Letitia Bunting would have been a most insensible mother not to take alarm at the number of enemies,—some outspoken, and some covert—her son had accumulated during his tenure as rector of Winterthurn City’s most prestigious church; and the poor woman could not console herself as to which might be less fearsome,—the threat of disaster from the “inhuman” world, or that from the “human.” For instance, it was whispered that Harmon had made an implacable enemy of Ellery Poindexter, the chairman of the Bishop’s Standing Committee, and one of the most wealthy men in the parish: the dispute having to do with technical matters regarding the appropriation of funds for the Episcopal branch of the Colonization Society. (Or so Mrs. Bunting gathered, for she did not wish to ask her son outright; nor did she inquire of him whether the falling out between the men had anything to do with Amanda Poindexter’s “crisis of faith,”—an episode, protracted and feverish, much discussed in Winterthurn drawing rooms, for the past six or eight months. For, it seemed, the deeply troubled Mrs. Poindexter, née Shaw, was neglecting her familial and social duties of late, including the chairmanship of the Rose Hunt Cotillion, for which powerful office she had, the year before, vigorously campaigned. She had time for naught but the Ladies’ Altar Society of Grace Church, which, it was said, she essayed to dominate: and for earnest discussions with Harmon Bunting on church matters, or fine particulars of Episcopal faith. Amanda fretted that she varied greatly in her capacity for belief: on some days she felt strong enough to believe in virtually everything, including such Romish dogma as infant damnation; on other days, her doubts were such, she could not grasp the nature of the Trinity,—which is to say, how Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, being three autonomous, divine, and masculine entities, were yet one. Thus, she was frequently a visitor in Reverend Bunting’s study in the rectory, while her driver waited outside, smoking a cigarette by the opened door of the Poindexters’ Lancia Lambda; or, a summons would arrive from St. Bride’s, the Poindexter estate on the Old River Road, that Mr. Bunting was invited to tea, or to dinner, or to an evening of “sequestered conversation,” that Amanda’s turbulent mind might be put to rest, on some theological nicety. Mrs. Bunting thought Amanda Poindexter one of the more forceful, albeit charming, society ladies of the parish: she had swallowed her hurt, in Christian humility, when, at a large reception some years before, Mrs. Poindexter had gazed down quizzically upon the diminutive elder lady, as if, for a scant moment, she had no idea who she was!—though Letitia Bunting’s presence, in her black silk-and-woolen cape and her tiny black kidskin boots, was known through the city.)
In addition, it was rumored that Harmon had in some obscure wise offended Wilbur Elspeth; and Dustan Westergaard; and Bradford Kilgarvan, the Mayor’s most trusted aide. More recently,—and, to a mother’s worried mind, more significantly—Harmon had had an altercation with a bully and a ruffian, one Jabez Dovekie, who was not even a member of his parish, and assuredly not a gentleman. This near-giant of a fellow, red-haired, and brutish in his person, and doubtless slightly inebriated, had had the temerity to arrive unannounced at the rectory the previous week, on three consecutive days, demanding to speak to the pastor: and becoming quite abusive to the housekeeper when it was explained that Reverend Bunting was otherwise engaged. He would make no formal appointment, for, as he said, he did what he wished when he wished; and would not be bound by the schedules of others. Harmon professed not to be worried about Dovekie, albeit both Perdita and Mrs. Bunting evinced fear, and Mrs. Harwich, the housekeeper, was left shaken by the bully’s words; and John Hathorne, the assistant rector, believed the man unstable and unpredictable. Harmon, however, considered him but a bluff, and a fool, accustomed to ordering women about, and men of weak character, but scarcely a man to browbeat him. As to why Dovekie was so incensed over Reverend Bunting,—he had, it seems, gone bankrupt some five or six years previous, in his ice-hauling business; he had unwisely borrowed money from divers sources, at very high interest rates; and he (so Harmon now believed) embezzled several thousand dollars from his widowed sister’s estate. This sordid matter now seemed to be coming to light, all by accident, as, the invalided woman having experienced a conversion not long before, she was now eagerly desirous of making her peace with God, and with the Episcopal Church: and implored Reverend Bunting to take over her accounts completely, in the service of Jesus Christ. This enterprise Jabez Dovekie furiously contested, as it was but “meddling” in Dovekie family affairs; and involved the “high and mighty” pastor in matters that were none of his business.
Yet another distressing matter, which had been brought to Harmon’s notice only within the past fortnight, had to do with certain “scandalous” and “obscene” letters, received intermittently since the previous spring, by several ladies in the parish: these being Amanda Poindexter, Dorothea Carnsworth, both the pretty young Penistone twins, and poor Perdita herself,—of those whose names were known. As such ugly disclosures were not discussed in the elderly Mrs. Bunting’s presence, she knew nothing of the actual content of the missives, save that, as Harmon had said in great disgust, they were the product of “a diseased, twisted, and blasphemous mind,” which could belong to no one of their acquaintance; but must be the work of a cowardly stranger,—very likely even an enemy of the Church. They had been, of course, penned by an anonymous hand, and sent by way of the regular post: received by the innocent ladies in great consternation, fright, and secret shame: until, after a recent outburst of Mrs. Poindexter’s, which had evidently been gravely hysterical, the matter had been brought to light, and the other ladies had, in great distress, spoken out. Mrs. Carnsworth had destroyed the three letters received by her, immediately upon opening them; the Penistone girls had hidden theirs away, half imagining, at the start, that they were but pranks of some kind,—or a new species of Valentine, of French origin; Perdita had burnt three of the five sent to her, but had thought it wisest to save the last two, for, in her opinion, the author of the sickly missives might well be dangerous, and his actions should probably be brought to the attention of the police,—albeit she herself was too overcome with shame to acknowledge her plight. At the present time,—that is, by the afternoon of September 11—the matter had not been officially reported, though Orrin Wick, Winterthurn’s new chief of police, had heard disquieting rumors of “threatening” letters having been received by several prominent society women, amongst them Ellery Poindexter’s wife.
Such a barrage of worrisome thoughts, streaming through Mrs. Bunting’s brain, made it at last impossible for her to concentrate upon the letter to her sister,—the which she had been writing for some minutes while scarcely knowing what she said, and in a hand far less refined than usual. Though the cherrywood mirror reflected nothing out of the ordinary, and the sitting room was, of course, empty save for herself, Mrs. Bunting became increasingly distracted, and was not to be soothed by the familiar heavy tread of Bessie Hyde in an adjoining room, or the cheery twittering of a pet parakeet in the kitchen. At last, inwardly trembling, she laid down her pen, thinking: “I must go to Harmon.”
So it was, shortly before four o’clock of that fogbound and inordinately warm September day, Mrs. Letitia Bunting, the widowed mother of Reverend Harmon Bunting, called out to her servant Mrs. Hyde that she was going to pop her head into the rectory, and would be gone but a minute. Attired, then, in her black rain cape, and black bonnet, and carrying her umbrella, she left Jewett Cottage, and, walking as quickly as her legs would carry her, followed the familiar meandering path through the cemetery, past the back of the church, and to the rear door of the minister’s residence. So apprehensive was she, while chiding herself for her foolishness, she took no note of the wondrous fresh scent of the wet grass, or the peaceable stillness of the day, or, not least, the languid melancholy of the mist that curled through the gravestones, and lifted into the limbs of the tall trees. How brave and determined, that petite figure!—and how loath am I, to follow her into that scene of carnage!
WHILE THE TREMBLING Mrs. Bunting
enters the rectory, by way of the rear door,—her knock having gone unanswered, and the door, as always, unlatched,—I should like to pause briefly to supply the reader with a curio of sorts.
This precious item, shortly to be “lost” in Orrin Wick’s investigation, is none other than the conclusion of the very letter Letitia Bunting was writing to her sister, on that tragic day so long ago!—just last week brought to my excited attention by a collector in Basking Ridge, New Jersey; and now a part of my crime collection, or Crime Treasury, as I call it.
How Mrs. Bunting’s letter was lost by Winterthurn police, and how this page came to be found again, is doubtless mysterious: but the reader must understand that, up until the present time, numberless pieces of evidence, confiscated by police, were routinely lost, or misplaced, or destroyed; or, it might be conjectured, stolen away for sentimental or mercenary reasons. (Which seems to have been the case with the little gold cross found in Eva Teal’s mouth: for it has recently come to my attention that this priceless item, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, has been placed on the market by a dealer in White Plains, New York,—albeit for a shockingly high price.)
Herewith, Mrs. Bunting’s disjointed thoughts, expressed in a near-illegible hand, and, to my mind, most riddlesome indeed: for why, at this particular time, did her thinking swerve in this purposeless direction; and why,—if “why” be not too fanciful a question—did Orrin Wick lose the page? Or was it Orrin Wick who lost it—?
. . . his choice of a wife & not to be questioned nay not deliberated by one who loves him dearly, for ’tis better to marry than to burn as we are told: & doubtless Harmon took such counsel to heart. Yet dear sister how it wounds me that from the first she has rebuffed me & my proferred love! It is known that her own mother was wicked & mad, & died in wretched sin (having swallowed poison when she was but a small child), whereupon it follows that she contemns me who would be Mother to her.
Dear sister, daily & nightly I pray to God, that the bountifulness of my heart not be so scorned, with that small chill smile & razor-line betwixt the brows, & ah! the darksome blaze of her black eyes which, it seems, Harmon has never beheld.
Strait is the gate & narrow is the way which leadeth unto life & few there be that find it. Sister dear, I am most aggrieved.
Such happenings here that cannot be grasped! A “presence” hovers over the household,—unspeakable letters are received by ladies of Christian virtue; Harmon is beset by enemies, who wish him confusion & defeat; Winterthurn City grows daily less recognizable beyond the south bank & ugly to behold & wicked; & she who should be my loving & devoted daughter is stiff in my embrace & hums under her breath when I speak & is subject to moods & spells & humors,—some as a consequence of the Moon’s waxing & waning, some springing from her own soul.
Ah, you may well ask, do they quarrel?—but I know not: for Harmon spares me such grief.
Yet I cannot hide my eyes to the friction betwixt them & the strain of the household: dear sister how can I fail to hear that which is almost voiced? She weeps & her lower lip swells in rebellion that Harmon should & must & will oversee her income, less from Kilgarvan investments (for Erasmus it seems speculated unwisely) than from royalties from that queer book of poesy,—The Collected Poems of “Iphigenia,”—which is to say, poor Georgina Kilgarvan’s work, much ridiculed here at home but valued (it is said) elsewhere. I know not the sums involved nor even if they be substantial (for that is unlikely) but Perdita flares up, & weeps, & lies abed, & drifts about the rectory pale & disheveled & “moonstruck,” & glory be to God Harmon is strong & taciturn at such times & never weakens as a doting husband might.
Why, but three Sundays ago he spoke from the pulpit most powerfully, on the verse from Matthew:
For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are
given in marriage, but are as the angels in heaven
& she did not attend,—lying lifeless abed with her servant-girl in attendance like a nurse & weeping that her mistress would not eat & oft-times failed to breathe, so far as she could observe!
Dear sister, my hand shakes,—I scarcely know what I mean to say, & what will become of us. Her moods of despondency & lethargy,—her spells of chattering gaiety; her wild heartbreak & yearning,—spring from I know not what ungodly source, lest it be the old defilement of the blood, inherited from wicked ancestors. For long hours she sits & stares out the window at nothing,—save the close-packed gravestones in the oldest corner of the cemetery. These spells she essays to hide from Harmon & me, but Mrs. Harwich (whose word cannot be doubted) confides daily in me. They date back long before the disagreement over the royalties from her sister’s book,—they date back to before her unwholesome attachment to the foundling infant who died last year, of which I have written you. Dare I say it, sister, the spells date back to her return from her honeymoon, now ten,—nay, eleven—years ago!
This daughter whom I dare not embrace,—whom I dare not call Daughter,—she is said to be beautiful, yet can it be beauty of a healthsome sort? Those wild black eyes & dark tresses now streaked with silver!—& her habit of humming under her breath while others speak,—or singing some tune that has snagged in her brain,—whether a trashy popular song like “Meet me in St. Louis, Louis,” or the old ballad “Barbara Allen,” or another called “The Golden Vanity,” about a drowning it seems, & most sorrowful to hear, in her chill voice in particular,—
There once was a ship
And she sailed upon the sea,—
And the name of our ship was
The Golden Vanity—
With which enigmatic words, Letitia Bunting’s hastily written letter breaks off; and was never to be concluded.
THE BELLS OF GRACE EPISCOPAL CHURCH were sounding the hour of four, in a muted, somber, yet noble tone, when, having received no answer to her agitated knocking, and her yet more agitated calls, Mrs. Bunting bravely opened the door to her son’s study at the southwestern corner of the rectory, to gaze upon a spectacle nearly too horrendous for me to transcribe: this, Reverend Harmon Bunting, her belovèd son, lying asprawl on his horsehair divan, with a woman beside him,—a woman not his lawful wedded wife, but Mrs. Amanda Poindexter in a disheveled state.
Ah, what an unlook’d-to vision!—the frowsy-haired lady resting her blond head cozily against Harmon’s shoulder, and Harmon with his arm slipped about her waist, his outspread fingers lightly resting on her ample thigh!
Surprised thus, and afflicted, moreover, with weakened eyes, poor Mrs. Bunting stood frozen in the doorway, unable to turn aside in tactful embarrassment, or to murmur any sort of greeting or apology: her throat most painfully constricted, the while her heartbeat grew ever more erratic: and her brain, of a sudden benumbed, reluctant to absorb the full horror of the scene,—for is it not invariably so, when the known world shatters irrevocably around us, and, in a scant instant, the dread wisdom is communicated, that naught will ever be the same again—?
Yet Mrs. Bunting could not for long deceive herself: for the guilty couple lay on the divan far too stiffly and too awkwardly to be in a natural posture; nor was it natural that neither started, or made any response, when she incautiously opened the door. And, ah! were their facial expressions not decidedly peculiar,—their skulls misshapen, or smashed, it may have been, like crockery,—a good deal of blood, bright fresh glistening blood: yet-flowing blood,—befouling their hair and faces, and soaked into their clothes, and gathering in rapid drips in a single hideous pool on the hardwood floor? Why, it seemed to be the case that the gentleman’s balding head had been severely crushed, and his iron-gray muttonchop whiskers commingled with bone and tissue; one glassy eyeball bulged from its socket, while the other eye, showing but white, was partly closed; the high starched collar of his white shirt appeared to have been driven, by demonic force, into his badly lacerated neck; two fingers dangled near-severed from his limp right hand; and his skin, that had so recently been ruddy and healthsome, had gone ashen gray in death. As for the lady,—though lifeless as well,
and bleeding copiously from cruel wounds in her head, neck, and upper left arm,—she appeared to have been treated with considerably more delicacy than her companion: for her round fleshy face with its halfmoons of rouge, and its small close-set staring eyes, yet possessed an air of simpering prettiness; and her expression was one of startled chagrin, rather than animal terror. Lavishly attired in a flounced dress of pale apricot chiffon, with puff sleeves and three-inch tight-buttoned cuffs, an heirloom cameo brooch at her throat and a strand of heavy pearls about her neck, Amanda Poindexter seemed to take up most of the divan, propped awkwardly as she was against Harmon’s shoulder, both her bloodied arms outspread, and the hem of her dress raised, all surprisingly, to expose blood-soaked petticoats. So massive and self-contained did the lady seem, even in death, she might have been about to rise petulantly from the divan, to smooth down her skirts, and secure one of the shiny blond switches that had been jarred loose from her coiffure, and put a haughty question to the intruder: “Yes? What do you mean by disturbing us?”
So it was, Mrs. Bunting stood paralyzed a few yards away, a frail figure the size of a child, and essayed to speak,—“Oh, Harmon,—oh, my boy,—my baby,—my belovèd,—what have they done to you?”—while her blinking gaze took in, but could not absorb, a mocking array of hearts (paper cut-out hearts, crimson velvet hearts, cinnamon hearts, chocolate hearts) liberally scattered about the bodies. How could it be that she saw what she saw!—that so frightful a vision had been granted her by God: she, Letitia Bunting, who had ever adored Him, and had never questioned His will!
Mysteries of Winterthurn Page 48