Death, My Darling Daughters

by Jonathan Stagge

Minutes passed, minutes that seemed ticked out in my mind by the little ormolu clock in the barn which was going to mean so much. I had just made the hardest decision of my life, and I was needing all the strength I owned.

  At last Rosalind’s voice sounded from the window. “So Helena must have lured Janie out to the barn last night. Maybe she pretended Vic would be waiting there for her. She lured her there and tricked her into drinking a glass of water with the poison in it.”

  I didn’t say anything. Once again silence engulfed us. The song sparrow was still singing outside. Suddenly Rosalind got up and ran to me.

  “Dr. Westlake, Helena couldn’t have killed Janie in the barn last night. After you left, Mother took her upstairs to sleep with her. After you left, she was with Mother all the time. I know.”

  I did look at her then. I said: “I know too.”

  Rosalind’s tongue came out to moisten her dry lips. “But—”

  “Of course it couldn’t have been Helena,” I said. “I always knew that. Remember, the first attempt on Dr. Hilton took place in Boston, and Nanny knew then who it was. And yet when you came here, Nanny came with you. She’d never have left Dr. Hilton if she knew she was leaving a would-be murderer with him. There was only one reason why she would have come here with you. She came because the would-be murderer came too.”

  Rosalind’s light body swayed.

  I said: “I’m sorry. I’m terrible sorry. But it has to be done this way.”

  “But I don’t understand,” she said passionately. “I don’t understand.”

  “Think of that confession,” I said. “It wasn’t made up. That was real. It was as real as if it were a true confession—just with the details directed at Janie.”

  Her hand moved aimlessly over the shabby front of her frock.

  “That confession never sounded like Janie,” I said. “Janie, the gay little Florida girl with the fancy sweaters and the make-up, Janie who spent one week end with Vic and ended up hating him. Who was the real dreamer? Who’s the one who really lives inside of herself? Who hates the Hilton existence as much as you but keeps it all bottled up inside her and never rebels like you?”

  “Dr. Westlake—”

  I went on, feeling the hurt as if this were happening to me. “Your uncle George took the girls away from the lab because of something that happened between them and Vic. Vic swears he never had anything to do with Helena, that he despised her from the first moment he saw her. He says that. Why not believe him? Then what was the scandal about? Who was the girl Dr. Hilton was trying to keep from Vic? Who could it have been?”

  “Please,” stammered Rosalind. “Please.”

  “What did you tell me about her that first day? The girl who believed in one kiss, one man forever. Those were your own words. Don’t you see now who that confession really sounds like? Janie’s death was an improvisation, something decided upon suddenly, a plan that came suddenly with the emotion that came with it. Helena knew all along that Vic had been carrying on with Janie. That was nothing new to her. But Perdita had never known, not till that moment last night when Helena came out with it. We don’t know exactly what happened at the lab with Vic. But we know Perdita. Maybe he was just nice to her. Maybe he just kissed her. Maybe there was never anything more than that. But that would be enough for Perdita. She could weave that in her mind into The Great Romance. Maybe, from then on, she was sure that it was to be Perdita and Vic for ever—once Dr. Hilton was dead. Maybe she never dreamed Vic was what he is. And then, last night, when Helena talked, she suddenly sees the truth. Everything she had built up was a dream. Vic was a heel. And Janie was worse. Janie was the woman who had stolen Vic from her. Can’t you see her then deciding to kill Janie, to end the whole thing like that? Don’t you see? Isn’t that the only way it can fit—with Perdita, who could imitate people better than you could, with Perdita, who didn’t live in this world at all but lived in her ‘thinking’?”

  “I can’t believe it.” Rosalind’s voice was harsh, wild. “I won’t believe it.”

  “You should. It was you who gave me the clue days ago. I should have guessed then. What did you hear when you listened outside the door to Nanny talking to the murderer? What did Nanny say? ‘You’re indeed a lost one.’ Lost one. Nanny had a book. I found it. A book telling what names meant. Nanny knew what ‘Perdita’ meant. Perdita—the lost one.”

  Rosalind’s eyes blazed at me, half despairing, half hating me.

  “Why?” she whispered. “Why did you make believe it was Vic? Why did you send her to Vic?”

  “Because in that strange, make-believe way of the confession, she loves him. If she thinks Vic’s in danger maybe—”

  I stopped. Rosalind stood for a moment, hunched, defeated. Then with a sudden, whimpering “Perdita,” she pushed past me and ran down the stairs out of the attic.

  I followed, feeling awful. Rosalind was dashing down the passage to her own room. I went after her. She slammed the door, but I opened it and stepped inside.

  And then, on the threshold, I stopped dead. Rosalind wasn’t there alone. There was someone else standing in front of the mirror, a girl in a smart green sweater and a close-fitting gray skirt. It was like a scene in a dream repeating itself. Only now it was different, because the figure at the mirror turned and, this time, it was Perdita.

  I hadn’t expected it this way. It was going to be worse, much worse than I had ever dreamed.

  Perdita was standing quite still, in the clothes she had never been allowed to wear. In her hand was a small scent bottle. There was lipstick on her mouth, a bold magenta lipstick which heightened the pallor of her cheeks and the bright excitement of her eyes. She held herself straight with an elegance, a dash.

  “Perdita,” said Rosalind brokenly. “Perdita.”

  Perdita was calm with the exaggerated poise of a heroine in a book. And I could tell that she was thinking of herself that way. Here was a new, a last make-believe. And she had dressed herself up for it, dreamed herself into it.

  “He knows, doesn’t he, Rosalind?” she said. “Dr. Westlake knows. He just made that up about Helena and Vic.”

  Rosalind was crying now. Perdita put out a hand to comfort her.

  It was the gracious, mellow gesture of a worldly wise woman in a book, and it was almost more than I could bear.

  “You mustn’t worry, dear. It’s all over now. And I’m glad. You see, it didn’t work. Nothing came out the way I thought it would. I thought it could be me and Vic. I never knew the real Vic. I never knew about Janie. It was frightful finding out and, in the frightfulness, I did—did that to Janie. I see now. It was all a nightmare, and I’m just something out of a nightmare too.”

  Rosalind was weeping hopelessly. Perdita stroked her hair. “Rosalind, darling, don’t cry. It’ll be all right for you. They made a monster out of me—Mother, Uncle. But you can get away. They can’t make a monster out of you.”

  She turned then and stared straight at me from those green, luminous eyes. The power in her was terribly real, and yet she herself was terribly unreal.

  “I’m glad you found out, Dr. Westlake.”

  My gaze was fixed in fascination on the scent bottle in her hand. I tried desperately to think of something to say. I opened my mouth, and then suddenly everything was different because the door was pushed open and Mrs. Lanchester swept in.

  There was nothing I could do now. This was beyond my control. Emily Lanchester was dressed in black, a black that was tastefully mournful and yet becoming. Her finely chiseled features had never been more beautiful; her slender figure had never been shown off to such advantage. And her blue eyes, settling on Perdita, were cold and grim as stone.

  Mrs. Lanchester did not seem to see me. None of them was seeing me any more. This was the inevitable family end of the family tragedy.

  “Perdita!” exploded Mrs. Lanchester. “Today of all days. Perdita!”

  Her daughter stared at her without moving a muscle of her face.

  “Perdita!�
� Mrs. Lanchester’s voice became almost shrill. “Take off those disgusting garments at once.”

  Perdita’s face did change then. Slowly the corners of her mouthed twitched and she was laughing, a clear, defiant laugh.

  “Perdita.”

  But Perdita was still laughing. Mrs. Lanchester took a swift step forward. In that same moment, Perdita flashed the scent bottle to her mouth.

  That had been the moment for which I had been waiting in unbearable suspense. But now it had happened, in spite of the decision I had already made, I sprang forward to stop her. So did Rosalind. But Perdita backed away from us, still staring at her mother, still laughing.

  And, as she backed, her face changed again. Her eyes flickered; her lips were distorted; the laughter was stifled in a harsh gasp for breath; and she crumpled up and fell forward onto the floor.

  Dimly I was conscious of my own voice saying: “It’s better this way. Don’t you see? It’s the only possible end.” Dimly I was conscious of Mrs. Lanchester, black, tall, frozen into astounded stillness.

  But it was Rosalind who brought me back to the cruel reality of the moment. Her face flushed and tear-stained, she was glaring at her mother with a bitterness and an understanding that were terrifying in a girl so young.

  “Look,” she said. “Look what you’ve done.”

  Mrs. Lanchester’s hand fluttered out aimlessly, as if searching for some support that was not there. She dropped onto the edge of the bed and sat staring blindly in front of her.

  “Look,” repeated Rosalind in a cold, tight voice. “Ever since we were born, you’ve been building to this. Now it’s happened. Look.”

  “Rosalind—” faltered Mrs. Lanchester.

  “Make a scene of it. Go on. The daughter you brought up with such tender care to be a lady and a lover of the Arts!” Rosalind laughed. “You with your sham culture, your sham sweetness, and your little mental whips. Thank God she lived long enough to laugh at you.”

  She turned to Perdita. The tears were still in her eyes. She dropped at her sister’s side, clutching her hand.

  “Don’t worry, Perdita. I’m going and I won’t take a cent of the Hilton money. I’m going away—far, far away from them all. I’ll be all right, Perdita. I’m going away….”

  And that was the last I saw of the Lanchesters.

  Kenmore was settling down to November. There had been a time when I thought I would never forget that final, terrible scene at the Hiltons’. But already, after a few months, the memory was fading. It was amazing how effective the news blackout, directed from Washington and Boston, had been. The valley had gossiped a little at the sudden departure from the Hilton house. From time to time there was still ventured at the general store a dark hint at something “we was never told about.” But that was all that remained of the Lanchesters. Already their new, brief story was vanishing to make way once again for the older and far more interesting legend of Vice-President Hilton and Rudyard Kipling (or was it Oscar Wilde?).

  It was almost dinnertime when Dawn and Hamish erupted into the living room.

  “How was the lesson today?” I said.

  Dawn grinned enthusiastically. “Oh, it was wonderful. Mrs. Graebner is wonderful.” She put her violin case down on the floor. “You know, Daddy, I’ve been thinking. Lizzle and that A natural, all the things she said—they were awfully silly.”

  “They were?”

  Dawn nodded and, after a moment’s reflection, added: “The Lanchesters were silly too. I’m awfully glad they all shut up their houses and went away.”

  She squatted down in front of the fire with Hamish at her side, holding her hands to the flames.

  “Mrs. Graebner’s so wonderful, Daddy. She’s got some rabbits. Some beautiful, white Angora rabbits with pink eyes. And she’s so beautiful too—round and kind of like a rabbit with that little twitchy nose and those eyes that are almost pink behind the pince-nez on a chain.”

  She jumped up and came to me, her face shining with a crusader’s zeal.

  “Daddy, I’ve been thinking. Mrs. Graebner’s all alone. I mean, except for the rabbits. There never seems to be a Mr. Graebner around. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you—”

  I bent forward and ruffled her hair.

  “This,” I said, “is where I came in.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Doctor Westlake Mysteries

  CHAPTER I

  “Two, two the lily-white boys,

  Clothed all in green-O.

  One is one

  And all alone

  And ever more shall be-O.”

  My daughter Dawn was shrilling this snatch of the old ballad she had picked up from Lorie Bray as we climbed the steep maple-fringed drive to the Bray house. She had been singing it, on and off, all day. It was beginning to get on my nerves.

  “Don’t you know any other songs?” I asked mildly.

  “Of course I do. Hundreds of them. Millions of them. Would you like me to sing ‘The Rose of Tralee’?”

  “Not very much.”

  My daughter tilted back her fair head, started with an appalling Irish accent to yell “The Rose of Tralee,” and then stopped. “Mrs. Bray’s still in New York, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful? Then she won’t kiss me and smell.”

  “Smell?”

  “You shouldn’t smell in the country. Smell of perfume, I mean.” At twelve, my daughter had developed a sternly New England disapproval of frivolous city luxury. “Mrs. Stone never smells—except maybe sometimes of bone meal when she’s been fertilizing her delphiniums.”

  In her individual way Dawn had expressed the secret sentiments of Skipton in general concerning Mrs. Ernesta Bray. No one else, of course, would have dared to put their feelings into words, for Ernesta was the undisputed queen of the community and above criticism. But, although Dawn and I had left our native Kenmore to vacation in neighboring Skipton only a few weeks before, I had already realized that Ernesta held her subjects’ loyalty by bribery and brilliance rather than by affection.

  The inhabitants of Skipton were dazzled by her luxurious house and kaleidoscopic wardrobe, but inwardly their dour Massachusetts frugality resented the spectacle of a woman who dared to enjoy her wealth and who managed, in spite of her New York elegance, to grow finer roses than theirs and, even in her smart Fifth Avenue shoes, to outwalk them on any country hike.

  The attitude of Skipton’s Reverend Jessup was typical. In the name of his small congregation he had accepted with obsequious gratitude Ernesta’s gift to the church of a Hammond organ, but both he and Miss Love Drummond, who had for twenty years played the music for the services, were not above complaining in camera that Ernesta had subsequently felt it her right to command difficult Bach for the voluntaries instead of the easier and, surely, much more tuneful improvisations which Miss Drummond had been accustomed to offer each Sunday. But, whatever their private reservations, Skipton dutifully listened to Bach and even, at Ernesta’s insistence, made a pretense of leafing through the New Yorker and Harper’s Bazaar.

  Dutifully, too, the so-called gentry, or “our type of people” as Ernesta called them, kept every Saturday evening free from all other sociabilities to attend Ernesta’s picnics. After all, smoked turkey and Rhine wine, properly chilled, were not found growing on shadbushes. But in its heart, even as it wolfed Ernesta’s exotic delicacies, Skipton consoled its pride with the knowledge that baked beans, or just possibly sausages, formed the only seemly New England diet for an al fresco meal, and that dear Ernesta—so generous—didn’t quite understand how country people really lived.

  After five seasons of Ernesta, however, the revolutionary spark, never very formidable, had almost flickered out. Ernesta was not only richer, she was also far more dynamic, colorful, and aggressive than any of her neighbors, and they knew it. Even her poorer but more authentic sister, Phoebe Stone, was beginning to forget the delightfully rustic days before Ernesta’s arrival when she, with her own mo
dest teas and her spritely local gossip, had been sole arbitrix elegantiarum. The battle was already won. Skipton belonged to Ernesta Bray—body and soul.

  So much so that, even in her temporary absence, the ritualistic Saturday picnic, which no one, including her daughter Lorie, particularly wanted, was to be held as a matter of course.

  A curve in the broad well-tended drive brought Ernesta’s house into view. Before Ernesta had bought it, it had been just another of the unassuming rambling farmhouses typical of Skipton. But an imported architect and an imported landscape gardener had transformed it into a sleek mansion which could have held its head high in the smartest sections of Long Island. Gay, un-Skiptonish awnings in white and maroon stripes shaded the windows, and a terra-cotta-bricked terrace strewn with Italian stone benches and carved flower urns stretched along its façade, commanding a dramatic view down a sharply sloping lawn to the village of Skipton, which lay below, white and virginal on the willow-bordered bank of the Konapic River.

  When Dawn and I reached the terrace we found Lorie, Ernesta’s twenty-year-old daughter, alone. The de luxe picnic baskets, Ernesta’s weekly culinary bribe to the community, were standing ready to be carried to the special picnic ground which, complete with unnecessary barbecue pit, had been created by the landscape architect. A silver cocktail shaker and exquisite crystal glasses stood on one of the wrought-iron tables.

  Lorie was wearing a dusty pink slack suit which was faultlessly and expensively cut, but which, like all the clothes bought her by her mother, looked faintly ill-at-ease on her.

  “Hello, Dawn. Hello, Dr. Westlake. Have a martini.” She laughed self-consciously. “They won’t be as good as Mother’s, but they’re the best I can manage.”

  Years ago Lorie Bray must have decided that she would never be able to do anything as well as her mother, whom she thought the most talented and admirable woman in the world. This excessive worship of Ernesta had given her an equally excessive conviction of her own inferiority which made her awkward and insecure when she could have been attractive. For she was intelligent and almost beautiful in a thin, straight way, with clear features and a mane of almost platinum hair.