The Reservoir

by John Milliken Thompson

  “She was a good girl,” Madison says, “and didn’t ought to end up like that.” He spits again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, I ’spect we’d best be going on. When should we come back for her?”

  “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days,” Richardson says. “Let me know if you need any more help with the arrangements.”

  “It’s all taken care of, but there won’t be any stone right off.” He looks square at Richardson as though challenging him. “That’ll come in due time.”

  In the early afternoon Richardson writes out an arrest warrant and tells Officer Birney they’re going on a little trip. In his late twenties, Birney has slicked-back hair and a boyish face. He speaks with a lisp, but Richardson has his eye on him for promotion to sergeant. “He’s liable to be slippery,” Richardson says. Birney raises his eyebrows, and Richardson says, “I mean with words. He’s a lawyer. I don’t think he’ll run off. He’s from good people down there. We’ll just bring him in quick, no fanfare. If we can get him to say anything, that’s fine too.”

  It doesn’t feel exactly right to Richardson, yet he has no choice but to haul this Cluverius in. The envelope with his name on it—unless there’s some other T. J. Cluverius out there—and her father’s and uncle’s statements point in this one direction. He’d thought he’d seen enough to last a career, but he has to admit curiosity about this fellow. The time to move is now, before the press gets any more excited and before Wren digs up something new and shows his hand. Whether Cluverius is really guilty—well, that’s not for him to decide.

  • CHAPTER EIGHT •

  JANE’S SERVANT, Lewis, has been with the Tunstall family since long before the war. He has slowed down in the past ten years, but every so often he likes to rise early and walk up to King and Queen Courthouse, fish in a bend in the river there, pick up Mrs. Tunstall’s mail, and catch a ride home. This generally means her mail arrives early. As it does on Wednesday, along with the Tuesday Dispatch.

  Jane has forgotten about the reservoir girl until she sees another article about her in the Tuesday paper. She runs her eyes over it, but suddenly stops at the name Fannie Lillian Madison.

  At that moment Tommie is out in the machine shop telling Willie about the house he wants to buy. It’s then that they hear the back porch bell ringing and Jane hollering.

  “What’s gotten into her waffle iron?” Willie asks.

  Tommie shakes his head, afraid to move from where he sits. “She probably wants us to catch a snake. Remember that rat snake she found in Miss Hillyard’s room? I thought she’d found Miss Hillyard in there with her head cut off the way she was hollering. I still don’t understand how it came to be in her hatbox.” Willie laughs and gives his brother a coy look. “I knew it was you all along,” Tommie says.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “And you made up that story about snakes being attracted to round places where they can nest. I ought to tell Aunt Jane right now.”

  “I wish you would go up there and see what the commotion’s about. She doesn’t sound right.”

  Tommie heads on up to the house. When he gets to the yard and sees his aunt on the back steps shaking the newspaper as if there were bugs in it, he begins to run. He knows what it is. He knows.

  She gives him the paper and he devours the article. “They haven’t said it’s definitely her. Who are these Dunstans?” he demands.

  “I don’t know. Sounds like they were neighbors of the Madisons. But why would they say ‘Fannie Lillian Madison’ if it wasn’t her? Tommie, I’m so worried. It just couldn’t be her, could it? She was supposed to be in Point Comfort. And, Lord, I just realized something.” Tommie does not take his eyes off the paper. “She was the one they said was pregnant. Dead in the reservoir and pregnant. You don’t suppose she was—”

  “What?”

  “Lying?”

  “You know she was capable of it,” Tommie says. Jane nods, then shakes her head as though she is agreeing to blasphemy. So that he can get away from Jane’s hysteria for a minute, Tommie says, “I’ll go tell Willie.” But his aunt won’t let go of him. “Aunt Jane,” he says, “you’re pale. I’ll tell Maria to come get you some aspirin. You need to sit down and catch your breath.” He bounds off the porch steps, then takes his time crossing the lawn. Jane calls for him to hurry.

  This had to come, sooner or later. So the story has not gone away—the headline was larger, announcing that “the case” remains cloudy. There was no mention of suicide, but neither was there talk of foul play. Yet. It’s disturbing news, but not devastating. Tommie forces himself into a mildly alarmed composure—yes, Jane has a right to be upset, but we know nothing definitive yet.

  Willie is lubricating the whetstone with a mouthful of tobacco juice and restarting the pedal when Tommie walks in. He glances up as he puts a scythe to the stone, sparks popping off. Tommie waits for him to stop, then goes over and puts a hand on his arm. “Well, don’t you want to know what Aunt Jane was fussing about?”

  “You’ll tell me if it’s important.”

  “It might be. There’s an article saying Lillie was the girl they found in the reservoir.”

  Willie pulls the blade and sits holding it as if he doesn’t know what it is. “In Richmond?”

  “That’s what it said.”

  “But her letter was written Saturday. That dudn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t, but it’s got Jane in a state, as you can imagine.”

  Willie looks at his brother. “What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know what to think. They must’ve made a mistake somehow.”

  “You didn’t see her up there, did you?”

  “I told you I haven’t seen her. Have you?”

  “You know I haven’t. What are you all nettled about?”

  “I’m just worried is all.” Tommie picks up an oiled whipsaw and flexes the snout, the hook teeth grinning at him.

  Willie waits for his brother to go on, but nothing comes. “I can’t believe she’d kill herself. That doesn’t seem like her. She’s too lighthearted.”

  “You never know what women are capable of doing.”

  Willie spits again on the stone, then he squats down, and Tommie sees that his brother’s face has turned gray. His eyes are huge and he can’t catch his breath. He’s saying the name, Tommie knows he is, but he’s too quiet to hear. “Lillie. It couldn’t be Lillie, could it?” Now Willie looks at his brother like he’s going to be sick.

  “I don’t think so,” Tommie says, returning his brother’s gaze, “but the paper says it is.”

  The smell of Lewis and Maria’s stove curls through the afternoon air—the cooking greens and wood smoke redolent of home. Tommie looks out past the shop door, where robins dart through the softening air, full of purpose. When Tommie and his brother were younger their father pointed to a flock of blackbirds, swirling like a seine, and told them that when he was a boy the sky would sometimes go black with pigeons for days—trees would be stained white, and you could fire one time into them and get enough birds for a week. “Things change,” he told them, but he didn’t seem happy about it.

  “We better go back up and see if Aunt Jane’s all right,” Willie says, and Tommie follows him up to the house. Tommie tries not to think about Lillie, but the more he tries the more she reappears in his mind, like the ghost girl along the driveway, and his head feels like it’s on fire, while the rest of his body is cold and numb, a single bead of sweat sliding down his rib cage.

  By mid-afternoon Richardson and Birney, dressed in civilian clothes, are making their way up the Trace from the Mattaponi ferry landing. Richardson has hired a sturdy four-seated drag with plenty of leg room for the occasion, along with two horses and a driver. Birney asks if it wouldn’t be a good idea for them to stop by the courthouse in King and Queen and enlist the help of the local constable. “Jutht in cathe.”

  “Just in case what?” Richardson says, regarding his companion, whose scraggly
mustache only accentuates his baby face.

  “Jutht to greathe the wheels.”

  Richardson sits back to think that one over for a while, the drag jostling over rain ruts, its wheels grinding out another mile. “Good thinking, Birney,” he finally says. “He’ll likely know the best way to approach these people. No point getting anybody alarmed. It’s an extra couple of hours, but it’s probably worth it.” Birney nods, rolling a toothpick around his mouth and looking out at the greening fields.

  Constable Oliver is somewhat less than happy to accompany them on account of missing the supper Mrs. Oliver has promised him—a chicken potpie. But when he hears the destination is the Tunstall place, he perks up. “She’ll invite us in for a bite, sure as I’m sittin’ here.” He loads himself into the drag and back down the Trace they go.

  “I don’t think he’ll make a run for it,” Richardson tells Birney when they get there. “But why don’t you go around the back.” He winks. “Just in case.”

  Oliver heaves himself up the front steps and knocks on the door. Willie answers, his napkin in his hand. “Hello, Mr. Oliver,” he says. “Somebody get out of your jail again?”

  “No, Willie, worse than that,” Oliver huffs. “He’ll tell you.” He thumbs to Richardson coming up behind him.

  “Are you Mr. Thomas Judson Cluverius of King and Queen County?” Richardson asks.

  “That’s my brother, what is it—”

  But Tommie is already there. “I’m Tommie,” he says.

  “Mr. Cluverius, I’m Justice Richardson from Richmond. I have a warrant here for your arrest on the charge of murder in the first degree.” An audible gasp issues from the dining room.

  “Whaa?” Tommie noises. “That’s ridiculous.” He looks from Richardson to his brother to Mr. Oliver and back to Richardson. “What do you mean murder in the first degree?”

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, being a lawyer, what murder in the first degree means.”

  “Now, just a minute here—” Willie cuts in, his chest puffing out.

  Tommie puts a hand on his arm. “That’s all right. Why don’t we go sit down and sort this thing out? There’s obviously some mistake that’s been made.”

  “Who is he accused of murdering?”

  “Fannie Lillian Madison of King William County.” Richardson pauses, waiting for a response. The room has gone silent, the only noise a stifled sob from the other room. “I wondered why you didn’t ask me that right off,” he says, looking at both brothers now, as if trying to figure out a puzzle.

  “I did,” Tommie protests. “I asked you what the charge was.” He looks to Willie for confirmation, and Willie nods.

  “No, son, you didn’t. I had to tell you myself.”

  “Yes,” Tommie says, backing down, “you followed proper procedure.”

  “I’m going to have to bring you in to stand trial before a police court,” Richardson says.

  Aunt Jane has struggled to her feet, and now, ashen-faced but smiling bravely, she appears at the dining room entrance. “Gentlemen,” she says in her most dignified and gracious manner, “how do you do, sirs? Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Her eyes are not merry crescents but open and fearful. Richardson removes his hat and introduces himself. “I can assure you,” she tells him, “that you are making an egregious error.” Softening now that she has his attention, she says, “Won’t you join us? We were just sitting down to supper. I’m sure we can help you with whatever you need.”

  “Mrs. Tunstall, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take Mr. Cluverius tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Jane replies. “But whatever for? My nephew is the finest young man in the county. They both are. Why—” Her lips begin trembling. “You’re welcome to spend the night, and if there’s courthouse business you need to attend to, they’ll be happy to go with you.”

  “We’re not taking him to the courthouse, ma’am. We’re bringing him to Richmond.”

  Jane looks stricken. She reaches for the door frame to steady herself, but, try as she might, she cannot make herself look at Tommie or Willie.

  “The crime occurred there, Aunt Jane,” Tommie explains.

  At that moment Birney comes in, gun drawn. “Whath the matter?” he asks.

  “Everything’s fine, here,” Richardson says. “Put that away.”

  “You can at least stay for supper,” Jane insists.

  “Well, I don’t see where that would hurt,” Richardson says. “We probably won’t get further than the courthouse tonight anyway. Much obliged.” He bows his head in a courtly way and Jane leads them into the dining room, Mr. Oliver following his belly just behind Jane.

  “I’ll just set some extra places,” Jane says. “Mr. Richardson, you take Miss Hillyard’s place, beside me. She’s visiting her niece in Gloucester.” The men take seats while she busies herself, passing platters of sliced ham and cucumber, biscuits and gravy. Oliver tucks into a piled-high plate, while the two officers take modest amounts. Tommie tries to finish what’s on his plate, but ends up just pushing most of it around with his fork.

  Aunt Jane brings Lillian’s letter and hands it to Richardson. “You see,” she says, “it couldn’t be Lillie.”

  Richardson pulls out his spectacles and begins bending the wires behind his ears; he seems impressed by the letter. “Would it be all right if I took this?” he asks.

  “If it’ll help exonerate my nephew.”

  “I only want to get at the truth, ma’am,” Richardson says, looking over his spectacles.

  “Can I have your word you won’t lose it?”

  “You have my solemn word, and I’ll write you a receipt as well.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s her?” she presses.

  “Her father came up and identified her.”

  “Her father? Ppfff—.” Jane makes a dismissive noise but is disinclined to contradict a father’s identification of his own daughter. “But what could you possibly have on my nephew?”

  Richardson shoots a glance at Tommie, who only returns the look, with a boyish smile, before shifting his eyes elsewhere. Then Richardson meets Willie’s stonewall gaze and has the distinct feeling that if the young man had a weapon nearby there would be trouble. He wonders if indeed he is not arresting the wrong brother, yet Tommie seems a little too innocent. There is something disconcerting about the whole affair, though he cannot put his finger on it. It is possible that both these young men were involved. He can only bring in one right now, but he’ll come back out for the other if he has to.

  Seeing the gravity and sufferance on Richardson’s face, Tommie suddenly feels sick to his stomach. He glances out the window at the fleeting light of day, the pale, hopeful blue of early spring shading into evening.

  Mr. Oliver keeps an eye on the plate of corn bread, and Jane—who would notice what her guests needed even if there were a dead body in the room—passes it over. He helps himself to more cold roast beef and beans. Thank God for Oliver, Tommie thinks, or the situation would be unbearable. These men are going to take me away from my family this very night. And then a horrible thought occurs to him. I might never see this place again. He banishes it from his mind, and bites his lower lip to contain his fear. He imagines excusing himself and then disappearing out the back door. He could take Willie’s sorrel and be at the Clifton ferry in fifteen minutes. With luck he would beat them there, but then what? Try to hide in some barn? Richmond—that would be better. He could disappear in the city, where no one would expect him to be. He might as well announce to everybody that he’s guilty. He’ll tell these policemen something later—or better yet, wait and tell his lawyer. Yes, that’s the thing. Meanwhile, he will have to trust God to see him through. And so he sits there waiting, trying to counter the inquisitive looks of Richardson and Birney with bland, friendly smiles.

  The rest of the short-lived meal is eaten in near silence, ending abruptly when Richardson slips his watch from his pocket and announces that they should be leaving.

>   “I’ll just go up and get a few things,” Tommie says.

  “You don’t mind if Mr. Birney goes up there with you?” Richardson asks.

  “Not at all. Come on, Mr. Birney,” he sings out, “you can help me pick out my traveling kit. Don’t worry, Aunt Jane, I won’t be taking much, because I won’t be gone long.”

  Aunt Jane tries to give Richardson a five-dollar bill for the trip, but Richardson dismisses her firmly. “Ma’am, the commonwealth of Virginia takes care of our expenses.”

  “Very well,” she says, straightening her spine, “I’ll give it to my nephew.”

  Tommie comes down and reaches into the vestibule closet for his overcoat. Seeing mud on the one he wore in Richmond, he opts instead for a reversible coat, light on one side, dark on the other. He picks up his low-crowned gray slouch hat, but when Willie sees him fingering a tear in the crown he brings him one of his own—a brown version of the same hat. Willie leans in and says, “You take care of yourself. I’m going horseback for Mr. Evans right away.” Richardson notes the whispered remarks but cannot make them out.

  Aunt Jane hugs him tight, not letting go until he pulls back. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” she says. “This makes no sense atall.” He gives her what reassurance he can, and she hands him the five-dollar bill, as well as a twenty-dollar gold piece. She tries to say something, but has to stop and dab her nose with a handkerchief.

  “I’ll be home before you know it,” he tells her.

  Everything is happening so fast, Tommie thinks there must be something else he should do or say. Richardson has been keeping his eye on him like a sternly disapproving master, watching for any possible slipup, as if he can smell the fear palpable in the room like some desperate, befouled animal. Tommie already feels himself a captive, already knows that strange mixture of terror and relief.

  “We’ve got to go,” Richardson says.

  And soon they are rolling north along the Trace, the drag’s torchlights casting weird shadows against the dusky woods. Tommie sits beside Mr. Oliver, facing the two officers; through the little window between them he can see the road unwinding back toward where they’ve come. “What evidence do you have against me,” Tommie says, “if I might ask?”