Mysteries of Winterthurn

by Joyce Carol Oates

  “You are devils,” Xavier murmured aloud, “and you dare not touch me.”

  Whereupon, of a sudden, he was catapulted to wakefulness,—and saw that he was alone in the near-darkened room: that most of the candles had gone out: and that, beating close about the many-branched candelabrum, was naught but a cloud of harmless insects, primarily gnats and moths—!

  YET THE PERSPICACIOUS YOUTH was not so disarmed by relief, nor so enfeebled by the terror of his dream, that it did not occur to him that the cherubs might be both phantasms, yet real: for were not his exposed hands bitten, and lightly bleeding; and was it not the case, which the felicity of a nearby mirror at once resolved, that his forehead, and cheeks, and jaw, and throat,—nay, and even the upper region of his torso, where the shirt had been surreptitiously drawn away—showed distinct evidence of biting?—and of bites too carnivorous in intent to be explained away by the happy coincidence of a cloud of insects, drawn to the candles’ flame?

  His Kilgarvan blood pulsing hotly through his veins, fueled as much by a manly sort of outrage, at this offense against his body, as by the delectation of fear, Xavier withdrew his brother’s knife from his satchel, and opened the longer and more wicked of the blades; and, atremble with caution, slipped from his chair, to investigate yet again the area of the canopied bed, and the mural of lunging and pouting angels overhead,—the which, it now seemed to his eye, quivered with a most inexplicable species of emotion, subdued, withheld, yet potent with rage: nay, did not the tallest, and most husky, and most rubicund of the angelic host frankly stare at Xavier, with silver protuberant eyes? And did not the pale angel who had, long ago, wept a blood-dimmed tear, to fall upon Xavier’s astonished palm, now gaze upon him with eyes of exquisite yearning?—the poignant hunger of Desire, but hunger nonetheless!

  “You are devils,” Xavier said aloud, “though you be hidden inside mere paint, and that fading, and cracking, and flaking away into airy nothingness! Yet is it not altogether preposterous, and contrary to reason—” Thus he drew nearer to the painting, which yielded, for all its conjurer’s bag of tricks, but two sober dimensions, the which, surely, hid no mystery; and had not the power to bite human flesh, still less to devour it. At this instant, however, his keen eye may have picked up some small scuttling or scurrying noise overhead, caused by a mouse’s passage; or the muffled crackle of silver tissue paper,—of the sort commonly used to line bureau drawers, for purposes of tidiness; or, indeed, the agitated confluence of divers elements, not least the roused tumult of his own heart, which stirred yet a second wakefulness,—that of memory. Thus it was the youth murmured aloud, scarcely before he knew the import of his words: “Why, they are in the attic overhead: that is their hiding place!”

  SO IT WAS, Xavier made his swift, and doubtless reckless, way, to the gloom-embowered attic of Glen Mawr, which he had so fruitlessly investigated under Perdita’s guidance, many months before; and which, it seems, he had totally forgotten, as his investigation had proved not only sterile, but most humbling. Ah, how courageous!—how unhesitating!—to penetrate that place of shadows, with naught but a candle-stub to light his way, and his brother’s knife to protect him! “If only Perdita were here once again,” Xavier inwardly murmured, “how blessed should my passage be!”

  Lacking that sweet presence, however, Xavier did not at all poorly, in reconstructing his footsteps, as it were, amidst the dizzying assault of scents,—and smells,—and stenches: and in defiance of an atmosphere of panicked desperation, the more enigmatic for its being silent as the grave. Making but one or two blundering turns through the maze of furniture, cartons, and boxes, and bumping his head against an unseen beam but a single time, Xavier arrived, panting, at the item he sought,—the massive Chippendale sideboard with the bamboo trim, and the ebony finish near-obscured by dust, and the numerous locked drawers, which, on his earlier venture, he had failed to open. “Here,—dear God, it is here,—here and nowhere else—that the devils reside!”

  —Thus the jubilant words torn from the boy’s throat, to ring most oddly in that place of desolation, with their tone of exuberance and gloating triumph.

  Not hesitating so much as a minute, yet, withal, not without a measure of calm, and deliberation, and exactitude, Xavier made dextrous if unfamiliar use of the steel-bladed knife to pry, and chip at, and finally loosen one of the center drawers open: and bravely yanked it out: to see, therein ensconced, a sight that quite froze his blood—for, alas, there is no fresh expression in our native tongue that will here serve, with as much linguistic appositeness, or candor. In brief, Xavier’s stunned eyes were fixed upon what gave every impression of being not one, but an ill-matched pair, of infant corpses: so badly mummified with the passage of time, their skins had darkened, and turned leathery; and their part-opened eyes, fringed by the most minute of lashes, had hardened to a substance akin to milky glass. Two human babes, or, more precisely, their mummy remains: tidily, and, it may have been, lovingly, wrapped in strips of torn wool, that had dried and hardened with the pitiable flesh to leather: the wire twisted about their throats so deeply embedded, and so rusted, Xavier’s eye could scarcely perceive it at first, by the candle’s flickering light.

  Yet still unhesitating, and acting with the same dispatch, Xavier pried open the second drawer, and then the third,—discovering in one a similar pair of infant corpses, and in the other but a single corpse, though of a somewhat older child, very like two or three months of age. These, like the others, had suffered the cruel entwining of wire about their throats; and had been wrapped in similar “swaddling clothes”; and placed with care in the drawers, amidst silver paper lining. How small, how perfect, the infant faces, surprised in their napping repose!—eyes, and eyebrows, and noses, and mouths, wondrously perfect, in Kilgarvan miniature; and perfect too the tender heads, and wisps of fair hair, and all the flexed and frozen fingers—!

  Having exposed such horrific treasure, Xavier swayed above it, and felt his senses begin to reel, for could it be, he was actually seeing what his gaze absorbed?—and no dream-caprice, or idle schoolboy fancy, sullied his imagination?

  “How,—and whose—”

  —These being the only words, chokingly uttered, of which the affrighted youth was capable, before all breath left him, and all strength ran from his legs; and a corner of the sideboard careened upward most sickeningly, to deal him a sharp crack on the head: and to blot out his senses, in merciful oblivion.

  Felo-de-Se

  Though Winterthurn talked of little else for months, and speculations of the most inventive sort ran rampant, it was never to be grasped what connection, if any, lay between Miss Georgina Kilgarvan’s criminal act of self-destruction (performed sometime in the midmorning of October 22, in the gardener’s supply shed at Glen Mawr) and the abrupt cessation of killings, atrocities, and divers “hauntings” in the area: for indeed it was the case, as both official documents and local legend attest, that, with the incapacitation and eventual death of the Judge’s spinster daughter, all preternatural incidents stopped.

  Thus no one doubted,—though no one, excepting not even the most irresponsible of observers, could explain why,—that the “mystery” out at Glen Mawr was at last exorcised.

  As the unhappy woman sank into a coma from which she never awakened,—save, from time to time, to writhe, and twitch, and fight with unseen figures, and moan out such enigmatic phrases as “O why . . .” and “It cannot be . . .” and “Where have you gone . . . !”—it was impossible for the authorities to question her: still less was it possible for them to issue formal charges against her for the crime of “attempted suicide,” or felo-de-se,—as serious an offense against the statute, as the crime of murder itself. Dr. Colney Hatch, who was in close attendance upon the dying woman, insisted that she revealed nothing to him, in all the long weeks of her decline: nor did various hospital assistants, report anything out of the ordinary: nor Reverend De Forrest: nor, indeed, poor Georgina’s own grief-stricken relatives, including her half-sisters Th
érèse and Perdita.

  Thus it was, the secret lay interred with the “Blue Nun,” in the Kilgarvan mausoleum in the old Temperance Vale Cemetery,—whence it cannot be retrieved.

  (AS FOR THE LUCKLESS XAVIER, who felt such horror, incredulity, and sickened repugnance for all that, however broken and fragmented, he was able to recall of his experience in the attic,—it should not be held against the youthful detective that, after his illness of many weeks, he shrank from contemplating the “mystery”: for did this fruitless exercise not invariably bring with it a quivering of his delicate nerves, and a heaviness in his heart, and a piercing staccato pain through his head? Most specifically, Xavier dreaded recalling the febrific vision he had had, while lying in a state between consciousness and unconsciousness on the unswept attic floor,—an unlooked-to vision of his cousin Georgina gliding on silent feet, austere as always, and veiled in her mourning attire: making her way to the Chippendale sideboard, and, stooping, gathering the small corpses from it, with many an ejaculation,—of ire, of sorrow, of weeping despair. One by one she lifted the mummified figures, with scarcely a glance at her helpless cousin at her feet,—who visibly suffered a cruel bleeding wound to the head, and might well, for all she knew, have required emergency medical attention. Poor Xavier!—knowing not whether he woke, or slept; or had been catapulted to some dim-lit anteroom of Hell itself.

  Indeed, Xavier Kilgarvan was never to know, with any degree of certainty, whether this figure of the “Blue Nun” was naught but a hallucination; or Miss Georgina in incomminute flesh and blood. All resolutely, and, as it were, proudly, she ignored him while gathering her pitiable brood to her bosom, that she might secret them away, and bury them for all time: doubtless with the aid of that quicklime she had bought in such indiscreet haste, many months before. Where she buried them Xavier was never to know, nor did he seek to know: but when he came partway to his senses in the morning, and pulled himself, with great difficulty, to his feet, his fevered eye took in the fact that the drawers of the sideboard were now empty,—empty of everything save tattered and stained silver tissue, and a host of dead insects, dried and insubstantial as flakes of leaf!)

  Epilogue: Mr. Guillemot’s Testimony

  It was precisely eighteen years following that event-filled autumn,—long after he himself had suffered expulsion, in a manner of speaking, from Winterthurn—that Xavier Kilgarvan, while registering for a bachelor’s suite in a small hotel near Gramercy Park, in New York City, chanced to note the shaky signature of Malcolm Guillemot several lines above his own: and gasped aloud with certainty that this must be the very same gentleman who had been Miss Georgina’s “suitor” of a season long past.

  Thus, though Xavier was embarked, at this time, on a most obdurate and teasing case (in consultation with a prominent toxicologist in the employ of the District Solicitor of the County of Manhattan), he took steps to seek out Mr. Guillemot, that he might tactfully,—in truth, very indirectly—question him regarding the tragical Georgina: though it must be said that, through the years, the “mystery” of Glen Mawr was not one Xavier Kilgarvan cared to contemplate with any pleasure.

  And his investigation did yield fruit, of however an ambiguous sort: causing him to reiterate inwardly those familiar words of Monsieur Dupin’s: Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing that puts you at fault.

  THOUGH UNUSUALLY FRAIL of build, and so pale his skin possessed a bluish translucence, Mr. Malcolm Guillemot not only was willing to speak with Xavier (who presented himself as an “interested party”) of his Winterthurn adventure of thirty years before; but roused himself to speak with some passion, in an unfaltering high-pitched voice. Had Xavier not known the gentleman’s approximate age, which could not be much beyond sixty, he would have supposed him far older: belonging, indeed, to a distant generation. As some of his monologue in the hotel’s dining room, amidst the genial hubbub of voices and the tinkling of tea things, was indecipherable to Xavier’s ear, and a great deal, I am afraid, was rambling and superfluous, it is a severely edited version I shall offer here.—

  “. . . thus, young man, as was our wont in those days, I repeated my hopeful proposal to said lady . . . and was yet again rejected! . . . this being (so I was kindly advised) naught but a maiden’s stratagem . . . indeed, a necessity of sorts. Being but a foolish sort of youth then . . . in truth, two or three years younger than the lady . . . I felt the prick of stung vanity, no less than that of wounded sentiment! . . . yet bethought myself, that the lady was enamored of me, if looks, smiles, allusions, and innuendos of divers sorts might be trusted. (Though I hope I am not being ungallant in so saying, it oft-times struck me that the lady was more enamored of me, than I of her.) In any case, my pride (if not my masculine fervor for possession) would not allow me to withdraw from the field . . . for I was quite fond of her . . . her high qualities of intelligence and sensitivity . . . her frequent displays of wit . . . her lapse, so to speak, to girlish sweetness . . . being most admirable qualities: albeit conversation did not invariably sparkle between us, and sometimes we fell each into a blushing silence . . . from which it was the very Devil to wriggle free! . . . and one did not always regret an interruption from the father at that juncture.

  “Thus, yet again I girded my loins, to propose a most heroic third time, while strolling with the lady in the English garden at Glen Mawr . . . for that was, I believe, the name of the estate; and while we were strolling, the lady’s arm crooked lightly through mine, I nervously repeated my plea, that she consent to be my belovèd wife. To my surprise, then, she behaved most amazingly: by choking with laughter, and drawing away: and wiping tears from her flushed face, with the sleeve of her crêpe dress—! Then again, before I could make any response whatsoever, she gripped my arm most forcibly . . . indeed, in an excitable and playful manner (which, I must confess, I ill knew how to interpret) . . . and drew me to a side terrace of the house . . . where her father (who was, as perhaps you know, a high-ranking judge in the state), and several gentlemen of his age and approximate rank, were seated at cards. So baffled was I, and so stricken with surprise, I allowed myself to be ‘dragged forward,’ with a numb and stiffened gait, and presented, as it were, to the company! . . . as the lady gave way to her unseemly mirth, and, with her fingers still closed hard about my arm, cried out in a strident voice: ‘Father! O do excuse me! Father dear! Do excuse me! For but a minute! ’Tis but a minute!—nay, a half-minute! Gentlemen, do excuse us! Father, my friend Mr. Guillermot has given notice for the third time that he seeks your eldest daughter’s hand in marriage: and that he should like to speak in private with you, at your convenience. Do you hear, Father?—at your convenience! Do excuse—!’ And so on, and so forth, in this remarkable vein, all the while laughing soundlessly, and gasping for air! Precisely how long this wretched scene continued I cannot say . . . though, poor fool, I stood transfixed with horror, where a shrewder gentleman would have fled . . . my regard for the lady (I scarcely need note) having vanished at once, as if ’twere mere smoke blown by the wind.

  “The Judge skillfully hid his shock and disgust at this outburst (for I have no doubt that is what he felt), and uttered but a few well-chosen words, in a voice of restraint, to the effect that his daughter should betake herself at once into the house . . . as she must be suffering from heat stroke . . . and was in danger of collapse. Whereupon . . . ah, how painful! . . . how piercing the memory! . . . the lady released her terrible grip on my arm, and lapsed into silence at once, and turned away, in immediate obeisance to her father’s command . . . hurrying in a most graceless fashion . . . her skirts catching about her legs, and her hat askew . . . indeed, all but running into the house, before the eyes of the staring gentlemen!

  “And so, young man, I left Glen Mawr Manor.

  “And I never set eyes upon the lady again.

  “And, as the ‘feeling’ I had cherished for her vanished with such alacrity, upon that summer’s day, I felt no inclination to communicate with her ever again . . . or, ever again
, to return to Winterthurn.”

  IN THE PRIVACY OF HIS SUITE Xavier Kilgarvan recorded his notes for the case, in his customary code, though his hand trembled, and every fiber of his being quivered with repugnance. At last he threw down his pen, and murmured aloud, “No,—it is too loathsome: and two of his daughters yet live,” and, after but a moment’s hesitation, committed the offensive notes to the fire,—with which impulsive gesture The Virgin in the Rose-Bower must, alas, be finally laid to rest.

  Devil’s Half-Acre

  or

  The Mystery of the “Cruel Suitor”

  She cried, “O Love! is this thy doom?

  O light of youth’s resplendent day!

  Must ye then lose your golden bloom,

  And thus, like sunshine, die away?”

  —“SHE SUNG OF LOVE”

  Editor’s Note

  As it is so frequently, and so unfairly, charged against connoisseurs of Murder and Mystery that we remain a snobbish species, with a marked predilection for crimes of high life,—the unsolved murder of a duke weighing more valuably with us, for instance, than the solved murder of a shopkeeper; and that our preference runs to the classic in all cases, whereby who committed the murder must take precedence over all other considerations (viz., how? why? for what purpose?), I am happy to present in these pages a new rendering of an old favorite, Devil’s Half-Acre; or, The Mystery of the Cruel Suitor. This controversial episode in the career of Xavier Kilgarvan took place some twelve years after the Glen Mawr horrors would appear to have run their course: and lodged so deeply, and so bitterly, in the detective’s soul, it is no exaggeration to say that the sensitive young man never entirely recovered from its grim lesson,—albeit he did present to the incredulous world an absolutely correct solution to the mystery.