And then, of course, there was the new addition. From a not-so-anonymous donor.
Glynis would never forget the morning, nearly a year ago, when Neva arrived at the library, looking as if she had suffered a severe shock. She had collapsed into a chair in Glynis's small back office, and dropped on the desk a letter and a banknote. As it turned out, the amount of the banknote had been amply sufficient to cause shock.
"Glynis, just look—look at that number," Neva said. "Those are four zeros! I simply cannot believe it."
"I can't either. Who is it from?"
Neva gestured toward the letter. After Glynis finished reading it, she suspected that she looked as stunned as Neva.
"Vanessa Usher is donating all this money to the refuge," Neva said, disbelief making her voice crack. "Do you think it's the woman's idea of a practical joke?"
"If so, it's an expensive joke," Glynis answered. "This note is drawn on the Partridge Seneca Falls Bank, which is about the most solvent bank in the state. And after our recent counterfeiting episode here, I know a genuine note when I see one, Neva."
They had sat and just stared at each other, until Neva ventured, "What do you suppose she wants in return?"
After a moment of thought, Glynis had replied, "I think I can guess!"
And now, as she stepped onto the narrow stone walk in front of the converted warehouse, she had to smile at her bull's-eye prediction. It could not be missed, for two-foot-high letters carved across the fieldstone entrance of the new addition read: the Vanessa usher children's wing.
Neva had not put up even token resistance. Nor had she so much as batted an eye when writing a letter to the Courier to publicly thank Miss Usher for her most beneficent and selfless generosity.
Glynis left the books in the hands of eager youngsters and went looking for Neva. She found her in the rear yard, seated on a bench under a white-blossomed horse chestnut tree and reading what looked to be a long letter. Neva in repose was such an uncommon sight that Glynis disliked having to disturb her. But then Neva called to her, patting the vacant portion of the bench beside her.
"I take it Cullen isn't here yet?" Glynis asked after seating herself and inhaling deeply; a row of lilac bushes just beginning to bloom sent over the yard their peerless fragrance. From the front of the refuge came the high, clear voices of children playing in the warm, hazy afternoon.
"No, but he stopped by early this morning," Neva answered, tucking strands of tightly curled hair behind an ear. She waved at Glynis several sheets of paper. "I was looking over this affidavit I prepared for him to submit with a request for a court-ordered autopsy on Roland Brant. 1 had time to do it because the children who were sick yesterday have all made a fast recovery, and none of the others have been stricken."
"That's good news, Neva!"
"I think the sickness was caused by milk—milk that sat around too long on a warm day. It makes me more certain than ever that Pasteur's research with airborne bacteria is on the right track. I've insisted that everyone's hands be washed before handling food. It seems to help keep these illnesses—whatever they are—from spreading like wildfire from one person to another."
"Do you think a cure will be found for consumption?" Glynis asked her, thinking of Julia Tryon and Vanessa's sister Aurora.
"We need to find out what causes it—there's just so much we don't know," Neva answered, her wide brow creasing like a folded fan as it did when she concentrated. "But remember, until a half century ago we didn't know much about smallpox either. Now we're on our way to seeing it someday wiped out, maybe even within this century. When you think of the people who've died when a simple inoculation would have saved them ..." Her voice broke as she shook her head.
"You seem more agreeable to an autopsy than you were last night," Glynis said.
"Last night I was exhausted! Besides, I had another look at Brant's body after Zeph and I took it to the icehouse. There's something odd there, Glynis."
"Odd?"
"Yes, to do with the stab wound. But I'd better not speculate. Obtaining this court order may take a day or two. Erich Brant's attitude has not changed, according to Cullen, and apparently the judge is off somewhere on circuit and won't be back until tomorrow."
"In that event, I guess we should hope Roland Brant's funeral won't be held the same day as Emma's wedding."
"What an awful thought, Glynis! Is Bronwen's sister coming from New York City for the wedding?"
Kathryn, for the past five months, had been nursing at the New York Infirmary for Women and Children, founded four years before by Drs. Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell and Marie Zakrzewska. "Yes, she's coming," answered Glynis with a smile. Of her three nieces, she thought, Kathryn was the one most like herself.
Neva nodded. "Unfortunately, I think we're going to need battalions of nurses very soon. But the only one who appears to recognize that is Elizabeth Blackwell. It's fore-sighted of her to begin organizing a relief association," she added, "because if this hideous affair in the South escalates... Men and their wars! If to keep themselves amused they have to be firing guns at something, why not line up all their politicians and have a turkey shoot! Really, Glynis, you'd think those forefathers of yours would have had enough of guns and wars when they wrote up the Constitution."
"Why my forefathers?"
"So far as I know, there were no Jews invited to that party," Neva scowled darkly. "Those men and their Constitution have other things to answer for. Slave-holding is the reason for this dread mess we're in now. And then there's the small matter of their exclusion of women. I think it's high time we took another look at that one-sided, flawed document."
Neva seemed to consider this a moment before she continued, "Do you know what Elizabeth Blackwell is actually doing? She's involving New York's society women in her relief group—a brilliant stroke! My cousin Ernestine Rose wrote to me about it. Now maybe some of that money will be put to good use."
Glynis nodded. "We can only hope they don't all demand to have their names carved in stone."
Neva, glancing at the new wing, laughed.
Before Glynis next spoke she took a quick look around for possible eavesdroppers, and then said, "If it isn't betraying a confidence, Neva, can you tell me if Roland Brant's wife—or rather his widow—is a patient of yours?"
"No, she isn't my patient. And she wouldn't be."
"Why not?"
"Because I've learned, Glynis, that women with the most intimidating husbands are the ones least likely to see a female doctor."
"I would think that's probably true."
"You would?"
"I didn't say it was good. But the point is, does Helga Brant look ill to you?"
"I hadn't noticed. I don't view everyone I meet as a potential patient. I've enough of those as it is. But why are you asking about her?"
"I'm not sure. Just a guess, perhaps, that she could be stronger than she looks."
"That may be, but strength is relative. I met Roland Brant on occasion, and I doubt very much that his wife, or few others for that matter, could have matched him for strength— physical or mental. If that's what you're referring to."
"Not precisely, but again, true enough, I suppose."
"That's one of the qualities I like about you, Glynis. You nearly always sound agreeable, even when you're not agreeing."
"Well, I'm agreeing now. At least I think so. And I'm not even certain why I'm asking you this. It's just that several things don't seem to fit," Glynis said slowly.
"Then, knowing you, I'd say there's a good chance that things don't fit," Neva replied. "I can't tell how, or even if, this might relate to Helga Brant, but there's another thing I've learned. That some women, when they're terrified of having more children, manage to become chronic invalids. Which means they are frail. Untouchable. It's their only way out of the so-called marital obligation. And it may not even be, on their part, a consciously planned escape. I'm certain you know what I mean."
"Of course I do. And tragic thou
gh it is, it makes some sense. I'd just never thought of it that way before."
"Well, why would you? You're not married!" Neva gave her a sideways glance. "This despite the fact, I might add, that two of the very few good men around are—"
"Neva, please. Let's not get into that."
But she readied herself, because Neva shifted round on the bench to launch a frontal maneuver, saying, "We haven't had any chance to talk, Glynis, since you came back from Washington. Did Jacques Sundown come with you?"
"No, he didn't. Jacques put me on the train and —"
"But Sundown is here. I saw him just this morning."
"That's not likely," Glynis said, straightening on the bench. "At least I don't think it is. Are you sure it was Jacques you saw?"
"Glynis Tryon! How could any woman who wasn't blind or half-dead mistake that man for anyone else. He was riding that black and white paint of his up Cayuga Street. You really didn't know he was here? No, from the look on your face I guess you didn't—"
"Neva," Glynis interrupted, as she'd just heard, below the high voices of children, another, deeper voice, "I think Cullen's arrived."
***
Glynis grasped the side of the small, covered buggy as Cullen turned the horse onto the side road that led to the Brant house. A light wind had begun to stack the southern sky with rolls of fleecy gray cloud, but the air remained warm. Cullen said he had rented the buggy at Boone's Livery because it looked like rain.
Glynis sniffed the air and agreed. "Has the search party for Tamar Jager been organized?"
He nodded. "But it's a bad time of year to ask men to leave their fields. The Seneca County Sheriff's Office sent a couple of deputies, so that's a help. What men there are have fanned out from the Brant place with descriptions of the girl."
"Apart from the girl being mute, it's rather a vague physical description, isn't it?" Glynis asked.
"The blonde hair narrows it down some, but yes."
"Cullen, when we were at Brants' yesterday, did you find the family's attitude unusual?"
"Hard to say. Unusual in the sense that they sure didn't seem to be grieving Roland Brant's death, yes, but maybe they're a tougher bunch than you're used to seeing. If we could just find that girl! Biggest headache is that we don't have any notion where she might go, or even in what direction she'd head."
The shadow of something flitted across Glynis's mind, gone before she could really see it.
"I worry about the girl being mute," she said. "The men in the search party are aware of that, aren't they?"
"Yes, but I know what you mean. Zeph and Liam will handle it all right, and I think I impressed on the others that they shouldn't scare her, but not all of them are my men. Plus the dogs might frighten her."
"You're using dogs to track her?"
"Glynis, of course I am. She could be anywhere! Got a piece of her clothing from Brants' last night, hoping the dogs can pick up her scent. Don't forget that this Tamar is possibly Roland Brant's killer—I can't think her disappearance is only a coincidence. But I admit I also can't think of a motive for a servant girl to kill Brant. Unless he caught her stealing from his safe."
"I suppose so," Glynis said, "but Roland Brant was a strapping man, certainly more than able to defend himself against what we've been told is a slender girl."
"Don't worry about the dogs," he said. "They're all hounds—most of them bloodhounds—so they won't harm her."
"But how could she know that?"
"Couldn't. Not unless she knows dogs."
They rode in silence for a time, Glynis watching the freshly plowed fields and the awakened woodlands, their shades of green brilliant against a sky grown increasingly gray. The metallic smell of the air was still faint, but before long she heard scattered drops of rain start pinging against the roof of the buggy.
Brants' hemlock appeared, and then Cullen guided the horse onto the curving, gravel drive. Today the distance to the house seemed to Glynis to be half that of the night before, the forest more untamed than ominously primeval. The only sound was the rattle of the wheels and the spring rain spattering against the roof of the buggy. And the occasional, distinctive call of a bird seeking a mate.
When the house came into view, Glynis decided that daylight had not improved its character. It still had about it a dark brooding look.
12
Calamities came to them too, and their earlier errors carried hard consequences; perhaps the love of some sweet maiden; the image of purity, order, and calm had opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the days would not seem too long . .. but the maiden was lost.
—George Eliot, Silas Marner, 1861
Cullen brought the buggy to the hitching post by the porch steps, reining in the horse beside a dun-colored mare harnessed to a carriage. By now his face had lost its relaxed look. Glynis had seen this change in him before, distancing himself from all else to concentrate solely on the problem at hand. It required discipline of a kind that to her did not come readily. Moreover, she had observed that the mind of many a woman seemed to run on more than one track, invariably changing course to accommodate the needs of those in her path.
The misty gray drizzle continued, and Cullen, rooting around under the buggy seat, at last unearthed an umbrella. He handed it to Glynis, saying, "At least with this rain everyone we need to see will probably be indoors and accessible. Before we left last night I told them all to be here this afternoon. Let's see which ones choose to make themselves absent—other than the missing servant girl, who's looking more guilty every minute."
She couldn't necessarily agree with him yet. The young Tamar, who had been indentured without any say in the matter, and without her mother's consent, might have had other reasons for running away. That she was mute would make it difficult to get at the truth, and while there might be a number of explanations for a girl's mysterious disappearance, nearly all those that Glynis could think of were troublesome.
"I expect you want me to talk to the women?" she asked Cullen.
"Yes, but last night the manservant Clements sought you out, so maybe you should deal with him, too."
She waited while Cullen climbed from the buggy and tethered the livery horse to the hitching post beside the dun mare. As he rounded the buggy to help her down, she said to him, "I think Clements came to me because it was what Helga Brant wanted."
"Even so, if he's going to jabber on about curses and evil eyes you'll have more patience with him than I will. The main thing is to try to find inconsistencies in these people's stories ... but you know that, Glynis. If we had some idea of when Brant died it would be easier—but without an autopsy we're walking into this blindfolded." His hands caught her waist and he lifted her from the buggy.
"Back again so soon?" said Konrad Brant from the porch. "You must lead a singularly uneventful life, Constable Stuart."
"Yes, I'm back and it probably won't be the last time," Cullen said. "Is everybody in the household here?"
Konrad nodded and motioned toward the other carriage. "Not only that," he said, "but we've even got an extra body for you."
Glynis thought he sounded remarkably cheerful, and she looked for a glass in his hand. It was there, and it was full. Did this young man exert himself in any way other than self-indulgence? Glynis recalled the words of Konrad's brother Erich the day before. They had been something to the effect of Konrad's having been allowed to live there only through his father's forbearance, and now being subject to his, Erich's. It made her again wonder if Roland Brant had made a will, and if both sons had known its terms. Though Konrad had not objected when Erich seemed to say the house was now his. Still, there were too many ifs to hazard speculation.
As she and Cullen went up the steps to the porch, a voice from inside grumbled, "Oh, hell, it's that constable again." The speaker had not attempted to keep his voice down, and almost immediately Erich appeared on the other side of the open door.
Glynis couldn't have said what made her glance aside at t
hat moment. It might have been a quick movement where she expected none, or the flash of a gold belt buckle; but glance she did, in time to see Konrad pitch the contents of his glass into a clay planter. Cullen was looking toward the doorway and couldn't have seen it, because Konrad's curious deed was done so adroitly that he had only to shift a foot for it to appear that he turned to gaze out at the rain.
Erich stood aside for Glynis and Cullen to enter, saying, "Does your lady friend usually accompany you on official calls?"
When Cullen said nothing, Erich went on, "I'd appreciate it, Stuart, as would the rest of my family, if you'd make this fast. We've already suffered the inconvenience of your men and their hounds tromping over the property. And for no good reason, because that girl's been gone too long for dogs to pick up her scent."
"I was told last night that no one knew when she disappeared," Cullen said. "So how do you know how long the girl's been gone, Brant?"
While Erich scowled, Cullen waited for the implication of his question to sink in. He followed it with, "I expect Miss Tryon and I will be here as long as it takes to get the job done. The more cooperative you are, the faster it will go."
"My mother's not at all well, so I trust you'll leave her in peace," came Konrad's voice from behind Glynis. "And if I were you, Erich, I'd watch my step with this guileless appearing librarian. Word has it that she's a regular Madame Dupin. Which is undoubtedly the reason she's here."
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