Must the Maiden Die

by Miriam Grace Monfredo

  Glynis did not turn and acknowledge his gibe—it could hardly have been a compliment—and so caught the frown of confusion on Erich's face and the twitch at the corner of Cullen's mouth. Konrad's comment, however, made her wonder if he knew that she'd caught his covert disposal of the bourbon.

  She followed a light, metallic tinkling and found Erich's wife, Tirzah, in a music room off the parlor. Glynis had not noticed the room the previous night. The woman was seated at a harpsichord, dressed in flounce-skirted black silk with white lace at the throat and wrists, her fingers moving expertly over the keyboard. She looked up as Glynis entered the room, and brought the baroque piece to a premature end.

  "Handel?" Glynis asked as she walked to the mahogany harpsichord, admiring the rich warm glow of its finish. She looked for sheets of music, but there were none in view.

  "Yes, Handel," Tirzah said, seeming somewhat surprised. "Are you a musician yourself, Miss Tryon, or an educated listener?"

  "A little of both," Glynis answered. "I play the flute on occasion."

  Tirzah rose from the bench on which she'd been seated, saying in a lethargic voice, "I play often, because there's little else in this house to do. But yours is not a social call, is it?" Without waiting for an answer, the woman went to a window that faced the carriage house and stable, and stood staring out.

  Glynis looked past Tirzah to see through the rain-spattered glass a stableboy on a grassy track, slowly leading a gray horse with a white wrapping round one of its forelegs. Again she felt something nudge her memory, as had happened in the buggy with Cullen, but could not bring it forth.

  "A dreary day for a dreary business," Tirzah commented, absently brushing her skirt. She looked down at it, saying, "The worst thing about a relative dying is the obligation to wear black. It's dreadfully unflattering. I suppose it would create scandal of monstrous proportions if I were to show up in red satin at my father-in-law's funeral, don't you think?" she asked, turning to Glynis with a bland expression.

  "I expect it would create some talk," she answered. She couldn't read Tirzah well enough to grasp her motive in voicing what most would consider disrespect, or at least poor taste. She could be just trying to shock, which seemed in keeping with what Glynis had observed about the woman the day before. Tirzah's provocative behavior with Konrad could have been merely a game to offset boredom, a flirtatiousness rather than the more unsavory pursuit it suggested at the time. Whichever it had been clearly offended her mother-in-law, Helga Brant. But that could have been Tirzah's intention.

  "A scandal would be a godsend!" Tirzah said. "It is utterly tedious living way out here, isolated from everything. And now being forced to wear black..."

  Glynis thought there was more to the woman than vanity. "I've heard the custom in China," she told Tirzah, "is to wear white for mourning. The red satin you would wear at your wedding."

  "What an extraordinary piece of information," Tirzah said, and Glynis heard amusement in her voice when she continued, "Do you suppose I might take up residence there—in China, that is—until this ghastly thing is over?"

  "But wouldn't you have to come back here at some point?" Glynis asked lightly to encourage comment.

  "Oh, by then it wouldn't matter, because this depressing place would have been sold—" Tirzah stopped and gave Glynis a sideways glance, as if suspecting she might have been led to say more than she should. Then she turned back to the window. "I'm sure you didn't seek me out, Miss Tryon, to talk of foreign customs. What is it you want to know?"

  Having already learned more than she had expected, Glynis merely said, "Constable Stuart is trying to account for everyone's whereabouts before your father-in-law's body was found."

  "Do we know when he died?" Tirzah responded with the satisfied smile of having played a trump card.

  "No, we don't."

  "Well then, all I can tell you is that I retired early Sunday night," Tirzah said, walking back to the music bench and seating herself. "In fact, I recall that it was barely dark when I went upstairs. My husband joined me shortly afterwards " Her fingers moved to the keys, and with her back to Glynis she said in obvious dismissal, "Is that all, Miss Tryon?"

  "Yes, thank you. But it may be that the constable will want to speak with you further himself, " she added.

  Several jarring chords followed her into the parlor and on through to the corridor.

  As she turned toward the kitchen, which she guessed was at the rear of the house, Glynis saw Clements. He had just opened the door of a dumbwaiter between the dining room and Roland Brant's library, and was placing on it a tray. The smells of tea and chicken broth made her guess the tray was for Helga Brant, since Konrad had said she was unwell. Glynis waited until Clements raised the contrivance by pulley, closed the door, and went back down the hall, all the while studiously ignoring her.

  When approaching Roland Brant's library, she heard muffled voices coming from the room. Assuming one of them was Cullen's, she paused in front of the closed door.

  "So where the hell are they?" The voice was unfamiliar. "I must have those names!"

  The harsh reply sounded like Erich's. "Why didn't you get them from Father when you were here last Sunday—you argued with him long enough! And how should I know where they are? They might even be at the warehouse. But it wasn't my practice to pry in my father's desk, and I suggest it shouldn't be yours either, Jager!"

  Jager? Did Erich say Jager? Glynis was so stunned, she didn't move fast enough when the door handle clicked. It was too late to rush away, lest she look like the eavesdropper she was. Thus, as the door swung open, she stood her ground.

  When Erich saw her, his expression underwent several changes, finally settling into the one which seemed to reflect his most consistent emotion: anger. Before that, though, Glynis thought she had glimpsed apprehension. Had he forgotten there were strangers in the house? But then, anger could often override caution. She reminded herself not to underestimate Erich.

  "You appear to spend a great deal of time standing in this hallway, Miss Tryon," he said. "Is the time well spent?"

  "It will be," Glynis replied, "if you can direct me to the kitchen."

  Erich remained in the doorway, blocking her view into the library. As he gestured down the hall to his right there was a noisy rustle of papers behind him. He started to turn, but stopped himself, saying to Glynis, "Did you want something else?"

  She tried to think how she could confirm the man behind Erich was Elise Jager's husband and the girl Tamar's father. Erich obviously had no intention of introducing him. She knew if it were Bronwen standing there, she would just ask, not in the least concerned with how it might be received.

  Glynis swallowed to ease a throat gone dry, and hoped her voice would carry when she said rather loudly, "Mr. Brant, is that gentleman behind you the missing girl's father? Tamar Jager's father, that is?"

  In the study the rustle of papers ceased as Erich glowered at Glynis.

  "She's missing?" This from the fair-haired man who suddenly appeared behind Erich. "What does she mean, the girl is missing?"

  So he didn't know. What kind of father, Glynis questioned, would not bother to ask after his daughter when he first arrived. Would call her "the girl" instead of by name. The answer, needless to say, was a father who would sell his daughter into servitude.

  Erich, with the clear intention of closing the door in her face, stepped back inside the room, but the other man put out his hand to hold it open. "Who is this?" he demanded of Erich pointing at Glynis. "And what's she talking about?

  "My name is Glynis Tryon, Mr. Jager," she said, by now too angry to worry about her voice carrying or not. "I must assume you didn't know your daughter is unaccounted for?"

  "That is none of your affair, Miss Tryon," Erich said, but in his tone Glynis thought she detected a trace of nervousness.

  It was with relief that she heard the heavy tread of boots descending the stairs.

  "Sorry, Brant," said Cullen, coming up behind Glynis, "bu
t nothing that goes on in this house is private anymore. Think I told you that last night. Now, why don't we all go in there," he motioned to the library, "and talk this over."

  He took Glynis's elbow and propelled her through the doorway, forcing the other two men to step back. Despite the desk lamp, light in the library was dim. The surface of the desk still held scattered papers, but obviously they had been shuffled through, because there were some on the carpet and on the seat of the straightened chair. The safe stood open.

  Cullen closed the hall door. "All right," he said to the fair-haired man. "Let's have an answer to the first question. Are you Tamar Jager's father?"

  The man, sturdily built and probably in his early forties, retorted, "Who the hell are you?"

  "Constable Cullen Stuart. Now answer me."

  "I'm Derek Jager."

  "Tamar's father?"

  "Yes."

  "And what brings you here, Mr. Jager? If you didn't know your daughter was missing, you couldn't have come about that."

  Glynis watched Derek Jager, thinking not for the first time how quietly intimidating Cullen could be when he chose. His voice wasn't raised, but Jager had begun to look less arrogant.

  "I'm Roland Brant's business associate," Jager said. "Or I was."

  "Why are you here?" Cullen repeated. "And while we're at it, where are you from?"

  "From east of here—"

  " 'East of here,'" Cullen interrupted, "doesn't do it, Jager. Again, where are you from?"

  "The Syracuse area. I didn't hear about Roland's death until I saw it in the newspaper."

  "The Syracuse paper?"

  "Yes."

  "And you came here to...?"

  "To express my condolences to the family, naturally," Jager said, a flush rising from his rather short neck.

  Cullen turned to Erich, who was looking at Jager intently. "That sound right to you, Brant?"

  It seemed to Glynis that Erich hesitated slightly before answering. "As he said, Stuart, he was a business associate of my father's."

  "Does that explain why Jager is here in your father's library uninvited—as your man Clements just told me?" Cullen said.

  Erich, with a sharp glance at Glynis, said, "We were looking for some paperwork that Derek needs."

  "What kind of paperwork?" Cullen asked.

  Derek Jager broke in with, "I can't see as that's any of your business, Stuart."

  "Maybe not," Cullen said, "but we'll leave it for now." He turned to Glynis.

  "Mr. Jager," she asked, "do you have any idea where your daughter might have gone?"

  "How would I know that? And what's it got to do with all these questions?"

  "Aside from the danger she might be in, Jager," said Cullen, not bothering to hide his disgust, "she's suspected of killing Roland Brant."

  'That's ridiculous. Why would she do that?"

  "Good question," agreed Cullen. "Why would she do that?"

  "I have no idea."

  Cullen again turned to Glynis. "Anything else you want to ask?"

  She sensed he wanted her to leave, most likely because he thought things would grow more unpleasant as he made these two men go over the same ground again. Although she couldn't imagine how much worse it could become than listening to Derek Jager speak of his daughter as if she were some stranger about whom he had less than a passing interest.

  "I do want to know," she said, watching Jager and Erich Brant closely, "how long Tamar has been mute?"

  "What are you talking about?" Jager said, then looked at Erich. "The girl's not mute."

  Erich's expression seemed guarded when he answered, "It's true, Derek. She doesn't talk. Hasn't for some time now."

  "That's crazy!" Jager retorted. "She can talk perfectly well."

  "When was the last time you saw her?" Glynis asked.

  "It must have been ... maybe a few months ago."

  Glynis knew by the look on Erich's face that Jager was either lying, or hadn't seen his daughter for so long that he couldn't even recall when last it was.

  She gave Cullen a brief nod that meant he should follow her out into the hall, then turned and left the room, her dislike of Derek Jager so bitter she could taste it.

  "Cullen," she whispered after he'd pulled the door closed, "I only overheard a few sentences, but apparently Derek Jager was caught by Erich looking through his father's desk. And Jager, according to Erich, had been here last Sunday."

  Cullen's eyebrows lifted. "That so? I'll ask him about it. But if Roland Brant and Jager were business associates, it might have no connection to Brant's murder."

  "I was on my way down the hall when I heard them in the library," Glynis told him. "Since Tamar was a kitchen maid here, the cook very possibly knows more about her than anyone else."

  Cullen nodded and turned to open the library door. He paused, however, to say quietly, "You shouldn't have been here alone with those men, Glynis. Don't let yourself get cornered—remember, somebody in this house could be a killer."

  "I could scarcely forget it."

  As Cullen returned to the library, Glynis heard a sound like someone choking. It seemed to come from the front of the house. She backtracked down the hallway to find a servant in the parlor; the Phoebe with whom she had collided the previous night. The woman held a feather duster in one hand, while the other hand rooted in her apron pocket. As she was pulling out a rumpled handkerchief, she glanced up and saw Glynis.

  "Oh, it's you," she said, sullenly. She applied the handkerchief with zeal to her red-rimmed eyes and then blew her nose vigorously.

  Her age was difficult to determine, but Glynis guessed it might be around thirty. The woman's dull brown hair was skinned back into a tight bun, which accentuated her sharp features, and the blotches on her face indicated she had been crying for some time. Glynis, despite the sulky greeting she received, felt some sympathy for the woman. She appeared to be the only one in the household expressing grief at Roland Brant's passing.

  "Phoebe, I'm sorry about the awkward incident last evening," Glynis began. "It certainly was not your fault, but my own clumsiness"

  "Yes, it was your fault," said Phoebe, more emphatically than Glynis thought called for. "But everybody always blames us servants."

  How on earth did one respond to that? wondered Glynis unhappily, since in this house it might be true. "I do apologize, Phoebe."

  The woman shrugged, blew her nose again, and after stuffing the handkerchief back in her pocket, began flourishing the duster. Her first target was bric-a-brac on a small round table covered with a damask cloth patterned with blue morning glories. Her cleaning efforts left something to be desired, since dust particles flew into the air only to settle again in approximately the same place. If Phoebe noticed, she ignored it.

  Glynis cleared her throat—probably coated with dust motes—and said, "I wonder if I might ask you some questions?"

  The feather duster paused in mid-flight, and Phoebe eyed Glynis with distrust. "What right you got to do that?"

  "Ah, well. . . Constable Stuart has asked me to assist him."

  "Why can't he ask me hisself?"

  Because by now, Glynis did not say, he would have shaken you until your teeth rattled. "He has a number of other people to see," she explained.

  "People more important than me," Phoebe pronounced. "Well, for your information, I know more things than I'll tell you."

  Glynis decided she couldn't decipher this, and plunged ahead hoping for clarity. "What things won't you tell?"

  Phoebe looked confused. After a slight pause, she said, "I know more than you think I know."

  "I'm sure that's true," Glynis agreed wholeheartedly. Perhaps her tactics needed revision and the direct approach might work best. "Phoebe, where were you on Sunday evening— the night before last, that is."

  "I was in bed."

  A clear, concise answer. "What time did you go to bed that night?"

  "Same time I go every night."

  "And that is?" If the woman said b
edtime, Glynis vowed she would leave her to Cullen's tender mercies.

  "Nine o'clock," said Phoebe

  Emboldened, Glynis asked, "Did you hear anything unusual during the night?"

  The feather duster, which had been winging over the frosted globe of a lamp, stopped again, while Phoebe stared at her in unmistakable disgust. "How could I hear anything if I was asleep?"

  "Ah, an excellent point," Glynis conceded, now determined to see this through, although she would exact from Cullen a fitting reward.

  "Phoebe, I can't help but notice that you seem to have a great many responsibilities in this house," Glynis commented, and watched Phoebe's feather duster hover momentarily while she preened. "Tell me," Glynis went on, praying she was finally on the right track, "do you also clean the upstairs bedrooms?"

  "Course I do. Who else?"

  "Oh, no one else I'm sure would be as capable as you. And those rooms would include, I suppose, the demanding task of taking care of Mr. and Mrs. Roland Brant's room?"

  "Ha! Wish it was only one room! They got separate bedrooms—connected by a door. Some folks do, you know," said Phoebe, unaccountably edging closer to Glynis.

  Glynis nodded, sagely she trusted, and smiled as if she were well-acquainted with this arrangement. But "Yes, indeed," was all she dared say, lest she interrupt the fruitful intimacy with Phoebe that suddenly seemed to have been established.

  Phoebe took the bait, whispering, "It's 'cause the missus, she don't want to be fussed with, if you catch my meaning?"

  "I catch it precisely," answered Glynis. "And since you're so familiar with the family's habits, did Mr. Brant's bed require making up yesterday?"

  "Come again?"

  "Did his bed look as if it had been slept in Sunday night?"

  Glynis saw instantly that she had erred, as Phoebe whipped the handkerchief from her pocket, shaking her head furiously.

  "The poor man," Phoebe began to wail. But not before she choked out, "Didn't even get a decent rest 'fore he died."

  This stopped Glynis cold. But then, wondering if she could snatch another minuscule victory from the jaws of near-defeat, she recalled something that Clements had said to her. Could this woman conceivably have been its source?