Must the Maiden Die

by Miriam Grace Monfredo

  Why would empty crates be stored in a warehouse? It made no sense. Unless they were there to thwart suspicion and conceal the real purpose of the building. Meaning there was something to hide. So where was it hidden? In another warehouse entirely? She had quietly checked around, even asking Sheriff Fowler, who should know, but had heard of no other building in Roland Brant's name that was large enough.

  "Aunt Glyn, we're not getting anywhere," Bronwen groaned, casting aside the top of another empty crate.

  "I know."

  "If we're going to find something, we'd better do it fast. Before we get some so-called help. We didn't tell Serenity what we're after, so she imagines there's something really valuable in this place. Which there might be, but it won't be the jewels or gold that she likely expects. And she said if we didn't reappear in half an hour, she was going to send in her...her...what is he?"

  "Brendan O'Reilly? I'd rather not say what he is."

  "Well, I don't want him to get credit for this!"

  "Credit for what? We've been in here at least fifteen minutes and haven't seen anything that looks remotely like rifles or bayonets. I must have been wrong—"

  Glynis broke off as she noticed something odd. A pale sliver of light coming from under the windowless, far wall. From under the wall? She walked to it and bent over, holding the lantern close to the floor. When she straightened, still mystified, she then balled her hand into a fist and rapped the wall hard. It sounded hollow. So it was wood! Painted gray, she now saw, to look from a distance like the other stone walls.

  "Bronwen! Come here with the crowbar!"

  "Did you find something?"

  Glynis nodded. "I think so. There must be some means of access, though we've already checked all four corners of this place—oh, wait! I recall something members of the Underground Railroad devised: a wide slat of wood that's painted to blend with a wall, but can be lifted out to conceal runaways."

  They held up the two lanterns as they examined the wall, sliding their hands sliding slowly over its surface.

  "Here it is!" Bronwen said, setting down her lantern. She inserted the crowbar into what Glynis now saw was one of two long, vertical hairline cracks, some fifteen to twenty feet apart.

  "Watch out!" yelped Bronwen, as the large section of false wall fell toward them.

  The sheet of wood was thin; they both jumped aside before it hit the floor with a noisy clatter, but couldn't avoid the billowing cloud of dust. By the time Glynis had wiped her eyes enough to see, Bronwen was already scrambling into the previously concealed room

  "These blasted skirts!" she complained.

  Glynis heard a loud thud and a metallic rattle as something struck the floor. Hauling up her skirts, she stepped into the room with her lantern, although several windows had been exposed. It was a larger area than she would have guessed.

  Bronwen was on her knees feverishly prying open a crate, one of many that were stacked one on top of another. There must be several hundred, Glynis thought, moving closer to read what was stenciled in large black letters on the crates. Her hopes plunged.

  "Never mind, Bronwen, they're nothing but tools. The crates are labeled shovels and pickaxes and—"

  She was stopped by Bronwen's yell. Having pried off the top of the crate, she had tossed it aside, and was beaming down at its contents.

  ***

  Try as she would, Glynis could not shake off the bereft feeling she'd had at the train station after watching her family ride off down the rails. She hated good-byes. And the bleak question continued to haunt her: would all of them ever be together again?

  Bronwen had wired Rhys Bevan, and a short time ago the crates containing guns and bayonets were loaded onto a special freight car. Then Cullen and Bronwen, along with Zeph and men from the county sheriff's office, boarded an eastbound train, which would take them to the state capital. Treasury agents would meet them there in Albany.

  Cullen had been so occupied with the contraband that Glynis had been unable to tell him of her conclusions. And now he might be gone for several days. In the meantime, Liam Cleary was holding down the fort, with the newly hired Danny Ross backing him up. But Glynis strongly doubted either of those youngsters could deal with the Brant household. Thus at this point she much regretted having sent yesterday's letter. She had believed Cullen would be there to deal with its consequences.

  It was now late afternoon. Without being fully aware of it, she found herself walking from the rail station toward the refuge. Neva had earlier told her that Tamar's physical wounds were healing rapidly, but the girl seemed despondent. This hardly seemed surprising, given what she had endured. And with the only person she trusted confined to a jail cell. Glynis felt a spurt of anger toward Cullen and his stubborn attitude. He still thought Gerard might have killed Brant. Which to Glynis seemed preposterous, although she was disgusted with herself for having lacked the wherewithal to drag Cullen away from loading those rifles. Roland Brant's rifles. There seemed no end to the man's treachery.

  She heard someone call her. When she turned around, Danny Ross was running down the middle of the road.

  "Miss Tryon," he panted, "this came for you." He held out a cream-colored envelope with her name written across it.

  "Was this sent to the constable's office?" Glynis asked him.

  Danny shook his head. "It was delivered to your boardinghouse, but Mrs. Peartree just now brought it to the office, thinking maybe the constable could find you, 'cause—" he paused for breath "—'cause she, Mrs. Peartree, told Liam and me that the servant, the person who delivered the letter—" another breath "—said it was urgent you get this right away."

  After Glynis sorted out this barrage of information, she realized Harriet probably wouldn't have heard yet of the warehouse affair.

  "Thank you, Danny. I appreciate your finding me." She badly wanted to read what the envelope contained, but the boy deserved a minute. "I've heard about your new job," she said to him. "Constable Stuart says you're a good scout and I certainly agree. Perhaps now Zeph can leave his bloodhounds at home."

  He grinned at her. " 'Fraid not, cause he gave 'em to me to take care of while he's gone to Albany, and I hope he gets back quick 'cause they eat an awful lot."

  Danny turned and went running back to Fall Street. Glynis, going to stand under an elm and leaning against its trunk, tore open the envelope. She read the short note. Then read it again.

  After she tucked it into her book bag, lighter now that the crowbar had been commandeered by Cullen, she considered how she should reply to it. She thought for a minute or two, then turned to walk quickly toward Boone's Livery. There was such a thing as striking while the iron was hot. And if she waited longer, she could lose her nerve. Then there might be no end to what Roland Brant's murder, like a pebble tossed into a quiet pond, had set in motion.

  29

  To men, glory, honor, praise, and power, if they are patriots. To women, daughters of Eve, punishment still comes in some shape, do what they will.

  —Mary Boykin Chesnut, 1861 entry from A Diary from Dixie

  By the time Glynis drove her carriage up the Brant drive, it was early evening. The house appeared no less malevolent than usual, but with the summer solstice nearing, the sun was still high and she would leave long before dark. While it might have been unwise to come here alone, caution had given way to the need for haste.

  She tethered the gray mare to a hitching post and had reached the foot of the porch steps when Erich Brant came through the front doorway. He looked pale, anxious, altogether unwell. After glancing at the nailed sheriff's notice, he directed his resentment at her.

  "You're not welcome here," he informed her curtly, as if she might not have known that. "There's no reason to bother us again."

  She kept silent to see what more Erich might say, since it didn't appear that he knew about the letter. And it was unlikely he could have heard yet what the warehouse had yielded.

  He stood there looking at her with what she began to sens
e was nervousness. Finally, he said, "Just what is it you want?"

  "I was asked to come," she told him, taking the envelope from her book bag and wondering why she had relinquished the crowbar. She held the envelope toward him and said, "I'm certain you recognize the handwriting."

  "She can't be disturbed," he said immediately.

  "That's not what her note indicated. She wrote that she wanted to see me as soon as was convenient. Since it's convenient now, perhaps you will tell her that I'm here."

  Having said this, Glynis briefly questioned where she had acquired such bravado. It must be Bronwen's influence. In any event, Erich did not seem impressed. He continued to stand in the doorway like the sphinx, while Glynis searched her mind for what she might use to be allowed entrance. Then, from above her, came the rasp of a window being raised. She looked up to see Helga Brant.

  "Come in, Miss Tryon," she directed.

  Glynis noted Erich's chagrin as he moved back inside. As he had left the door ajar, she waited a short time, then went up the porch stairs and stepped into the foyer. And found herself alone. Erich must have gone upstairs to confer with his mother. But where was Clements? And Phoebe? Was Addie, at least, in the kitchen? Glynis suddenly had the disturbing thought that the servants could have been dismissed. It shouldn't come as a surprise, given the notice of attachment and its indication that the Brants' financial status had abruptly altered. It was something she should have thought of before now.

  When she had entered, she heard the notes of a harpsichord, presumably coming from the music room. The sound continued and she followed it through the parlor's flowers and greenery, finding it took effort to push aside her uneasiness. Tirzah, after all, was someone she needed to see.

  "Here again, Miss Tryon?" Tirzah struck a jarringly unpleasant chord. "Like a nosy neighbor, you just keep intruding where you're not welcome." She shifted on the music bench to face Glynis.

  "But surely you expected someone to come after taking such pains the other day to ensure it."

  "What pains were those?" Tirzah's expression was all innocence. "I'm afraid I don't follow you."

  "Oh, I think you do. You made certain I was forced to look into your mother-in-law's bedroom. In fact, you insisted upon it. Trailing, as it were, a red herring across my path."

  Glynis almost didn't catch the flicker in the dark eyes, but she had been watching for something to confirm she was right.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about!" Tirzah insisted. "Are you quite well, Miss Tryon? Perhaps the strain of having a wild imagination has clouded your reason. Either that," she went on, her face flushing, "or the labors of this morning's discov—"

  She stopped too late. So she, and presumably Erich, did know the rifles had been found.

  "I have nothing more to say to you," Tirzah stated, turning back to the keyboard.

  "You've already said enough," Glynis responded, and was rewarded with a faint twitch of Tirzah's shoulders. "Whom did you mean to protect with that diversionary tactic? Yourself? Your husband?"

  Tirzah's fingers were poised above the keys, but they didn't resume play. Instead, she turned again to Glynis, and said, "Protect from what?"

  "As you well know, from a charge of murder."

  "And just how was I supposedly doing that?"

  Tirzah was rattled and Glynis debated whether to leave it at that for now. But the woman rose from the bench and stood with hands on her hips, apparently thinking an aggressive stance might work more successfully than a disdainful one.

  "Tell me what you imagine I've done, Miss Tryon. Do you think that I killed my father-in-law?"

  "The better question might be, why do you think your husband killed him?"

  As Glynis had always supposed, highly emotional people who lacked self-discipline did not make good actors. Tirzah's face alone was proof of this. She sank back onto the bench, her eyes wide with alarm. "Does Constable Stuart believe Erich killed his father?"

  "The fact that you believe it is more important," Glynis said, listening carefully for the sound of Erich's footsteps in the parlor. "Isn't that why you relocated the Millville Rose paperweight? Moved it from your mother-in-law's bedroom into the library to shift suspicion from your husband to her?"

  "I was afraid," Tirzah said, tears threatening. "Afraid the paperweight could have been the murder weapon."

  "That was an odd thing to fear," Glynis said, "considering the knife in Roland Brant's chest. Unless you'd heard a violent argument between him and his son—and then, when his body was found in his library with a head wound the next day, you assumed your husband struck him with the paperweight. His father's Baccarat crystal paperweight. Since it had disappeared from the library by the time the body was discovered, I imagine you thought Erich had permanently disposed of it. But the knife...did you think Erich had stabbed his father after striking him? While Roland was unconscious?"

  "I don't know. And I don't know anything about the knife," Tirzah cried. The tears running down her cheeks made furrows in her face powder, and Glynis wished she didn’t feel some sympathy for the woman. But she couldn't retreat now.

  "It must have been a shock for you," Glynis said, "when I showed up with that crystal paperweight. It was you watching from an upstairs window that night, wasn't it? So while Konrad and his mother were in the parlor, and your husband was occupied on the porch with the constable and Dr. Cardoza-Levy, you took the Millville Rose paperweight from your mother-in-law's bedroom. You brought it down to the library and put it under the desk—where you knew it would eventually be found."

  "No, I did not!"

  "I think you did. When I first came into the foyer that night, I saw you, Tirzah, rushing down the hall away from Roland's library. You assumed the Millville Rose paperweight would be traced to your mother-in-law. And that would have been convenient, wouldn't it? She alone stands between you and the sale of this house—because one-third of it, by her dower rights, belongs to her. So, when the murder investigation wasn't moving quickly enough, and your mother-in-law didn't appear to be a suspect, you helped things along the other day by calling me upstairs—"

  "What the hell are you saying?" Although she had been expecting it, Erich's voice from the parlor made Glynis start. She hadn't heard footsteps, and she wondered how long he had been standing there.

  "I want an answer, Miss Tryon," he said. "Are you accusing my wife of murder?"

  Before she could answer, Helga Brant's voice came from the upstairs. Glynis started to walk through the parlor, but Erich blocked her path. "Are you saying that Tirzah killed my father?" he repeated angrily.

  "No, I didn't say that," answered Glynis. And realized, when she saw unmistakable relief cross his face, that he cared very much for this difficult woman. Which only complicated matters further.

  "If my mother didn't insist upon seeing you," Erich told her, "I would have you thrown out of this house!"

  "That reminds me," said Glynis, trying to stave off her nervousness. "Where is Clements?"

  "It's none of your business."

  Helga Brant's voice now sounded more emphatic. She must be on the stairs, Glynis thought, and apparently Erich thought the same thing because he moved aside. When Glynis passed him she could feel his intense animosity. But she had started this and would have to see it through.

  When she emerged from the parlor, Helga Brant was halfway down the steps, gripping the staircase banister. "Will you come upstairs, Miss Tryon," she said, her peremptory tone indicating it was not a question.

  Glynis nodded and followed the woman up the steps. She couldn't help but note that Mrs. Brant was considerably steadier on her feet than she had been on previous occasions. Perhaps Neva's remark about the self-professed frailty of some wives was not merely speculation. When they reached the landing, Helga Brant turned and went to her bedroom. Once inside it, she firmly closed the door behind Glynis.

  "You may sit down," directed Mrs. Brant, gesturing to a wing-back chair covered with flowered chintz.


  Glynis tried not to glance around, as the cluttered, flowery furnishings made her even more uneasy. It was by no means a restful room, but looked rather as if the occupant had purposely exaggerated the impression of a garden. It was even more evident here than in the parlor. Glynis recalled the woman's words: My husband did not like flowers. She also recalled the tightness of voice with which the words had been spoken.

  Mrs. Brant went to stand at the window, her hands quiet at her side, her profile serene. Thus Glynis was not prepared when the woman said, "I despised my husband." She turned to face Glynis. "Does that shock you, Miss Tryon?"

  Glynis strained to find an answer. Helga Brant did not seem disposed to help her, but just stood there, waiting.

  "I suppose," Glynis answered, "that it should shock me. But in the past days I have learned some facts about your husband. And now I doubt that anything you say would shock me. Assuming, that is, that you knew of these same facts."

  "Oh, I knew. I knew within days of our marriage. He immediately started spending my dowry money. Then he harassed my father for more. It was my family's money, Miss Tryon, including my inheritance, that paid for everything you see here. Paid for everything Roland owned. Even his many financial ventures, which returned little of it."

  "Were you aware of the nature of his investments?" Glynis asked.

  Helga Brant looked amused. "If by that you mean," she said dryly, "was I aware of his latest scheme of gunrunning to the South, yes. But I only discovered it a week ago. Last Sunday, Derek Jager came here, demanding his share of the payment, or so he said. He must have discovered the well had run dry. The argument that resulted was rancorous, and loud enough to be heard by anyone who cared to listen."