Must the Maiden Die

by Miriam Grace Monfredo

  "That was in the afternoon?" Glynis asked.

  "Yes. However, the reason I requested that you come here, Miss Tryon, was in response to your letter. You wrote that you had certain questions to ask of me. You are an intelligent woman and I think you've come to some conclusions about my husband's death—servants do talk, as I know you've learned. I also believe you have compassion, and might understand better than Constable Stuart what I'm about to tell you."

  Helga Brant walked with only the trace of a limp to her writing desk. She lifted the heavy glass dome of the Millville Rose, her hand dipping slightly with its weight, and drew from beneath it a piece of cream-colored vellum. When she returned to stand by the window, a faint tremor in the blue-veined hands made the paper quiver.

  "I'm afraid," she began, "there is no agreeable way to phrase this. Perhaps it is best if I simply apprise you, Miss Tryon, that this"—she held up the paper—"is a written confession. I am the one who killed Roland."

  Whatever Glynis had been expecting, it was not that, and she gripped the arms of the chair in astonishment. She had known there was no positive proof. That almost everything would have to turn on circumstantial evidence. But she had never considered that Helga Brant would confess to murder. As she tried to recover her wits, she began to wonder at the woman's purpose.

  "You look surprised, Miss Tryon."

  "I am surprised. And I don't know what to say. Forgive me, but would you mind if I asked a few questions?"

  "Not at all. In fact, please do. I know Constable Stuart has left town, and that was a deciding factor."

  "A deciding factor?" Glynis repeated.

  "I hoped I might prevail upon you to give me some time before you notify him. I have several things to which I must attend."

  "I doubt if I can do that, Mrs. Brant. What amount of time are you asking for?"

  "Until tomorrow morning should be sufficient. I will not leave this house, and on that I give you my word of honor, Miss Tryon—if you believe that murderers can have honor. I am hardly a danger to anyone "

  "Mrs. Brant, if you would answer a question or two?" Glynis said again.

  "Yes, certainly."

  "Well, for one thing, until right now I didn't believe your husband died in his library."

  Ever since she had heard Tamar's account of that night, Glynis believed that Roland Brant had been killed here in this bedroom. Because it was directly over Tamar's room. And since she couldn't imagine Helga Brant transporting his body to the downstairs library, she had excluded the woman from suspicion. Obviously, she had been wrong. Brant must have died in his library.

  She became aware that Helga Brant was watching her, again with an amused look. The woman now moved from the window to seat herself in another wing chair, saying, "You were correct, Miss Tryon. Roland died in this room. His bedroom adjoins this one—through that door over there—as I'm sure you have learned."

  Glynis stared at the woman. "Was he stabbed in this room?"

  "Yes."

  Glynis looked down at the floral-patterned Brussels carpet underfoot. In places, it was a trifle worn, as she had noticed when Tirzah had encouraged her to look, but there were no spots that looked as if the carpet had been recently cleaned.

  "Then I'm afraid I don't understand," she said. "For one thing, there must have been blood. Unless he was already dead when stabbed. Which I came to believe was actually the case."

  Mrs. Brant frowned slightly, but added nothing.

  "Was the Millville Rose paperweight the real weapon then?" Glynis asked, trying unsuccessfully to avoid looking at it. "The paperweight that Tirzah correctly identified, but in the wrong person's hands?"

  "Yes, it was. I struck him in the head with it, and he fell. Quite heavily. You look somewhat doubtful, Miss Tryon. I am much stronger than I appear, I can assure you."

  So that would have been the noise that Tamar had described. The thump she had heard from her room below this one.

  "But why?" Glynis asked. "I understand there was an argument, but still—"

  "Oh, yes, there was an argument," Mrs. Brant interrupted. "I had learned, as I told you, that Roland had added to his other perfidies by smuggling arms to the South. That his guns could be used to kill men fighting for the Union cause, in which I believe. I have known my own particular variety of slavery, you see, and I am sympathetic to the arguments of the abolitionists. Konrad is now on his way to the South, Miss Tryon, as he had intended before Roland's death, and there was the possibility that one of those smuggled guns might be used against my own son. It was, simply, intolerable!"

  Glynis nodded. The rage Brant's gunrunning would produce was understandable. And she could believe it was a motive to spark murder, fueled by years of betrayals and ill treatment. But there were other things that she had more difficulty understanding.

  "Mrs. Brant, forgive me for asking this, but I must. Did you know what was being done to Tamar Jager?"

  For the first time, the other woman displayed emotion, and it was unmistakably that of shame. Her eyes, which had been trained levelly on Glynis, dropped, and then her gaze went to the window.

  "Yes," she answered in a voice no more than a whisper, "yes, I knew. And I did nothing. Tamar Jager wasn't the only young girl. The first one I managed to free—I sent that girl away. When Roland discovered what I had done...well, I would rather not go into the consequences that I suffered. And so I was afraid to do it again when I learned about Tamar. It was cowardly of me, reprehensible, and I am greatly ashamed."

  Glynis sighed, as the extent of Roland Brant's evil became ever more staggering. But there were still other questions.

  "Mrs. Brant, if I can go back to the night of his death. Why did you stab him? If he was already dead from the blow you struck?"

  "I wasn't confident he was dead. I needed to be certain. I had planned to kill him for some time, Miss Tryon. I was merely waiting for my anger to give me courage. I imagine a prosecutor will call it premeditated murder, and indeed, I admit that it was."

  Glynis straightened in the chair. "Mrs. Brant, again forgive me, but I am finding this difficult to accept. Your husband's body was found in his library. And while I appreciate that rage can generate unusual strength, I simply cannot see how you managed to move his body down those stairs. Those steep stairs. But for that fact, I would have considered you a likely person to have been your husband's ..." She stopped, and then said, "His executioner."

  "As I told you, I am stronger than I appear. No, don't shake your head, Miss Tryon, it is true. It is also true that I had some assistance."

  "Assistance?"

  "Surely it has not escaped your notice," said Helga Brant, "that there is a door right beside the door to this bedroom. And another door directly below it—beside the door to Roland's library."

  Glynis slumped back into the chair, stunned beyond words. Of course she had seen the doors. But she had not made the connection. The dumbwaiter.

  It must have been her expression that nearly brought a smile from Helga Brant, since she was not a murderer who would enjoy the cleverness of the crime.

  The woman said, "I dragged Roland's body to the dumbwaiter—he was rather a short man, if you recall—and lowered it quite easily to the first floor. Where I dragged it into the library."

  "What time was that?"

  "I believe it was an hour or two after midnight. Roland had been drinking heavily, more so than usual after Derek Jager left—and I knew what that drinking might mean. When I heard the door to the library open, and then heard nothing more, I feared he had gone to the girl's room. That was when I made the decision to act. I called him back upstairs."

  "Was no one else in the house awakened?"

  "It is a large house, and the other bedrooms on this floor are at the far end of the corridor. A great many things happening in this room have gone unheard."

  "You created the disarray in the library? And removed the Baccarat crystal paperweight I found on the drive?"

  "Yes, I took the pape
rweight out there. Riffled and also removed several documents from the safe. And opened the library's glass door to the outside. Those were simply melodramatic and cowardly attempts to shift the blame to an outsider. I thought I just might get away with it, Miss Tryon."

  "But you almost did. And, frankly, it puzzles me that you're now confessing. Why?"

  Helga Brant sat forward in the chair. "Because I am not the monster my husband was. I cannot permit that girl, or Gerard Gagnon either, to be accused of a crime I committed. I've already harmed Tamar enough by my silence. And I agree with young Gagnon that Roland all but killed his father."

  There followed a silence that Glynis did not feel strong enough to breach. Finally, she asked, "Did you know that your daughter-in-law attempted to point the finger of blame at you?"

  "By taking my Millville Rose paperweight to the library?" Mrs. Brant said. "Oh, naturally, I knew. Tirzah is an unhappy and unstable woman. She wants to leave this house, and this town, but if I should refuse to waive my dower rights, the house could not be sold. And Erich would likely insist upon staying here."

  Glynis nodded, and then asked, "How much did Erich know about his father's financial difficulties?"

  "Very little, I imagine. Roland didn't give either of his sons much credit for shrewdness, or venality, and would not involve them in his business schemes. I don't believe that Erich or Konrad realized the extent to which Roland was prepared to injure not only his family but his country."

  Glynis sat trying to absorb all of this, and yet much of it she had suspected for several days. "I have one or two last questions," she said. "How much, in regard to his father's death, did Erich suspect?"

  Helga Brant abruptly shifted in the chair, as if made uneasy by the question. "I don't really know," she answered. "Since I've confessed, I would assume he can't be charged with anything, if that is what you are asking."

  But Glynis thought that Erich had suspected his mother, or possibly his wife; had tried to block the autopsy, because he feared what it might reveal. What, in fact, it had revealed.

  "Mrs. Brant, why have you told me all of this? Why not just send your confession to Constable Stuart?"

  "I knew there would be questions I could not anticipate—and you have certainly proven me correct! And I was afraid that something—or someone—might prevent a written confession from reaching the constable. Do those explanations seem irrational? Well, perhaps they are, and I admit I have not been myself recently. Guilt does exact a toll."

  Glynis shook her head. "I don't think they, or you, seem irrational."

  "Then, if you have finished your questions," Helga Brant said, "may I again ask the favor? That you not contact the authorities until the morning?"

  "You're placing me in a difficult position, Mrs. Brant. While I may sympathize with the motives for killing your husband, I can't knowingly disregard the law. I grant you that our laws can be absolutely perverse—the issue of slavery is obvious—but women especially need law. Otherwise, we'll be faced, as we have been for centuries, with the principle of 'might makes right.' Men are stronger, more powerful, and, I assume, always will be. It's only the law that can balance the scales."

  "The law did not protect me, or the girl, Miss Tryon."

  "No," Glynis sighed. "No, but I look to the day when it will. However, Mrs. Brant, I can say this. I honestly don't know where Constable Stuart is at this hour. By the time I get back into town, and then send a wire to Albany, there will be no trains running west. Not until the morning."

  30

  MONDAY

  Everything comes to light... sooner or later. When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out.

  —George Eliot, Silas Marner, 1861

  Morning had been too late.

  Glynis, with a deep sadness settling over her, put down the newspaper to gaze out the window of her library office at a sky absent of clouds. There was only a vast uninterrupted arc of blue which ordinarily would have cheered her. But not today; the first morning train had not come soon enough. By the time Cullen had received her wire and arrived by rail in Seneca Falls, Helga Brant was dead.

  And the murderer of Roland Brant was also dead.

  Glynis started at the knock on the office door. She rose and opened it to Cullen.

  "Neva will do an autopsy," he told her, "but it seems straightforward enough. Everything points to a massive overdose of laudanum. We found the empty bottle on her night table. Glynis, was there any indication Helga Brant would take her own life?"

  "I may have guessed that she might."

  "What? You knew—"

  "No," she broke in, "I didn't say I knew. And what would you have had me do about it, Cullen? Post Liam Cleary and Danny Ross inside her bedroom? To prevent her from doing what she obviously was determined to do? I very much doubt those lads could have stopped her. She was a remarkably strong-minded woman."

  "What about her son and daughter-in-law?"

  "She would have found a way around them. Everyone in the household deferred to her, Cullen, even her sons."

  He nodded. "I noticed that more than once. It probably answers the question I've had since the beginning—did that entire household know of Brant's death for hours before I was notified?"

  "I think they did. At least the family members must have. But everyone waited until Helga Brant chose to make the murder public. The more hours that passed, the less likely the murderer was to be implicated. And Helga was very persuasive. She almost persuaded me that she had killed her husband. Almost."

  Cullen gaped at her, searching her face for meaning, "Would you repeat that, Glynis? Since I have Helga Brant's signed confession."

  "You haven't read this morning's paper yet, have you?"

  "I just glanced at the headlines—it's all I've had time to do. Tell me what you're talking about."

  "Take a look at that item across the bottom of the front page."

  Cullen snatched the paper from her desk, quickly scanning it. Glynis watched his eyes stop, move back, and read more slowly. When he lowered the paper, she could see from his expression that the truth was still elusive.

  "All right," he said. "Sort this out for me."

  "Why don't you sit down. This might take a while."

  Once he had lowered himself into the chair opposite her desk, she said, "What Helga Brant told me about the murder of her husband was true—the motives behind it and the means of executing it—except for one thing. She was not the one who killed him."

  "Did you know that?" Cullen said. "While she was telling you, did you know she was lying?"

  "That's hard to answer," she said. She got to her feet and moved to the window. The canal was busy with boats passing through the locks, their towlines harnessed to teams of surefooted mules plodding ahead on the gravel path. At the crest of the opposite slope, barely visible from where she stood, the old village cemetery lay serene and still, waiting.

  Had she known without a doubt?

  Glynis turned back to him. "I couldn't be absolutely certain, Cullen. Two things had led me to the killer's identity. But they would never have produced a guilty verdict. At least I didn't think so. I still don't. I intended to tell you this yesterday, after Bronwen and I found the rifles. By then I was fairly sure I knew who killed Brant because I knew why he was killed. But you were involved in transporting the contraband, and I thought one or two days more wouldn't matter. Perhaps I was wrong—" she gestured at the newspaper "—but I don't believe so. It likely would have ended much the same way."

  "Except that two more men are dead," Cullen said. "No, make that three."

  "And how many Union soldiers would have died from the Enfield rifles those two gunrunners in the South were procuring? That was the fatal spark that set off this tragedy. "

  "First tell me why you didn't you believe Mrs. Brant's confession?"

  "Several reasons. First, the bruise on Roland Brant's temple was on the left side of his head. Cullen, I'm right-handed; so if I were to face you and strike you w
ith a heavy object—intending to kill you with one blow—which side of your head would take that blow?"

  Cullen paused before saying, "The left side. So? Helga Brant was right-handed, wasn't she?"

  "I observed her enough to think she was, yes. Most people are. Significantly, though," she added, "Erich Brant is left-handed."

  "But Helga Brant might not have been facing her husband."

  "True enough. But that rose paperweight's globe is slippery and unwieldy. I know because I picked it up myself and nearly dropped it. Helga Brant's hands are palsied—you must have seen the tremors. When she held the paperweight last night, she couldn’t keep her hand level. I just did not believe her capable of the necessary strength or the needed dexterity. So I also didn't believe Helga Brant capable of such astonishing accuracy. That was the telling flaw in her story. Accuracy was also the reason, after I heard Neva's account of the autopsy, why I suspected someone else entirely. Someone we hadn't looked at too closely."

  "You've lost me," Cullen said. "Accuracy told you who killed Brant?"

  "Cullen, that single blow to Brant's temple was done by someone who knew precisely where to aim it. How to make a lethal strike that would hardly be noticed, which could be explained away as a bruise that happened in a struggle—particularly since he was found with a knife in his chest. But the knife wasn't what killed him."

  Glynis paused, seeing by Cullen's expression that he didn't quite yet grasp the implication.

  "Remember the biblical David and Goliath? " she said. "The giant warrior felled by a small pebble from a boy's slingshot? A far-fetched tale, even for a parable, unless you believe that David and his pebble were guided by the Lord. And for all we know, this killer could have been guided, too. But the deadly accuracy of that one blow to Roland Brant's head offered another explanation."

  Cullen's eyes suddenly widened and now, obviously following her, he said, "Yes. And when I think about it, so did the knife in Brant's heart."

  "Exactly. I doubt many people could make a single, clean knife thrust guaranteed to go, as Neva said, directly into the heart. But there is definitely one person who could do it. Someone who had studied anatomy. Who had attended medical school."