo would slip out at night and meet him. He said he loved her. They wanted to get married, but I can’t say that. Dad would kill me.”

  I hadn’t realized the relationship was that serious. No one had. Margo had been very sly indeed. “If she ran away, where do you think she might have gone?”

  Peggy hesitated. “They talked about going to New Orleans. They wanted to get married, and Andrew said he had a friend who could get him a job on a riverboat. He’d make really good money, and he could take care of Margo.”

  At least it was a lead. “Thanks, Peggy. And I am sorry about your brother.”

  “Andrew pissed people off.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Dad thinks he fell in with the wrong crowd of people. Some of his friends were bikers and they sold dope.”

  I didn’t say anything. Finch was already on the drug angle. I wished I could comfort Peggy and Erin with a convenient lie, but I couldn’t. “I’m sure we’ll find them both,” I said, “but for now let’s plan the birthday party.”