The Boy at the Keyhole

by Stephen Giles

  Ruth bent down and calmly returned the receiver to its rightful place. “I thought you’d disgraced yourself enough for one night, but you’re outdoing yourself, Samuel.”

  The boy’s hands were on his hips, his breaths rapid. “That was Uncle Felix and don’t say it wasn’t.”

  “Why would I?” Ruth patted her hair.

  “I want to talk to him. I’m going to tell him all about you.”

  “Are you?”

  Samuel reached for the phone, snatching it up. “I’ll ring him right now.”

  “Go ahead. He’s wasn’t calling from home.” Ruth looked unbearably superior.

  Samuel frowned; he couldn’t help it. “Where is he?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “He rang to speak to me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ruth sighed. “He was asking after your mother.”

  “I heard everything.” The fear had fallen away and the anger swept Samuel up, giving him the courage to look her in the eye. “You were right, Ruth, this house will tell you its secrets if you listen carefully enough. You told Uncle Felix I wasn’t here. You are the one who lies as easily as tying your shoelaces!”

  If Ruth was shocked by his boldness she didn’t show it.

  “Can you blame me for that?” She met Samuel’s glare, and if the boy hadn’t known better, he might have thought she was regarding him with heartfelt pity. “Your mind is afflicted, Samuel, and it seems to get worse by the day. Lord only knows what your uncle would make of the madness coming out of your mouth. Do you suppose I could protect you from his good intentions? You would be put away and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.”

  “I am not sick.”

  “Oh, but you are. How else can you explain it? Does a well child deceive and sneak about? Does a well child listen at doors in the dead of night? Does a well child ring his uncle and whisper about murderous conspiracies? Oh, yes, I know all about that. And finally, does a well child truly believe his mother has been chopped up in the cellar?”

  Ruth’s words could hollow out just about any certainty and they had felled Samuel more times than he could count. The idea that he was ill—that his mind was sickly and that he was imagining things that weren’t so—was a powerful one. It might have stilled the urgent voice in his head if not for one very important thing.

  “The tea tin,” said Samuel softly.

  This caused Ruth to scowl. “The what?”

  “Mother’s tea tin.” Samuel stepped toward her. “The one that had her very best jewels in it. The earrings from when she married Father and the ruby necklace he gave her when I was born.”

  She understood now and it played upon her face.

  “They were there just a few days ago,” Samuel said, “and now they’re gone.”

  “How would you know what was or wasn’t in your mother’s bedroom? That door is locked.” It was just like Ruth to cling to one small part of this, grasping it tightly.

  Samuel dug the key out of his pocket and let it fall onto the floor. What use was it now? “You took those jewels, Ruth. You weren’t looking for your pin, were you? It was Mother’s necklace and earrings you were after.”

  “I did lose my pin, whether you want to believe it or not. As for the jewelry...” Samuel waited for her to deny it or turn things around and accuse him of being the thief. But she didn’t. Instead, she said, “I took them.”

  “You stole them! They don’t belong to you and you stole them!”

  The soft light coming from the sitting room caused Ruth’s hair to flare and flicker. “Why do I bake so much shortbread?”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed to a slit. What did that have to do with anything? She was trying to confuse him and he wouldn’t let her.

  “Why do I bake hundreds of shortbread every week?” said Ruth again. “I’m asking you a question, Samuel.”

  “You sell them at the market,” said Samuel sharply. “What has that got to do with—?”

  “And why do you suppose the head housekeeper of such a fine home is going to the market every Saturday and selling shortbread and cake like some sort of penniless widow?”

  Samuel refused to answer her.

  “It’s the same reason I had to let Olive go and why I can’t pay William his wages or the butcher’s bill. The money your mother left when she sailed for America is gone. I’ve hardly two pennies to rub together and the only way I can put food on the table is by selling what I bake at the market. There’s bills and expenses...this is a grand house but there’s no money to keep it running.”

  The story Ruth was trying to weave was plain enough, but Samuel wouldn’t let her wrap the tale around him. “You stole from my mother.”

  “I did no such thing!” Ruth was shouting and her voice repeated all the way up to the domed ceiling. “Before your mother went away, she showed me where those jewels were hidden and left me the key to her door.” She glanced down at what was lying by Samuel’s feet. “The only key, or so I thought. She said if the money she left ran out, I was to sell those jewels.”

  “You’re lying!” Samuel’s words echoed just the same as Ruth’s had, which was reassuring. “Mother loved those jewels best of all. She told me so a hundred times and she has all kinds of other necklaces and rings and earrings. Why wouldn’t she sell those instead of the ones Father had given her?”

  “Because they’re all gone, Samuel. Your mother sold almost everything last year after your father died. There was so much debt and your grandfather wouldn’t help. I’m sure you’ve noticed the vases and paintings and all the rest vanishing—here one day, gone the next. You’re right, your mother loved the necklace and earrings best of all. That’s why she left them until last. But when it’s money you need, things matter a lot less. And when you sell them, it’s not because you want to, but because there’s simply no other choice.”

  What Ruth was saying sounded true enough. Things had gone missing all over the house, Olive had been let go and William was complaining about his wages. Samuel had known about the troubles with money for some time and his mother never hid it from him. Sometimes it felt like that was all that she could talk about. And she was often away, visiting the steel mill in Lincolnshire or traveling all over to try and raise capital.

  So it made sense now. Why Ruth was in his mother’s bedroom churning through the drawer—she had been looking for the tin. But did that make her innocent? How was Samuel to know whether his mother had given Ruth permission to take those jewels? All he had was her word and what was that worth? Hadn’t she lied to stop him talking to Uncle Felix? Ruth said it was because Uncle Felix would know that Samuel was unwell, that he had a sickly mind, but he didn’t believe that. Ruth had done some awful things. His throat still burned from the glass he had swallowed. Glass that Ruth had baked into that cake, which was chocolate and his very favorite because she had wanted him to eat it, practically ordering him to gobble it down. And she hesitated, didn’t she? Right when she should have been running to help him, Ruth had looked over and...just stood there. That pause didn’t last for more than a second or two but he had seen it and he knew what it meant.

  “You tried to kill me.” He was nodding. “You wanted me to choke on that glass.”

  Ruth reached down and picked up the key. “It’s been a trying night and I think we’re both ready for bed. You may finish the psalm in the morning.”

  It was as if he hadn’t spoken. That was the worst part.

  Samuel thought of his mother, murdered at Ruth’s hand, and he wanted the hate to glisten in his eyes. “Joseph was right about everything. You killed my mother. You killed—”

  She moved swiftly, her hand flying out and catching his neck, pushing him against the wall. She squeezed his throat and Samuel’s fingers gripped her wrist, trying to pull her away. Then she looked at the tension in her hand, the plump veins, and it was as if she re
membered herself. Her grip slackened and Samuel’s head snapped forward. He took a gasp of air, just as Ruth’s hand slid down his chest and held him there. She was pressed close to him, her lips finding his ear. “I don’t want things to get unpleasant, I never do, but repeat that again and you’ll learn what I am capable of.”

  Samuel tried to get away but her hand was unmoving.

  “I know you aren’t well,” she whispered, “and I am trying to be merciful, but there are limits to what I will take and that is where we find ourselves. Perhaps I should call the doctor and let him decide what should be done with you. That mind of yours is turning against you, Samuel Clay, and I fear you’re beyond my reach now.”

  Ruth released her hold and pressed the key into his hand. “Put this back where you found it and take yourself up to bed.”

  She walked slowly from the hall, patting down her hair and making a sound that might have been an unhurried sigh. It drifted around the great hall like faraway music, and as Samuel stood there, shaking and catching his breath, he would almost swear that she was humming.

  27

  Waiting was the worst part. He knew Ruth would come to check on him, she always did, making sure he was tucked up in bed like he was supposed to be and wishing him a stern good-night. Samuel lay on his back, trying to arrange everything in his mind so it made sense. Ruth had done something awful to his mother, probably killed her, and she now knew that Samuel had figured it out. That’s why she put the glass in the chocolate cake. To get rid of him before he told anyone else. He wasn’t the one with the sickly mind. It was her. She was manic, a cold-blooded killer, and she meant to get rid of him so she could have the house to herself.

  This certainty wasn’t without its problems. Samuel’s father used to say that when you find one wrong thing in an ocean of right, it’s like a fly in the ointment. The postcards were the fly in the ointment—the one thing that raised doubt about Ruth’s guilt. They had come from America and they were written in his mother’s handwriting, the boy couldn’t deny that. Joseph said Ruth might know someone in America, a coconspirator, who was sending the cards for her. But how would that person know what his mother’s handwriting looked like?

  Samuel flinched as he swallowed, his throat still aching. He would call the police and tell them about Ruth. Surely they would be able to help him. They would know his mother hadn’t abandoned him with a monster like Ruth. That she hadn’t just left him there, while she went off to America to meet with those toffee-nosed bankers. They would know that something was wrong and that Ruth had done a dreadful thing to keep his mother away from him for all this time.

  Tears pooled in his eyes, spilling over, but he chased them away, grateful for the darkness. He wasn’t sad, he was angry, and that anger made his lips press tight together and his hands ball into fists. Everything was wrong and it was all Ruth’s fault. His rage had another source, too. Samuel knew that he had no proof. His mother wasn’t in the cellar or the woodshed. And everyone believed Ruth and her beastly lies. Mrs. Collins was the worst of them. She had laughed with Ruth about his mother being stabbed and her body hidden away. She thought it was the funniest thing, the silliest thing, she ever heard.

  The police would be the same, wouldn’t they? They’d probably laugh just like Mrs. Collins. What Samuel needed was proof, real proof, and luckily he knew where to get it. Hadn’t he seen Ruth through the keyhole, all hunched over, writing furiously? Joseph guessed that Ruth kept a diary in which she spelled out all her murderous deeds. The rightness of this theory sat in Samuel now like an old friend. Ruth was just the type and that diary would read like a confession. All he had to do was get hold of it and then everyone would know what she had done to his beautiful mother, gone one hundred and nineteen days.

  The minutes slipped by and Ruth didn’t come to check on him. Though his mind was a gale and his heart raged, in time, the angels of sleep drifted down and reached out their hands for him. His eyes had grown heavy by then, and though it wasn’t the time, the boy found there was no other choice than to reach back.

  * * *

  The landing above the hall rippled with morning light. It streamed in through the windows and poured across the wooden floors; even the walls were a shimmering gold and the marble pillars seemed to heave and swell, as if the sun was pouring into them. The light was so blinding, so impossibly golden, Samuel needed his hand to shield his eyes.

  He had seen her from his bedroom window, that’s why he was running toward the landing. He didn’t remember getting up, but he must have, and then wandered over to the window. That’s when he spotted her walking toward the house. So he ran all the way; his hand barely touched the banister as he came down the stairs.

  The front door was open, sunlight flooding in like a fog, and when it cleared, Samuel looked down and saw her floating into the hall as if on a breeze. She was wearing her favorite yellow dress with the ivy around the trim and her bags were clustered on the black-and-white checkered floor. She spotted him and her smile was magnificent. “It’s such a glorious morning,” she told him, “I decided to walk from the station.” Then she threw her arms out, her eyes only for him. “Oh, how I’ve missed my little man.”

  They hugged for the longest time, neither one of them wanting to let go. She smelled of lilies and mint and he could hear her crying and it was all because she had missed him dreadfully and was so happy to be home. Then she pulled back and held his face tenderly in her hands.

  “Samuel.” His mother’s bright smile began to dim. “Samuel?”

  Her hand slipped down to his shoulders and she started to shake him, her plump red lips faded to a thin line. “Samuel!”

  His eyes fluttered open and he squinted, putting a hand up to his eyes. Through the web of his fingers he could see her, sitting on the edge of his bed, the soft light from the bedside lamp bleeding across her face.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” said Ruth, though she didn’t sound sorry at all. “I didn’t want to leave things as they were.” She sighed and closed her eyes briefly. “We seem to be bringing out the worst in each other lately and it can’t continue, now can it?”

  Ruth was dressed in her robe and Samuel wondered if she was ill—her eyes were bloated, and while some of her hair was still twisted in a bun, long strands hung loose about her face. “Samuel, you mustn’t give in to the sickness in your mind. You must be stronger than these wicked thoughts whispering to you of murder and wrongdoing.”

  Ruth was leaning close to his face; her breath was hot with an acridness the boy thought might be vinegar. He presumed she had been sleeping because her words came out sluggishly and her eyes would close without warning and then spring open like she’d just had a fright.

  “I know the root of this problem, yes, indeed.” She waved her finger in front of Samuel’s face. “It’s that Joseph Collins who first put this nonsense into your head and don’t even try to deny it.”

  Samuel would have defended his best and only friend, but before he could, Ruth was talking again.

  “He’s a fool without a bit of common sense and shame on you for believing a word that comes out of his mouth. Is he responsible for that foolishness about the cellar?”

  Samuel shook his head.

  “Well, I don’t believe you, and I’m sure he’s also the reason you were snooping in the woodshed the other day.” Ruth saw the look of panic flash across Samuel’s face and nodded. “Oh, yes, William told me all about that. He thought it was hysterical, you poking about looking for buried treasure or some such thing. I hadn’t the stomach to tell him what you were really looking for.” Ruth rubbed her chin as if she had a great itch. “Deep down, Samuel, deep down inside you must know what’s true. You can’t really believe I could...that I murdered your mother?”

  The boy pictured his mother, as she had been in the dream, in her yellow dress, the sun all around her, so happy to be home. And he knew that it would never ha
ppen. “Yes.”

  “I see.” She sniffed. “Then tell me this, Samuel. Why did I do it? Why on earth would I have done such a thing? Your mother’s never been anything but fair and kind to me.”

  Normally when Ruth asked Samuel a question he would look inside of himself for the very thing that would upset her the least. But the right words, the ones she was hoping on, just wouldn’t come and all he was left with was the truth. “You murdered Mother because she was going to fire you.”

  Ruth gasped, though she was smirking. “Was she now? Might I ask why she was firing me?”

  “The money’s all gone. Olive had to be let go and Mother was letting you go, too, and you got very angry and did something, and maybe you didn’t even mean to do it, but you did and then you had to hide the awful truth or else you would hang.”

  “Let us say you’re right. Let us say your mother was going to let me go. Then what? Was she to take care of this house, clean and cook, look after you, and at the same time save the steel mill, not to mention keep it running?” Her eyes fluttered shut again. “Did you ever see your mother so much as boil an egg?”

  Samuel hadn’t.

  “You know well enough that she could hardly stay in one spot for more than a minute.” Ruth yawned and didn’t even cover her mouth. “I want you to think, really think, Samuel. Would your mother have let me go? The one person who keeps this house running so she is free to go where she pleases at the drop of a hat?”

  Samuel couldn’t deny the sense in all of that. But it didn’t mean Ruth was any less wicked. “Perhaps you do everything around here because you love this house,” he said. “You love it so much that you want it all for yourself and that’s why you killed Mother.”

  “Nonsense,” said Ruth with a soft chuckle.

  “And you took Mother’s jewels so that you could swan around like Lady Muck.”

  “Lady Muck?” She huffed. “Those jewels were taken to a man in Penzance while you were at school. He’ll send them on to London, where we’ll get the best price.”