The Transcendental Murder hk-1

by Jane Langton

  "I don't play tennis," he growled. He had to get out of here. He couldn't very well tell her he was about to go out and arrest her brother, could he? What was the matter with the girl anyway? Didn't it matter to her that her father was dead and her mother was in the looney-bin and that it was he himself, Homer Kelly, who was doing his best to clap her brother in a condemned cell? And besides, there was something strange about Rowena anyhow. She was a dish, all right, a real dish, but lately he had begun to have the queerest feeling when he was with her, as though something had been sort of pulled down over his head. She made you feel muffled or something, as though you had a scarf wrapped around you, or a gag shoved down your throat. Homer mumbled his excuses and made his escape, leaving behind him a clumsy assortment of people, crowded between the door and the cash register—one glamorous dish, one frightened old librarian, one bona fide slobbering sex maniac and one thoroughly miserable young woman.

  *46*

  I will come as near to lying as you can drive a coach-and-four. —Henry Thoreau

  Mrs. Bewley was sweeping the steps when Jimmy's official car rolled up the drive. When she saw Homer she beamed at him and pulled a batch of baseball cards out of her apron pocket. (Jesus had been sending her messages about the Red Sox and the Yankees.) "I'VE BEEN SAVING THEM JUST FOR YOU."

  Homer thanked her profusely, pressed her hand and inquired for Mr. Goss at the top of his lungs. "IN THE BARN," screamed Mrs. Bewley.

  The barn was back down the driveway near the road. They walked into the cool dark square of the open door and called for Charley, but there was no answer. Dolly, the big brown mare, stood in her stall, looking at them with her large eyes. Jimmy rubbed her nose and told her he wished she could talk. Dolly bobbed her head as though she understood, and stretched her neck and licked his face.

  Homer looked at Dolly. Then he slapped his brow. "Oh, for God's sake, Jimmy, these old-fashioned Yankees. When I said 'Goss,' Mrs. Bewley thought I said 'hoss'..." They walked back to the big house and finally found Charley out in back working in his garden. He was pulling weeds. He gave a start when their shadows fell across the ground in front of him, and stood up. Homer looked at the honest dirt on Charley's knees and had a misgiving. It just didn't seem possible, there under the hot July sun, to put together the gardener and the murderer. But then he remembered that this gardener had been doing a different kind of planting on April 19th, and he put away the misgiving.

  Charley saw something in their faces. He started to talk before they could open their mouths. "You know," he said, standing up beside his twigged pea vines with a bunch of weeds in his hand, "this reminds me of the times when Philip and I were kids, and we used to have to go into Boston to the dentist. I was always scared to death. And the worst part wasn't having your teeth fixed, it was sitting in the waiting room, waiting for your turn. I couldn't even read the comic books. So look here, Kelly, make up your mind, will you? I want to get out of the waiting room. These comic books are terrible."

  Homer said nothing. Jimmy felt awful. He shifted his eyes to Charley's garden. "What kind of a crop have you got here, Charley?" he said.

  "Oh, tomatoes, summer squash, scallions, carrots, oak-leaf lettuce, just the usual. Those are radishes over there. We don't bother with corn because the Hands always let us help ourselves."

  "Are you sure you didn't plant any corn this year, Charley?" said Homer.

  Charley's glance turned slowly from his radishes to Homer's grim face, and met his accusing eyes. So it was true, he was out of the waiting room. But he made a half-hearted attempt to face it out anyway, convinced of failure. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean we've been bringing in the sheaves, Charley, and one of them is a mighty funny-looking ear of corn. Tom Hand ran across your father's old fowling piece when he was harrowing his cornfield. We have the testimony of a witness that you buried it there, Charley, on the nineteenth of April."

  "You mean somebody saw me?"

  "Somebody did."

  Charley gave up then. "Okay. I hate lying. I'm no good at it anyhow. Sit down." He gestured at the grass and squatted cross-legged on it. "I suppose it was Teddy. I thought I saw him out there on the river. He had his binoculars on me, did he? Has he come back? No? Well, all right, I did bury the damn gun. Look, I'll tell you every single thing I did and thought the whole day, start to finish. You saw me make my famous ride. Well, after that was over, I rode Dolly home, put her in the barn, walked up to my room and changed clothes. It was then about 11:30. I left my Prescott outfit there on a chair, all complete, hat, boots, wig, everything. And then I found this crazy note on my pillow. 'Meet me in the gravel pit,' it said, 'between 12:30 and 1:30...'"

  "Meet who? Who signed it?"

  "Does it matter? I destroyed it, anyway, the way it said to do, and then after lunch I spent that whole hour hanging around the gravel pit. Since nobody saw me and I saw nobody, it isn't any good as an alibi anyway."

  "Was it from Mary Morgan?" said Homer. "Your brother got one, too."

  "He did? From Mary?" Charley looked up at Annursnac Hill, his face vacant. "Yes, it was from Mary."

  "Then what did you do?" prompted Jimmy.

  "Well, I came in the house shortly after 1:30, and found my mother weeping and having hysterics. She had just hung up the telephone. Some fool had called her up and told her that her son had killed her husband with a musket at the bridge and gotten away. She rushed up to me and screamed it at me. Well, I assumed, of course, that Philip must have had a fit and done something nutty. I didn't know then that he had been wearing my outfit, and that he was actually trying to lay the blame on me. All I could think of was the danger he was in. I left my mother weeping in her chair and ran to the living room to see if the musket was there. It was still in its place in the cupboard. I didn't see how it could have been the murder weapon because there it was. But I knew one thing that you didn't know. You saw Philip fire the gun the night before, and then you saw my father clean the inside of the gun and wipe it all off on the outside. But I had seen Philip using that same gun that very morning. He came home from the sunrise salute in a sour mood, walked into the house, grabbed up the musket and went out again. Said he was going out to the gravel pits to whale away at a tin can. Said he had to get something out of his system."

  "That would account for the missing musket balls. And the dirty barrel of the gun. Go ahead."

  "Anyway, I knew he had been the last to fire the gun, and that his fingerprints were all over it again. So I decided to get rid of it."

  "Why didn't you just wipe the prints off again?"

  "I did. But I was sure there'd be latent prints, or something. or some way of tracing it to Philip—you people have such scientific methods now."

  "You do us too much credit," said Homer wryly. "So then you buried it in Tom's plowed field."

  "It was the first thing I thought of. I had seen Tom out there with the planter on my ride back home. If it had worked for the Minutemen I thought it might work for me. I ran to the barn for a spade, and then I stood in the trees along the edge of the field to see if Tom was gone. He was, so I buried the gun."

  "Why didn't you dig it up again later? You must have known it would get plowed up again when the corn was ripe."

  "This will sound silly to you, but I couldn't remember for the life of me where I had buried it. All I had on my mind was the idea of getting it under fast. It was out in the middle there somewhere. And I kept the line of trees along the road between me and the Hands' house. Anyway, my interest in saving Philip's neck began to fade a bit, later on."

  "Then you went back to the barn and hung up the spade and came running up to Jimmy as he drove in. Right?"

  "That's right."

  Homer's small eyes darkened. "Isn't it a whole lot more likely, Charley, that you were burying the gun you yourself had used to kill your father?" Homer picked up a stick and began drawing circles in the dirt and talking about Ptolemy and Copernicus. Jimmy couldn't believe his ears. What was Kelly up to no
w?

  "Now here's another diagram, Charley. Copernicus put the sun in the middle instead of the earth, and then everything became much simpler. Instead of Ptolemy's crazy orbits with epicycles all over them, Copernicus had the planets moving in simple circles. It was simpler, you see, everything was simpler. Now suppose we do the same thing. Let's take everybody else out of the center of suspicion and put Charley Goss in there. Instantly all confusion vanishes. Isn't that right, Charley? You rode to the bridge a second time, wearing your own outfit, you killed your father and then came home and buried the murder weapon. So simple, like the system of Copernicus. But Teddy Staples saw you. Charley, where is Teddy? What have you done with Teddy?"

  Charley got up, all color drained from his face. He threw his handful of weeds to the ground. "I swear to you, I don't know what's happened to Teddy. I swear ... But what's the use? You don't believe me, no matter what I say. It's all gone to hell anyhow."

  Homer went in the house to telephone the District Attorney. "Congratulations," said the D.A. He paused to pass the word along to Miss O'Toole. "That's great. And it just proves the rightness of holding off long enough. And I've got to hand it to you, pulling a confession with a scrappy piece of evidence like that Teddy's diary. Yes, sir, Kelly, my boy, I've got to hand it to you."

  "It's not a confession. All he admits doing is burying the gun. But I'm about to detain him for a preliminary hearing. Is that all right with you?"

  "Sure, it is. Hey, no it isn't either. Couldn't you just hold off till tomorrow?"

  "No, I couldn't. What for?"

  "Well, look here, Homer, old man. You know how the papers have been after me, you know me, "The Do-Nothing D.A.'? Well, here's what I want those bastards to do. I want them out there on the front steps of the Goss mansion taking a picture of me, and of you and Jimmy, too, naturally, looking on while one of your boys clamps handcuffs on Charley. How about it? Let's make those bums eat crow. Besides, I sure need a little glory—this being an election year, you know how it is."

  "Well, come on out here right now, and bring them with you."

  "Aw, Homer, it's practically five o'clock. And you know me. I'm a family man. Besides, I bet it's going to be one of those misty nights. Do those Gosses have cows? You know how scared I am of cows. What's that, Miss O'Toole?" Homer, exasperated, could hear whimpering sounds from Miss O'Toole. Then the D.A. barked into the telephone. "You heard me, didn't you, Kelly? Who's boss around here, anyway? Put a man on Charley, and I'll be out first thing in the morning."

  "But, sir," said Homer. The receiver at the other end of the line banged down, and Homer stood looking at the mouthpiece, enraged. Just because the stupid ass was petrified of the country. Homer shouted into the empty telephone line, "They haven't even got any cows, you crazy fool."

  *47*

  How many water bugs make a quorum? —Henry Thoreau

  Howard Swan was on the line for Jimmy when they got back to the station. "Hello, Jimmy? I just want you to pass the word along to everybody there at Fire and Police to try and get to the Special Town Meeting tonight. The Armory. You know how hard it is to get a quorum in the middle of the summer, and the Water Commissioners are mighty anxious to get this motion through."

  "Sure, I'll pass the word along. Tell me again what the meeting's for?"

  "To vote $80,000 for resetting the pipe to Sandy Pond in Lincoln. Don't you know about the wet mess we've got there in the Milldam? All that melting snow in the spring, and the spring rains, and then so much rain on and off the last six weeks—the water table rose eighteen inches and overflowed the dam there in Lincoln, washed out the ditch, loosened up the pipe, and the water's coming down here like Noah's flood. Make all your boys turn out, and bring their wives."

  "You bet," said Jimmy. Then he hung up and called up Mary at the library to tell her about Charley Goss. It looked like everything was winding up.

  Attendance at Town Meeting was not only a civic duty, it was an entertainment. Everyone who had heard about it came and nearly filled up the Armory. Mary sat near the back of the hall with Gwen and Tom and old Mrs. Hand. Charley Goss was sitting way up near the front with his two sisters. Mary saw Harold Vine, wearing his own clothes rather than a uniform, slip into the row behind them and sit a seat or two away from Charley. Philip Goss, as a member of the Finance Committee, was sitting at a long table in front of the stage with the selectmen. Alice Herpitude scurried into the empty aisle seat next to Harold Vine just as Howard Swan, the Moderator, lifted his gavel to call the meeting to order. There was a noisy pause after the opening prayer while more latecomers were seated, and Mary saw Rowena Goss turn around and radiate at Miss Herpitude. Rowena had her hand out showing Alice something. It was a ring, a giant ring on her left hand. So that was the way the land lay. Homer Kelly was handing out nice little pretty gifts in all directions. A nice spell in jail for Charley, with a pretty little electric chair at the end. A nice pretty ring for Charley's sister, Rowena. And a nice pretty stab in the back for you, my girl. Mary was horrified to discover that her eyes were filmed over with tears. Dimly she saw Homer bungle over a chair on the stage and sit down in his rumpled suit and ghastly tie with a group of other nonvoting observers. Through her head ran some bitter words of Emily's—finally no golden fleece, Jason sham, too. One of the other nonvoters on the stage was Roland Granville-Galsworthy. Oh, naturally. The lovely man was slumped down in his chair, his lower jaw drooping down.

  Then Mary saw Mrs. Bewley, and she managed to cheer up. God bless thee, Mrs. Bewley, and thrice bless thy fur piece, Mrs. Bewley. Mrs. Bewley was sitting way up front. She was wearing her Clothe-the-Naked dress, and the sharp face of the squirrel around her neck looked clever enough to cast a vote of its own. Mrs. Bewley couldn't hear anything, but she voted both aye and nay on everything anyway.

  After a few minor matters had been disposed of, the main article of the evening was moved and seconded. The topic at issue was not very controversial, but a few ex-commissioners of Public Works had objections to make or brilliant alternative solutions, and a few citizens opposed to any rise in the tax rate attempted to fog the issue, suggesting that the cost of the new pipe be laid at the town of Lincoln's door, since it was their dam which was at fault. There were speeches, amendments, motions and countermotions. Howard Swan untangled smoothly all the parliamentary snarls as they came along and moved adroitly toward a vote on the main motion. But then at the last minute there was an emotional speech from a member of the Save Walden Committee. If, he said, the town of Concord was gong to spend all that money anyway, why not use it to turn Walden Pond into a water supply, appeal to the State of Massachusetts to remove the shameful public bathing beach there, and vote at the same time to take away the trailer park and the town dump, thus restoring Walden to its original quiet beauty and creating not only an adequate water supply for the town of Concord but a true shrine to the memory of Henry Thoreau? There was a silence as the justice of this double-barreled appeal was taken in, then a burst of applause. A couple of citizens sprang to their feet to turn the idea into a motion. But the Moderator ignored them and swiftly recognized Philip Goss, who had merely nodded his head and raised an eyebrow. Philip rose and turned to address the town.

  Mary had heard him speak before. But she had forgotten (she had forgotten!) how good he was at it. Dreamily she stopped listening to him and let his voice flow over her. It was a wonderful voice, liquid and smooth. Philip spoke in long polished sentences, with that aristocratic accent that stopped just short of Rowena's boarding-school affectations. "Aristoplatitudinous uppercrassmanship," that was what Homer had called it. Typical Kelly sour grapes.

  Philip's melodious voice flowed on and on. He spoke of the generous offer of the town of Lincoln to lower the height of its dam, he mentioned the lengthy history of mutual benefit and good will between the two towns, he described the long and thoughtful consideration given to the matter by the boards of both towns, and explained the relatively inexpensive cost of the laying of the new pipe comp
ared to the cost of any other solution, excellent as those solutions might be (gently laying aside alternatives). He praised the diligence and integrity of the members of the Concord Department of Public Works. He never said "I" or even "we." His verbs were always in the passive voice, and everything was "in the best interests of the Town as a whole." His audience was persuaded by his high tone, his logic, his sober thoughtfulness, his lack of obvious emotion, his role as an impersonal and perfect instrument of the legal arm of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, incapable of wrong opinion, utterly to be depended upon. Mary found herself staring at Philip in fascination, barely listening. This man had proposed marriage to her once. She had turned him down, then, without hesitation. But look at him! He could certainly weave a spell. That was all it was, of course, a spell. Mary felt sure that she could snap out of it whenever she wanted to. But not now...

  The motion passed. Howard Swan called immediately for a motion to adjourn, and the meeting was over. Afterwards in the confusion of standing up and shuffling out there were the usual expressions of satisfaction with the results of the meeting and praise for the competence of the Moderator, whose efficiency had become legendary. If there were one or two who grumbled that their points of view had been overridden, their complaints were lost in the buzz of general approval. "Best dam moderator we ever had. Look at that—we got through the whole warrant by 9:30."

  Mary found Alice Herpitude clinging to her arm. "Mary," she said, "what about Charley Goss? Do you really think the police are going to arrest him?"

  Mary mumbled that she was afraid so. Miss Herpitude tightened her hold on her arm. And then her next remark suddenly rang out loud and clear across the entire hall. There had been a sudden rap of Howard Swan's gavel to bring order to the hall again, so that he could ask the knot of people blocking the entrances to move on out. But Alice, her frightened eyes on Mary's, her hands tightening on Mary's sleeves, failed to hear, and it was her voice instead of the Moderator's that carried across the room. "I've got to tell you something, Mary, I've got to..." Everyone turned to stare at her, and she stopped, her hand going to her trembling lips. Then Grandmaw Hand put her arm around her friend's waist and drew her away. Howard Swan made his announcement, and Mary looked around for Gwen. But instead of Gwen she found Philip Goss at her side. She turned hot and red. Had Philip seen something different in her face as she had sat listening to him? He took her hand and pressed it. He was offering to drive her home. Out of the corner of her eye Mary could see Homer with Rowena. Charley was sloping off towards the stage exit. Had Harold Vine seen him? Yes, he was ambling out that way, too. "I-I thought I might go home with Alice..." But Alice Herpitude was there, staring up at Philip, her eyes blinking rapidly. Then she looked at Mary. "Oh, no. No, dear. I just—I just think I'll go back to the library and do a little work there."