Must the Maiden Die

by Miriam Grace Monfredo

  "I think she's asleep upstairs in my bedroom," Emma answered, but as if she were so preoccupied that her cousin's absence had barely registered.

  "Asleep? Surely not!" snapped Vanessa Usher, her violet eyes flashing as she pulled a hood of black velvet over the harp.

  "I wouldn't be surprised," Glynis said. "Bronwen has had an exhausting day."

  "Yes, I heard all about it—as who in this town did not," Vanessa retorted. "Far be it from me to criticize your relatives, Glynis, but that particular young woman seems to have small regard for decorum."

  Emma, despite her distracted manner, began to smile although turning her head to hide it, but Glynis experienced a perverse kind of relief. During the course of the evening, the fair Vanessa had appeared so subdued, so nearly resembling the image of a beatific Renaissance angel, that Glynis had wondered if the woman was ill. Clearly it had been a temporary condition. And perhaps, since Vanessa must know how infuriating she could be on occasion, this restraint had been for Emma's sake. Glynis did not question for a moment that the woman adored Emma, at least insofar as there was room in Vanessa's affections for anyone other than herself. And Glynis had speculated before now that the loss of Vanessa's sister to consumption, several years before, left a void that perhaps Emma had come to fill.

  "Don't concern yourself with all those extra chairs," Vanessa told Emma. "I'll have a servant pick them up tomorrow. You should get some rest, dear—that is, if your cousin hasn't appropriated your bed."

  "It's a large bed," said Emma softly. She leaned over to bury her smile in an immense bouquet of lilacs and iris, trailing ivy, and long white satin ribbons that had arrived in the hands of a delivery boy just before the party had begun. The attached card read: "To my beloved Emma." The large, self-confident scrawl of Adam MacAlistair required no signature.

  After Vanessa had left—sharply warning her two beleaguered servants to handle the harp as if it were bone china— Glynis and Emma went upstairs to the several rooms above the shop. Emma, raising a glass chamber lamp by its handle, stopped at the door of one of her workrooms. "Want to take a quick look at the gowns for the wedding?"

  "Yes, of course. Are they finished?"

  "All but mine and Bronwen's. Before everyone got here tonight, though, I persuaded her to stand still long enough for a final fitting."

  She opened the door and Glynis, holding her own lamp, followed her niece into the cluttered room. Although it was as strewn as usual with bolted fabric and spools of ribbon and yards of lace trim, and although in the eye of the hurricane sat two Singer sewing machines, what Glynis first saw, draped over a dress form, was Emma's wedding gown. It shone softly as if creating its own light, a white waterfall of gleaming satin with froths of delicate, point d'Alencon needle lace and droplets of seed pearls.

  "Emma, it's absolutely beautiful! I've never seen anything to compare."

  Emma smiled, put down her lamp on a sewing table, and pointed to two other dress forms holding pale green bridesmaid gowns, trimmed only with white satin sashes and, at the flounced hems, tiny white satin roses.

  "Green is not a traditional color—at first I had planned to have pink," Emma explained. "But then I realized pink would be a terrible color on Bronwen, while Aunt Gwen and Cousin Kathryn can wear any shade in the rainbow."

  Glynis nodded at the thought of Kathryn, transformed almost overnight—or so it seemed—from a rather plain girl, who had lacked the early good looks of her sister and her cousin Emma, into a real beauty.

  "And pink is not by any means your color either, Aunt Glyn," Emma said, and Glynis heard not the slightest intent of meanness, but rather the voice of an artist.

  "Here's yours," Emma said, lifting from a standing rack a hanger that held a gown more silvery green than those of the bridesmaids. The color reminded Glynis of sea foam. She was to stand in for Emma's mother, who had died two years before. Her sister Gwen, Bronwen and Kathryn's mother, would be matron-of-honor, and Gwen's gown, which Emma was now holding up, was a darker shade of the same green. All of them would look, Glynis thought, like fresh spring leaves surrounding a white rose.

  They went back out into the short hall, and when Emma opened the door of her bedroom, they found Bronwen, who was indeed asleep, sprawled face down across the bed's coverlet.

  "Should I wake her?" Glynis asked.

  "No, let her be. I can sleep around her, though I'm not very tired," Emma said softly, her eyes suddenly grave. "I can't imagine why, but I guess it's from worry about the wedding. I haven't even talked to Adam today. I just couldn't find the time."

  Glynis, noting Emma's swift change of mood from the lightheartedness of the sewing room, might have thought that all else would have been secondary to clearing the air with Adam, but did not say so. And when she went down the stairs, she almost called, Don't underestimate Adam's generosity, but on second thought decided that would sound patronizing. Emma had good sense.

  Outside the shop, and while Glynis walked down a few marble steps under a green-and-white-striped canopy, she heard hoof beats coming toward her. She peered into the soft darkness that was barely relieved by the kerosene lanterns on posts along Fall Street, and saw the black Morgan just rounding the corner of State Street. Cullen reined in the horse beside her.

  "Glynis, I hoped to find you here." His voice held an uncharacteristic tension.

  "I saw you go by earlier tonight, Cullen. Did something happen down at one of the taverns?"

  "Something happened all right," he said harshly, "but it was at the Brant house. Roland Brant was found dead."

  "Cullen, no! How can that be? He looked like such a healthy man. What did he die of, or don't you know yet?"

  "I know he didn't die of bad health. Brant was stabbed and the knife left in his chest. There's no question he was murdered."

  5

  Go where it chooseth thee,

  There is none that accuseth thee;

  Neither foe nor lover

  Will the wrong uncover;

  The world's breath raiseth thee,

  And thy own past praiseth thee.

  —Dora Read Goodale, "The Judgment"

  Glynis drew in her breath and took an unsteady step toward Cullen. "Roland Brant's been murdered? Who did it?" was all she could think to say, and even then the words emerged as a whisper.

  "Don't know yet. His family seems to be bearing up fairly well, but no one admits to knowing anything about his death. I left Zeph at the house to make sure they all stay there."

  Cullen glanced around, apparently for passersby, and though there were none, swung down from the Morgan, saying quietly, "No need to send the whole town into an uproar tonight."

  Glynis nodded, and kept her voice lowered when she told him, "Roland Brant's wife was invited to Emma's party, but late this morning she sent her regrets. Her note simply said she was indisposed, which I took to mean that she was ill."

  "She didn't mention any illness to me," Cullen said.

  "Mrs. Brant's health has been less than robust for some time. It would certainly be understandable if she didn't elaborate, Cullen, especially given the circumstances."

  "Guess that makes sense, but she seemed mighty calm for someone who'd just learned of her husband's murder."

  "When did it happen?" Glynis asked, knowing the question was none of her affair, except for the fact that Cullen had chanced upon her. But curiosity, never her most commendable or repressible trait, overcame discretion. She also simply could not find it credible that a man of Roland Brant's substantial vitality was dead. Much less that he had been a victim of murder.

  "Don't know when he died," Cullen answered. "The last time anyone recalls seeing him—seeing him alive—was around nine o'clock last night. Family and servants all agree on that time. Mrs. Brant claims that earlier this evening, when her husband didn't appear at supper, she sent one of the servants to look for him. The servant, a fellow named Clements, says he found Brant's body on the floor of his library."

  "What time was th
at?" Glynis asked.

  "Around six o' clock tonight. But it looked to me as if Brant had been dead for some time, and I think it's damn peculiar that no one discovered his body earlier. On the other hand, it's a big house, and Clements says it was a hard-and-fast rule that Brant was not to be disturbed when in his library. Brant was also known to take frequent, overnight business trips."

  "What made you think he'd been dead for some time?"

  "He was stiff. Rigor mortis doesn't set in until a few hours after death. Maybe even later if the weather's cool. I'm hoping the doctor will answer that one, so we can try to guess at the time Brant died. I'm on my way now to get her, or—" Cullen motioned toward the shop "—is Neva still in there?"

  "No, she couldn't stay long. Several children at the Women's Refuge have been sick, and she had been with them round the clock, so she was worn out. By now she's likely home with Abraham."

  "And will not be happy about being rousted out again," Cullen commented. "Well, it can't be helped. I want her to see Brant's body before it's moved."

  If the circumstances hadn't been so grim, Glynis would have found Cullen's insistence on Neva Cardoza-Levy amusing. When Neva had first come to town four years ago, Cullen had been as disturbed as many others at the idea of a female doctor. But in a matter of months, she had proven herself more than capable, and Cullen, to his credit, had openly voiced his change of heart. Just six months ago, he'd succeeded in having Neva appointed deputy coroner of the village, a heretofore unheard-of position for a woman. Not that she and Cullen didn't continue to snipe at each other, and sometimes argue heatedly; the arguments nearly always centered on the taverns and alcohol that Neva believed responsible for at least half the ills she encountered in her practice. The primary reason, in fact, that she had opened the Seneca Falls Refuge for Women and Children.

  "Glynis, while I'm fetching the doc, I'd like you to go to the Brant house," Cullen said, his overly casual manner making her suspect it was not a spur-of-the-moment request, but something he'd intended all along. "Someone might slip," he added, "and say something useful to you."

  "You can't think that one of Roland Brant's own family murdered him," Glynis protested. "That's not only dreadful, but it seems far-fetched."

  "Not any more far-fetched than the notion of a stranger just walking in and stabbing Brant in his own library! Besides, Glynis, you know his family—"

  "I don't know them at all well," she broke in.

  "Doesn't matter. They might say more to you than they have to me."

  He took a lantern from a post and handed it to her, saying, "There's a near-full moon rising, so you probably won't need this, but take it anyway."

  Not giving her time to object, he remounted the Morgan. "If you start walking now, I'll catch up with you before you get to the house."

  "The Brants will resent my intrusion," she argued, remembering to keep her voice down. "And if a family member was cold-blooded enough to murder Roland Brant, and then remain there at the house...well, why should that person suddenly become rattled enough to say something incriminating? Cullen, I don't think this is a good idea."

  "I do."

  "But I'm not adept at this sort of thing."

  "You're as adept as anyone else around here and then some," he said, turning the Morgan and urging it forward before Glynis could think of a more persuasive argument.

  She stood watching him ride down Fall Street, wondering as usual why she possessed so little backbone. She should have simply refused Cullen; although it did occurr to her that the Brant household must be in a terrible state. While she had seen Roland Brant infrequently, he had always been generous when donating money to the library, and there was the possibility she might be of some help if one of his family needed it. She certainly owed the man that. Moreover, regardless of what Cullen might expect, she hadn't consented to do anything else.

  She swung the lantern back and forth a few times and, still debating with herself, reluctantly began to walk up State Street.

  Why would someone murder Roland Brant? It was true that he had considerable wealth and was subject to the predictable envy levied against one who had much when others had little, but it was hard to imagine that envy alone could kill. Yet what other possible reason could there have been for his murder?

  When Glynis turned north onto a dirt road running off Fall Street, she was still finding it inconceivable that Roland Brant could be dead. She remembered the Brant family's arrival in Seneca Falls some ten or eleven years before, and since then the man had been a leading figure in the village. A philanthropic member of Trinity Church, he also contributed to other charitable institutions. His importing business had been highly successful, thriving even during financial recessions when others had failed. Just within the past year, she heard that R. Brant & Sons had purchased at foreclosure a large, stone building along the canal and then converted the bankrupt harpsichord factory into a company warehouse.

  And Brant, from all accounts, had been devoted to his family—his wife, two sons, and a daughter-in-law—all of whom lived in the one large house. A house which, now that Glynis thought about it, stood so far back from the road that its isolation might have been purposeful. While the place was being built, carriage traffic on Fall Street had been snarled for days by dray wagons weighted down with deliveries of live evergreen trees. Almost everyone in town had been inconvenienced by this project, and almost everyone speculated about its cost. And to what purpose? Rather than move half-grown trees, why not simply plant seedlings that would mushroom in a few years' time like every other tree in western New York?

  As she reached the gravel drive nearly hidden from view by a thick stand of hemlock, Glynis realized she hadn't noticed how dense the trees fronting the road had become; she had little reason to pass this way often and especially not at night. It looked as if a forest had sprung up there, and if she hadn't known that a house sat somewhere behind it, she could have missed the drive altogether. Although Cullen had been right about the moon, and the lantern wasn't really necessary, she had no intention of extinguishing it until he appeared. When a light breeze ruffled her hair, it brought the sound of hoof beats from down the road. It must be the Morgan, so she might as well start for the house, for while the night held the balmy warmth of the day, it would soon start to cool.

  Gravel crunched under her high laced shoes as she followed the initial curvature of the drive and almost immediately wished she had waited. The hoof beats seemed to have faded, though it could be the trees were so dense they absorbed the sound. It hadn't occurred to her that the entire length of the drive would be overgrown, but to either side of it the trees and shrubs had been pruned back only enough to permit the passage of a coach. Other than that, they'd been allowed to reach the height and density of impenetrable walls. Clearly, the Brants preferred privacy. Which meant they did not want intruders. What had Cullen been thinking when he sent her here? Likely as not, he hadn't been thinking about anything other than a murder taking place in his town.

  Holding the lantern before her, Glynis raised her skirt with her free hand to walk more quickly and searched her mind for a distraction. Just how good was a librarian who couldn't recall a few random phrases to divert herself? Something soothing, such as poetry. Someone trustworthy, such as Longfellow. What did he write about murmuring pines and hemlock? This is the forest primeval....

  She should think of something else. While she watched her feet, refusing to look anywhere but down, the lines came to her in a rush: Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care / Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are. I, Macbeth shall never vanquished be until / Great Birnam Wood.. .

  This was not helping. Her fixation with woods she could understand, but Macbeth? One of the most notorious murderers in all of literature?

  Quickening her pace, and searching for words to curse Cullen's idea and her own spineless compliance with it, she tripped over a tree branch lying in the gravel. The lantern swayed and clanked while she regained her footin
g. With relief she saw at some yards ahead a boundary to the nightmarish woods. Beyond lay an open grassy expanse broken only by four or five lofty fir trees, their lower branches pruned away so they resembled immense umbrellas spread beside a rectangular, three-story, Italianate-style house. Like many such houses, its architectural design included a square, central tower as though endeavoring to pass itself off as a castle. Glynis thought she saw shadows flit before candlelight in the tower's top dormer window, but she could locate only a few scattered lights in what must be the first-floor rooms. Otherwise the house was dark. The flat-roofed structure had a forbidding presence, squatting there amongst the firs like a great brooding beast.

  Since she could not hear the sound of hooves, or of anything else behind her, and since she refused to remain one second longer in the forest primeval, she cautiously went forward, but wondered how Cullen planned to explain her appearance to the Brant family. As she neared the house, she again tripped, stumbling over something at the edge of the drive. Her balance restored, she took a cautious step forward only to have the toe of her shoe strike something substantial. She pulled aside some hemlock boughs and lowered the lantern, bending down to look more closely at what might be just another branch. But what she saw shining there in the gravel simply could not be. She straightened, thinking that a rush of blood to the head might be causing delusions. Setting the lantern down on the gravel, she slowly bent over again. And then she stared, disbelieving, at what appeared to be the largest diamond ever taken from a mine. About the size of the palm of her hand, its facets sparkled in the lantern light like that of a translucent jewel.

  When Glynis picked it up, however, its sheer heft told her that what she held was a crystal paperweight. They had first become popular in Europe several decades before—American glass factories today were hard pressed to keep up with demand—but this one resembled pictures of paperweights made by the famed Baccarat factory of France. Had she not been standing on the drive of an extremely wealthy man, this would have seemed an absurd idea; but it was not, she decided, any more absurd than finding the crystal to begin with, lying in the gravel like a carelessly discarded rock.