An Old Friend of the Family d-3

by Fred Saberhagen

  Judy put back the brown hair from her forehead, snapped off the Tensor, and in the candlelight leaned closer to the page and mirror. She gave a schoolroom clearing of the throat, and read through the passage twice: first in halting Latin; again in English translation that picked up speed as it went along.

  “. . . walker by daylight, walker by night . . . come to my aid whose need is great . . .”

  Remembering just in time, Clarissa leaned forward to do the other thing the ritual demanded. The candle flame sizzled, snapped at the dry morsels she fed it. The stink of burning hair stung at their nostrils.

  And now there was nothing more for them to do. The rest was up to the unknown princely power whose aid they had besought; not God, to judge from the obscure text, but not Satan either. A saint?

  Time passed, the girl standing straight now behind the old woman’s chair, waiting to see if there was anything else that she could do for Gran. To Clarissa it seemed that a great silence now bound the house. The police must have departed once again, or most of them; some had planned to keep watch on the phones. Somewhere a jet, droning in across the lake, was heading for O’Hare.

  “Granny, should I turn on another light?” The candle still burned, and one small bulb in a fixture near the door.

  Already the spell that Clarissa in her desperation had tried to weave around herself was dissolving, like lake mist in the morning sun. Would God that it were morning already, instead of half the night still to be endured.

  As the old woman raised herself from the chair, the joints of her knees and hips felt older than Grandmother Harker’s had ever lived to be. “Judy, can you forgive me for all this nonsense? I’m a very foolish old—”

  With a sharp sound the mirror, untouched by anything that either of the women could see or hear, smashed into a hundred pieces and crumpled in a heap of glass upon the table. Clarissa turned in time to see the candle, still half unburned, extinguish itself abruptly.

  FIVE

  Almost exactly sixteen hours, the traveler thought to himself, looking at his new wrist watch while the cab bore him, as he had directed, east and north from O’Hare Field. Here it was now four in the afternoon, and he should be just in time for tea, if one took tea in Illinois, which he was perfectly certain one did not. Sixteen hours from summons to arrival was not bad at all, considering all that he had had to do. My compliments, he thought, to BOAC. Of course he had long ago made preparations for some journey such as this—as he had for many other eventualities—and advance preparation always paid off when speed was essential.

  “Turn east upon the next large road,” he ordered, loudly and clearly, wondering exactly how his English sounded to the natives here. Of course he must sound basically British after so many years in London. The driver, a thick-necked black, made a minimal motion of his head as if he was moved to turn and argue with his passenger once more that the best way to get where he was going would be to confide the exact address of his destination to such a professionally knowledgeable guide as the driver himself. But the passenger’s reaction to argument last time had not been pleasant.

  Actually the passenger did not know the exact address he wanted, though he could feel the location of the place growing nearer. He momentarily tilted his dark glasses aside with a long finger, and squinted into dull sun-glow reflected from a long roadside pile of thawing snow. It was a dreary, soggy day, cloudy for the most part, not really as cold as he had expected. “And now, if you please, turn north again.”

  In another mile he had the man turn east, and then in a little while, once more to the north. What must be Lake Michigan, surprisingly oceanic at first sight, hove into view upon the traveler’s right. He noted the appearance of the Shores Motel, and regretted his lack of experience in judging such establishments. A number of expensive cars were parked in front—of cars he knew a little.

  Not far, now. A few minutes later the traveler was leaning forward in his seat, intently watching, thinking, feeling where he was being carried. “Slow down. Slower! Now, take that next private drive, there, upon our right!”

  * * *

  The man who answered the door was obviously no servant; nor did the visitor take him for a member of the family.

  “Good day. I have come to see some members of the Southerland family.”

  The well-dressed man in the doorway was very watchful. “Can I ask the nature of your business, sir?”

  “It is personal.” But having by now recognized the other as some sort of policemen in plain clothes (this was a hopeful sign, suggesting that the difficulty for which he had been summoned was not trivial, or better yet that it had already been solved) the visitor handed over a card. “I am Dr. Emile Corday, an old friend of the family, just arrived from London.”

  Then he stood there on the doorstep, under polite police inspection, holding in mind just who he was supposed to be. Dr. Corday was an old family physician, retired now or on the verge. Basically a kind and comforting man, though with a crusty facade; could be irascible at times. He added: “I attended Mrs. Clarissa Southerland’s grandmother in her last illness.” It amused the visitor to be perfectly truthful in his deceptions when he could.

  He was, as usual, convincing, and the plainclothesman stepped back. “Please, come in, Doctor.”

  Having already paid and dismissed the taximan, and being unencumbered by baggage, the visitor had nought to do but enter.

  The examination, though, was not yet quite over. “Here, let me take your coat. You flew over from London just to see the family, did you?”

  A woman of about forty-five, red-eyed and showing other signs of prolonged tension (another hopeful indication that he had not been forced to travel all this way for absolutely nothing) now appeared from deeper within the house, and exchanged glances with the policeman.

  “I’m Lenore Southerland,” she then informed the visitor, turning on him a gaze in which faint new hope and old terror were mingled.

  Again he introduced himself as Corday, which name obviously meant nothing at all to her. Then, just as the policeman was on the point of interrupting with more questions, there appeared from another room a face that the visitor could recognize, given his developed talent for perceiving a child’s features in the ruined mask of age.

  And the recognition would perhaps be mutual. As soon as Clarissa’s eyes (he had come up with her name a moment after her face clicked into proper focus in his memory) fell on him, it seemed from a certain tremor in their puffy lids, in concert with a preparatory sagging of her body, that she might be going to faint. He locked his eyes on hers—he had taken off the dark glasses when he came inside—and presently she rallied and stood straighter.

  Ignoring the younger woman for the moment, he turned to Clarissa and took her hands in his and let her see a smile of reassurance. “Clarissa!” he greeted, in his best old-doctor voice. “It has been many years.”

  “Oh yes, it has,” she breathed in answer, and that was enough to make the policeman retire for the time being. She went on: “You know—you’ve heard about our awful troubles here?”

  “You shall tell me about it right away.” And, after a few minutes of polite and blurred conversation with the daughter-in-law, he managed to get the aged woman to himself. Apparently having her own reasons to want to talk to him alone, she led him into what looked like a functioning library—and yes, there was the table the vision had shown him sixteen hours ago, complete with a speck of red candle-wax adhering to the darkly polished wood. On the carpet beside one table-leg there lay a minute sliver of broken glass.

  The door closed by Clarissa’s hand, they sat facing each other across the little table, he with his back to the windowful of winter daylight that now hung on as if it never meant to fade.

  Neither of them spoke immediately. Clarissa’s eyes, though she fought to keep them from doing so, flicked up once, twice, three times, to a high shelf behind him.

  At last she had to say something. “You know, it’s been so long . . . I’m
afraid . . . I’m ashamed to have to ask, but—what is your name?”

  “Corday,” she repeated after him, mystified, when he had told it yet again. “Corday. Do you know, Doctor, I have the impression that I met you once when I was a small girl? I know that’s . . .”

  “In that impression I believe you are correct, Clarissa.”

  “But . . . no. Do you suppose that could have been your father?”

  Now she was threatening to burble and gush. He sat in regal patience. Eventually he would hear more, learn more. Eventually he would confront his actual summoner, who had not yet appeared.

  “It seems . . . it seems a strange coincidence that you should decide to visit us just now.”

  “It is nothing of the kind, my dear Clarissa, as I think you know full well. Where is the girl?”

  Almost as if he had suddenly drawn a knife. “What girl?”

  “An attractive young girl of seventeen or so dwells in this house. Last night—more precisely, about sixteen and one half hours ago—she sat in this room, at this table, with candle and mirror and a certain old book which is probably now on one of these high shelves behind me. I intend to see this girl and speak with her.”

  Clarissa’s face was crumpling, along with the pretense that she had tried to maintain, that folk usually tried to maintain, that the world was a sane place whose basic rules they understood. She shook her head and moaned like someone choking on a bone. At last she got a few words out: “The mirror broke . . . I thought it might have been the candle’s heat.”

  He waited silently.

  “I—I hope I did the right thing.” Her voice was very tiny now. Her eyes were those of a frightened bird.

  “Indeed, I share your hope. I have affairs of my own, as you must realize, to which I should prefer to be attending.” He sighed inwardly, wondering just how much Clarissa knew about him. Enough to scare her, obviously. “So, you instructed this girl—what is her name?”

  “Judy.” With a gulp.

  “You instructed this young Judy in the means of summoning me.”

  “I was the one responsible. She only read the words.”

  “Only?”

  Somewhere outside the library, male voices were droning, drearily determined.

  “Clarissa, while I will do practically anything to please your dear grandmother, give every aid I can to anyone as near and dear to her as you are, I would not be amused to find my time and strength being wasted upon trivialities. So if this is a matter, say, of some stolen jewel, or perhaps some juvenile romantic difficulty—or even, God help us, a prank—let me warn you once and bluntly that this family will be left the unhappier for my visit.” He had seen indications already that things were more serious than that, but he wanted to make the point. “And in that depressing event I believe I can explain my actions to your grandmother so that she will understand.”

  There was a pause in which Clarissa could be seen marshalling reserves of strength. She sat up straight and looked him in the eye, almost for the first time. “Dr. Corday. My grandmother, Wilhelmina Harker? She died in 1967. She was ninety-five then.”

  Again the visitor fetched an inward sigh. “I am aware that in that year dear Mina ceased to breathe. That she was then consigned to her tomb . . . but we are straying from our business. Pray tell me, just what is the nature of this family difficulty which reddens every eye, and populates the house with such discreet policemen?”

  The tale came out in a hurried, exhausted fashion. The granddaughter found mysteriously dead, yesterday morning. The grandson kidnapped last night, and mutilated for the pure hell of it, as it might seem; there was not even a ransom demand as yet.

  Then someone exists who does such things to folk whom Mina loves. He nodded, showing little of what he felt. He might have been considering a strange problem in chess. “There is no doubt that the finger in the little package was cut from your grandson’s hand?”

  “They said it was—”

  “What?”

  “Not cut. More like—oh God, more like it had been torn from his hand. I didn’t see it. But they had no doubt that it was Johnny’s finger. He—he had a distinctive wart on it.”

  At least, mused the visitor, he is now free of that.

  “And the police say that they believe that it was taken from a living hand. They have their scientific tests.”

  “To be sure. The finger must be still in their possession?”

  “It must be. Yes.”

  “And the girl’s body, too?”

  “In the Chicago morgue, the medical examiner’s office, whatever they call it. They’re supposed to have the best facilities there for tests.”

  It was now time to be nice, and he startled Clarissa away from the brink of collapse by reaching across the little table and reassuringly pressing her fingers between his own. “It is a good thing that you and Judy called me.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes, yes. I should have been angry if I were not called on in such a matter. Evil people have, for whatever reason, launched an assault upon her family. But soon it will be the turn of those wicked folk to be unhappy.”

  Although he smiled as he whispered those last words, wanting them to be comforting, she pulled back.

  He looked sharply over Clarissa’s shoulder in the direction of the door. Two seconds later the door opened.

  “Gran? Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

  He hardly heard the girl’s words, though. He found himself on his feet, with no memory of having risen, and staring at her uncontrollably. The first impression, which struck him like a club, was that Mina herself stood before him, young as when he had first met her, in the first flush of warmblooded, breathing life.

  Yesterday’s vision of his summoner had been no more than a passport photo, compared to this reality. The girl’s clothing and hairstyle were of course of the late nineteen-seventies, not of eighteen ninety-one. But the face and the sturdy body and the bearing were Mina’s—although at second glance, of course, not quite.

  The girl was staring at him also—small wonder, given his reaction to his entrance. How long had it been since anything had caused him so to lose his self-possession? But thank heaven she did not seem frightened.

  Clarissa had also risen to her feet. When she spoke her voice was calmer than the visitor had expected. “Dr. Corday? This is my granddaughter Judy. Judy, Dr. Corday has known the family for some time. He’s just flown in from London.”

  “Your servant, my dear,” the visitor murmured, smiling, and took the young girl’s hand. He would have felt the slightest pullback in her fingers, as he bent to kiss the air above them in the old European style. But pullback there was none.

  Some surprise, though, showed in her voice. “You say that as if you meant it.” Her voice was jarringly American. Well, what else?

  “I do.”

  Her brown eyes, Mina’s eyes, probed at him delightfully, trying to puzzle him out. “Doctor Corday? Did I meet you in England, maybe? We were over there in 1967. I’m sorry if I’ve forgotten, but I was very young at the time.”

  “Of course you were. But we did not meet,” he said, releasing her hand regretfully. “It is impossible that I should not remember if we had.”

  Oh, those eyes of hers were, naturally enough, not Mina’s after all. So young and brown though, and filled with puzzlement about him, and grief for her mysteriously ravaged family. Intriguingly, he could not find in them the personal fear that marked the older women of the family.

  Judy asked him gravely: “Are you staying with us? I hope you can.”

  Clarissa rather lamely began to second this offer of lodging, which the visitor declined with polite firmness. “I shall be staying for some days in the neighborhood, however, and I look forward very much to visiting with you—with both of you. But right now, child, I have a few minutes more of urgent business with your grandmother . . . and, Judy, dear? If your father is in the house, would you ask him if he can spare a minute or two to talk to me? T
ell him his time will not be wasted—thank you, Judy.”

  Watching the young girl leave, he marveled once more at her likeness to his beloved. Then, with an energetic clapping and rubbing-together of his lean hands, he turned back to Judy’s grandmother even as the old lady sank into her chair again.

  “Now, my child,” he whispered to her, bending closer to her ear. “How have your dear son and his lovely wife managed to acquire such demonic enemies? You can tell me—you must tell me—the truth.”

  At this Clarissa began to weep. Which, as the visitor could see, was not something she did easily or frequently. “You must believe me,” she told him between gulping sobs. “I have no idea.”

  He looked at her closely, and patted her hands again. “I do believe you. And now, can you arrange for me to have a word in private with your son? Don’t tell him that I want to question him, of course.”

  “Question him? Question him? Why must you do that?”

  “Because I have been brought here to help him. To help all of you. It is all out of your hands now, my dear. Let me go about things in my own way.”

  Clarissa spent a little in sniffling recovery from her tears, thinking about this. “I never thought that old book . . .”

  “Ha. Why then did you use it?”

  “What is it that you want me to tell my son?”

  “That I would like to speak with him—there must be something in which his interest can innocently be caught. By which he may be distracted a little from his grief and worry. He has perhaps a hobby that fascinates him? Chess, photography . . .?”

  “Pottery,” said Clarissa in a very low voice. Almost completely recovered from her weeping now, she was looking at the visitor with such a guarded, watchful, poker-playing stare that he really had to smile.

  “Clar-iss-a! Was your grandmother such a terrible enemy of yours? Would she have delivered you and your own beautiful grandchild into the devil’s hands? No, no, no, you must know better than that.”