Gerard took her hands from her throat and held them in his, saying, "Don't be afraid. It's all right." He reached out and stroked her hair as he had stroked the head of the dog. He kept saying it was all right, but how could it be? The man Brant was dead.
"It's damp out here," Gerard said at last, "and you're shivering. We'll go inside and I'll make a fire in the wood-stove. Then I'll tell you about Roland Brant."
He pulled her to her feet and led her toward the cabin. The dog bounded ahead of them, still happy, still trusting the man.
It seemed strange to her that once inside the cabin she had felt safer. And she was warm again. Gerard had wrapped a blanket around her and fired the woodstove, and they sat on a wooden bench in front of it. He had handed her the newspaper, then lit an oil lamp so that she could see to read.
Now, as she gave the paper back to him, she was afraid again. She must have shown it, because he took the paper away and said, "I don't think you killed Brant, Tamar. If only because you looked so stricken when I told you. But something happened to make you run away. That's what you were doing, wasn't it, when I found you last night? Running away?"
She didn't know, and when she tried to remember, all that came to her was the darkness and the knife. The newspaper said that Roland Brant had been stabbed. Did she only dream his death—or had she actually stabbed him? She put her hand to her throat, wishing she could describe these questions to Gerard. She tried to tell him with her eyes, but she knew that he couldn't understand.
"There were hoof prints on the earth when I found you, near where you were lying," he was saying. "Were you on a horse?"
She nodded. She had been on a horse, but couldn't remember why. She gazed down at her hands, afraid that the blood might appear again, then looked up at Gerard.
He got to his feet and went to take down the guitar she had earlier seen hanging on the wall. She had heard a guitar played before, and it had seemed like magic—the music that suddenly came from strings that had been silent until someone's fingers made them sing.
Gerard played the guitar with the dog Keeper lying at his feet. The music was soft and it made her feel quiet inside, as if she were asleep but could still hear it. And she tried not to think about remembering.
She didn't want him to stop playing, but he stood the guitar against the bench, and then he asked her, "Do you feel safer now?"
She nodded.
"Good," he said, going to stand in front of the stove, "because I want to tell you a story."
Her eyes went to the books on the shelves, but he said, "No, this is a real life story. About a man who worked hard all his life. The man had a wife and a son, and he took care of them—by making the things that make music."
Gerard smiled then, but she thought his eyes looked sad.
"The man built string instruments," he went on. "He made that guitar I just played. And he built banjos and dulcimers and even harpsichords. Do you know what they are?"
She knew. There was a harpsichord in the music room of—but she didn't want to think about the house. She nodded so Gerard would tell her more.
"This man had a factory where he made the instruments. It stood down along the canal in Seneca Falls. One day, about six months ago, this man discovered the mortgage loan he had obtained from the bank—a loan to build the factory—had been sold by the bank to another man. And this second man wanted the factory for himself. He told the first man to pay him the money that was due, or he would take possession of the building. The man who made instruments didn't have enough money to do that. He'd fallen a month behind in the payments because his wife was sick, and he had needed the money to pay for her treatment and medicine. He told the other man about this, but the man said, 'That's just too damn bad!'"
The girl was watching Gerard, and she saw his eyes begin to glisten. She had never seen a man close to tears, and it made her own eyes fill. She thought she knew who the first man was, since Gerard had his guitar. He must have seen that she knew, because he came and sat down beside her on the bench.
"So my father lost his factory," he said, "and then he couldn't work. And my mother, without money for medicine, died shortly after that. I wasn't here. I had a scholarship to a university in Ohio and I was there. I didn't know anything until a telegram came, telling me that both my parents were dead. On the night my mother died, my father shot himself."
Tamar felt tears washing down her face. She wished she could say something to Gerard, but all she could do was put her hand beside his on the bench. He picked up her hand and held it, and even though her heart was hurting for him, she felt like the bird lifting into the sky.
Gerard put down her hand when he got to his feet and went to stand by the stove. "I didn't go back to the university," he said, and now his voice sounded more angry than sad. "I live out here, alone, because I've been afraid that otherwise I might kill someone before I was ready to do it—the man who took my father's factory and his life. Do you know who that man was, Tamar?"
She felt herself go cold with fear.
Gerard's voice was tight and his eyes fierce again when he said, "It was Roland Brant."
15
He impaired his vision by holding the object too close [said Dupin]. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound.
—Edgar Allan Poe, "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." 1841
Glynis perched on the edge of her four-poster bed, once more reading the note which had been left on her night table. What was she to tell her sister Gwen? That question disturbed her almost as much as the note's contents. She had already been sufficiently disturbed that day by the various disclosures at the Brant house.
It had been early evening when she had finally returned to her boardinghouse, uncomfortably warm in the humidity left by the earlier showers and drained of energy. She had no sooner walked through the front door when Harriet Peartree, perspiring in her jean-cloth gardening outfit, had come hustling down the hall to say, "Your redhead has left, Glynis. Gone. Flown the coop, so to speak."
"Bronwen? Whatever do you mean?"
"She came rushing in saying she needed notepaper. That she didn't have time to explain, but would leave you a message—I imagine it's up in your room. Then about five minutes later she left with that little valise of hers."
By this time Glynis had started for the stairs, but paused with her hand on the banister's newel post to ask, "Do you remember what time that was?"
"Probably an hour or two after midday." Harriet turned toward the kitchen, saying, "Just came inside to warn you. I'm working in the back garden if you want me."
Glynis hurried up the stairs, thinking that this mysterious flurry of activity must have come shortly after she'd seen her niece burst from the telegraph office and dash across the street to Carr's Hotel. But what reckless course could Bronwen be pursuing now?
As soon as she stepped into her room, she saw the note propped against her clock. Since she thought that, Bronwen being Bronwen, it would be prudent to sit down before reading it, she went to her wing chair beside the window and unfolded the notepaper.
Dear Aunt Glyn,
I hope you won't be too upset about this, but I have to leave town. Temporarily. Professor Lowe and I found out that Rochester would be the best place to inflate and launch the balloon, so we're catching the next train out with it—no small amount of baggage even when it's deflated!
I'm sorry I've had to be secretive, but there are things I can't talk about. And you're so good at solving puzzles I hardly dared say anything, for fear you'd figure out what was going on before—well, before it actually happened.
I'll explain it all when I see you at the wedding. If there is one. And please, DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME!
Love, B
Glynis sighed; when it came to Bronwen, saying don't worry was like saying don't breathe. Why on earth did her niece think she had to accompany Professor L
owe and the balloon to Rochester? Lowe had seemed quite a reasonable man, but Glynis now realized she had misjudged him. Which was inexcusable on her part, because, after all, how reasonable could a man be who insisted on flying? How could she have been so blind?
Nonetheless, it seemed that Thaddeus Lowe and Bronwen, an incautious duo if ever there was one, were embarked on what she had described as "things I just can't talk about." How reassuring!
Just as disturbing was Glynis's conviction, based on the phrasing of the note, that Bronwen's Treasury job must be the explanation for her shady behavior. Glynis should have credited this before now, but she had discarded as outlandish the idea that the wedding of Bronwen's cousin and the business of the U.S. Treasury Department could somehow coincide. What possible interest could Treasury have in western New York? And how did Professor Lowe fit into the picture?
But there was nothing she could do about any of it. Nothing except serve as the object of her sister's wrath when Gwen arrived in Seneca Falls to hear that her daughter had once again evaded restraint.
Glynis pulled off her dress and crinoline, then unpinned and brushed out her hair, before slipping into her flowing, green silk undress; another of Emma's lovely creations. She padded barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen, just as Harriet was coming in from the garden, ruddy skin laved with moisture, and silvery hair plastered to her face and neck.
"It's hot as midsummer out there," she panted. "Flowers are exploding with the heat. I've never seen tulips and dogwood and poppies and lilacs blooming at the same time. The peonies are ready to bloom, and so is the mock orange. And here, just a few weeks ago, I thought we had entered an ice age."
"It has been peculiar weather," Glynis agreed.
Harriet nodded. "Well, I'm stiff as a board from working out there, so it's a cool shower for me, then I'm off to bed. And thank heavens for Dictras Fyfe!"
The non sequitur startled Glynis until she realized that Harriet referred to her former boarder, Mr. Fyfe—now living with his daughter's family in Syracuse and close to eighty years of age—who had built a wooden shower stall behind the kitchen. Its tank being attached to the cistern on the roof, the recent rain would have filled it.
"You look fairly wilted yourself," Harriet said, over her shoulder. "I'll save some water for you."
"Thank you, Harriet. I thought I'd use the shower after I eat something. I'm nearly faint with hunger."
"Cold chicken and potato salad are in the icebox."
***
Glynis, showered and again in her silk robe, sat in the kitchen waiting for water to boil for tea. Harriet had long since gone to bed and the house was quiet, with only a creak now and then from beams contracting as the heat of the day lessened, although the air was still unseasonably warm for the end of May. Almost as if the frigid spring had overnight melted directly into summer. Meaning that for another four days, Vanessa Usher, by sheer willpower alone, would have to hold in abeyance the opening blossoms on her new flowering trees. Which Glynis had no doubt that Vanessa could do.
The question remained, however, if in another four days would there even be a wedding? Glynis had stopped at the dress shop on her way home, and had only had to glimpse Emma's forlorn face to know things had not been set to rights.
"Adam keeps going on about some law!" Emma had told her. "Chapter 90, he claims, is the answer to my concerns. Just what I need to reassure me—some legal mumbo jumbo that I won't even be able to understand without a lawyer to translate it. Which, under the circumstances, seems a little like sending a fox to guard the henhouse!"
"But you believe Adam will be truthful when he answers your questions, don't you?"
"Oh, yes!" had come Emma's response, quick and unequivocal. "That is, if I know what questions to ask."
It did seem ironic that a law written by male legislators, to be interpreted by male lawyers, was being touted as the answer to a maiden's prayers, Glynis thought now. Still waiting for the water to boil, she sat looking out at Harriet's garden. The pink dogwood, the purple lilacs, and the opening poppies made bright splashes of color against the twilit sky. It made her think of the Brant house grounds and their absence of any blooms.
That afternoon she had told Cullen about the dapple gray horse and rider she had seen heading north. They had immediately gone to talk to the stableboy.
At Cullen's questions, the stocky, freckle-faced boy had fidgeted and said, "The horse, he come back late last night. No, sir, I didn't see he was gone until I was muckin' out the stable yesterday. Then, when I tells Mr. Brant—yeah, Mr. Erich Brant—he got powerful angry about the horse bein' taken. But it was gettin' dark, so's there was nothin' to be done for it 'til morning. And, like I said, the horse found his way home by hisself."
"And he was injured when he came back?" Glynis had asked, pointing at the wrapping around the gray's foreleg.
"Yes, ma'am. First I thought he'd tore somethin', but he's better now, so I guess it ain't too bad."
"Was he saddled when he got back here?" asked Cullen.
"No. But the girl could ride bareback 'cause I seen her do it."
"Why do you say the girl?" Glynis asked him. "Do you know she's the one who took the horse?"
The boy pushed a lank piece of hair out of his eyes. "Who else would 'a done it? She's gone—nobody else is," he added somewhat defensively.
"Yes, of course," Glynis said quickly. "I just wanted to make certain. But tell me, did the girl ride often?"
"Not no more," the boy said. "Not after Mr. Brant, he ..." His voice trailed off and he shifted his feet as if his boots were too tight.
"Which Mr. Brant? And after he did what?" Glynis prodded.
The boy looked toward the house. "I don't reckon I should say—"
"Yes, you should say," Cullen interrupted. "Now answer Miss Tryon."
"It was Mr. Roland Brant—him that's dead now," the boy said, looking uneasy.
"How long have you worked here?" asked Glynis.
"A couple years."
"So you were here when the girl first came to Brants'?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I see. Now, what did you mean about the girl not riding anymore?"
Before he answered, the boy again glanced toward the house. "Well, one day," he said, "after the girl been ridin' one of the old mares, when she come back, Mr. Brant he run out of the house with his shotgun. Said he saw the horse was limpin'—"
The boy stopped, and Glynis saw he was hesitant to speak, perhaps even fearful. He shook his head at Cullen, and began to back away. "Mr. Constable, sir," he said, "I gotta go to the stable."
"You're not going anywhere, son, until we finish this," Cullen said.
Glynis turned to him and murmured under her breath, "Perhaps it would be better if you left us alone for a few minutes." She added, "I think he's scared."
Cullen, his expression thoughtful, eyed the boy briefly. Then he shrugged and strode off toward the house.
"Why don't we walk to the stable," Glynis said to the boy, "while you tell me what happened that day? And your employers," she added, "don't need to know that you've talked to me."
She started in the direction of the stable, and after a moment of apparent indecision, the boy fell into step beside her.
"You were telling us," she said, "that Mr. Brant came out of the house with his shotgun. He said the horse was limping?"
The boy glanced over his shoulder uneasily, then nodded. "But I didn't see that mare limp," he said. "And the girl said she didn't neither—"
"Excuse me," interrupted Glynis. "The girl actually said the horse wasn't limping?"
"Yeah, she did."
"So at that time she could talk?"
The boy stopped walking and stared off for a moment. Then he turned to Glynis and, in a surprised tone as if just realized it, said, "Yeah, she could talk then."
"All right, I'm sorry to have interrupted you. Please go on."
"You won't tell no one?"
"I won't tell anyone in the B
rant family about this," she answered.
The boy gave her a searching look, and must have been satisfied, because he started walking again and said, "Like I told you, that mare was sound, far as I could tell. But Mr. Brant, he said he got to shoot the horse 'cause it was lame. The girl starts cryin', and beggin' him not to, and then she throws herself against the mare. Mr. Brant he tells her to stop talkin' and get outta the way. I can see he means it, so I pulled the girl away. And then he shot that old mare."
Glynis drew in her breath, but could say nothing, and she kept walking. By the time they had reached the stable, she was able to ask the boy, "What did the girl do, after the mare was shot?"
The boy answered slowly, "It was like she went crazy or somethin'. Screamin' and cryin' like you can't b'lieve. Mr. Brant, he said she was...was...I dunno what he said, but he slapped her real hard. And he says to her..."
The boy's voice broke off.
"Yes? Can you remember what he said?" Glynis pressed, noticing the boy's face had gone white.
"He says to her, 'See what happens when you talk?' And I think he said, 'Don't you ever talk again.' Or somethin' like that."
"Can you remember," Glynis had said to him, "if that's when the girl Tamar stopped speaking?"
The boy had looked distressed when he'd said, "Yeah, it just now come to me. She didn't talk no more after that. Never talked again."
Glynis, her memory of the afternoon's conversation still fresh enough to be distressing, now heard the kettle whistling, and she went to the stove. While waiting for the chamomile tea to steep, she recalled what she had said to Cullen on the drive back to town.
"It's like peeling away the layers of an onion," she had told him, "and discovering the onion is not as wholesome as it first appeared. There clearly are aspects of Roland Brant that most people never saw. Other than his family and household staff."
"Better not put too much faith in what the staff says," Cullen had told her. "Brant could be tough when it came to business. It probably carried over to his staff."
Must the Maiden Die Page 16