An Old-Fashioned Mystery
Runa Fairleigh
edited with an Introduction by L.A. Morse
INTRODUCTION:THE MYSTERY OF RUNA FAIRLEIGH
While an old-fashioned mystery may well be one of the most extraordinary books of its kind, the mystery surrounding its author is, in its way, equally puzzling and intriguing. Perhaps by accident, but more likely by design, Runa Fairleigh is one of the most enigmatic figures in the world of letters. By comparison, the mysterious, reclusive writer known as B. Traven was chatty, outgoing, and self-promoting.
The few undisputed facts are as follows.
Somewhat over thirty years ago, Runa Fairleigh purchased one of the smaller of the Thousand Islands, a property approximately two acres in size, and located very near the imaginary line that forms the border between the United States and Canada. There was a small but comfortable winterized cottage on the island, which Miss Fairleigh moved into immediately upon completion of the purchase. That was in November 1948, and as far as can be determined, from that time forward she never again had direct contact with or spoke to another human being.
Although Miss Fairleigh’s island is not as isolated as “Komondor Island” in her book (one assumes that Komondor is located in the same general area), access to and from it is only by boat. The island has a small dock, but no boathouse, and it seems reasonably certain that Miss Fairleigh did not herself possess a boat. Furthermore—with the one very obvious exception—there is no evidence at all to suggest that Miss Fairleigh ever left the island, even briefly, after taking possession of it.
The island does not have a telephone and, for at least the last ten years of her residency, it appears that Miss Fairleigh wrote no letters. Groceries, what few pieces of mail she received, and any other supplies (most frequently reams of typing paper) were delivered approximately every week by boat from the mainland. Miss Fairleigh never had contact with the person making deliveries, but if she had any special instructions or requirements a typewritten note was left in a box on the dock.*
Bills for her provisions were submitted to a firm of accountants and paid by them. No one currently with the firm had any first-hand knowledge of Runa Fairleigh, and a long succession of junior members merely followed the instructions that had been laid down more than thirty years before. The account out of which the bills were paid was replenished by the receipt, on a regular basis, of a cashier’s cheque, the ultimate source of which cannot be traced.
Runa Fairleigh may have seen no one, but she was not herself unobserved. Her neighbours from nearby islands (mostly summer residents) would not infrequently glimpse her while they were out cruising, or travelling to or from their own cottages. Sometimes she would be tending her garden; more often, though, she would be visible through the window, sitting at a table and working at a large, old-fashioned upright typewriter. People passing close to the island when the weather was warm and Miss Fairleigh’s windows were open could often hear the sounds of typing. By all accounts, she was a proficient typist.
It is quite common for people who are or act in any way out of the ordinary to become a focus of attention, even when their peculiarity happens to be a desire for seclusion and privacy. Such was the case with Runa Fairleigh. She had not lived on her island for many years before her extreme reclusiveness was noted and became a subject of gossip and conjecture. Despite their curiosity, most people respected her obvious wish to be left alone. Every so often, however, passersby would see her outside, perhaps working in her garden, and would approach, calling out greetings and introducing themselves. Miss Fairleigh never responded to the shouts. Without fail, though, she would immediately turn and stride briskly into her house, where she would remain until the intruders departed. By all reports, she never appeared in any way panicked by or even hostile to these approaches, but merely totally determined to avoid all contact.
No one seems ever to have got close enough to get a really good look at her, but those who saw her agree that Runa Fairleigh was tall and very thin, with steel-grey hair pulled into a severe bun at the back of her head. Even into what must have been her late sixties, she conveyed an impression of considerable strength—of character as well as physical vitality. It was probably this impression, combined with the fact that she always wore very out-of-date clothes, that made many people say that she reminded them of turn-of-the-century photographs of governesses and elderly maiden aunts.
For a while the Hermit Lady, as she came to be called, was quite famous—so much so that her little island was included in the itinerary of the sightseeing tour boats that cruise the islands during the season. Miss Fairleigh must have quickly learned the schedule of these tours, for after the first boat made its appearance, she was never spotted by an excursionist, not even sitting in the window of her cottage. Whether she was amused, annoyed, distressed, or inconvenienced by this unwanted attention, we have no way of knowing. Eventually her neighbours, deciding either that an inoffensive old lady was being thoughtlessly harassed, or that they themselves were being disturbed, convinced the tour company to remove the island from their route. And so for many years Runa Fairleigh was able to live the life of peaceful solitude—working in her garden or at the typewriter—that she so evidently desired.
Then in the late fall of 1978, almost exactly thirty years after she moved onto the island, Runa Fairleigh ceased being an amusing curiosity and became an utter mystery. It was at this time, in the course of making the weekly delivery of groceries, that the delivery man found the previous week’s supplies still on the dock where he had left them.
Naturally he feared that there had been an accident or an illness. For the first time in ten years of making deliveries, he set foot on the island and went up to the cottage. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. When he tried the handle, he found the door unlocked. Dreading what he was now certain he would find, he bravely went inside. But instead of the body he was anticipating, he found nothing. Not only was there not a dead or dying elderly lady, there was no indication that anyone had ever lived in the cottage. Much relieved but considerably puzzled, the delivery man returned to the mainland and reported the matter to the police.
When the police investigated, they found things exactly as the delivery man had stated. The small house was neat and spotlessly clean. A search revealed that the cupboards, drawers, and closets were empty. As one of the policemen commented, the house had the empty, impersonal feeling of a rented property waiting for the next occupant. The sense of a personality that all residences begin to acquire after being lived in for even a very short period of time—to say nothing of thirty years—was entirely absent.
There were only two things in the house to distinguish it from the countless furnished cottages that are rented out by the week or the season. One was the old typewriter in its customary place on the table by the window, a very brief, bleakly cryptic note still in the roller. The other was on a middle shelf of an otherwise empty bookcase. Neatly stacked inside a box that had originally contained typing paper were the 288 carefully typed manuscript pages of the book you are about to read.
A thorough search of the house and property revealed no clue to what had occurred; nor did an investigation of the surrounding islands, most of which were uninhabited at that time of the year. To this day, there is no evidence as to the nature of Runa Fairleigh’s disappearance—whether it was voluntary or coerced, if there was foul play or suicide. The authorities are more or less satisfied that Miss Fairleigh’s behaviour over thirty years, coupled with the absence of any indications to the contrary, strongly suggests that she left entirely of her own volition. The supposition is that she completed the work she set out to do—this book—and decided it was time to move on.
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The situation was certainly strange, but not suspicious; having no leads to follow and no clear way to develop any, the police put the matter aside pending the emergence of new information. The manuscript was deposited in the station’s property room.
There it might still sit had it not been for a series of fortunate events. In May 1982 a crime novel of mine, The Old Dick, was given an award by the Mystery Writers of America. This generated some very welcome publicity, and quite a few articles and stories about me suddenly appeared in various newspapers and magazines. This attention, in turn, resulted in my receiving a lot of phone calls and letters from people I didn’t know. Most were genuinely friendly, a few were cranks, and all thought they had some information—usually related somehow to mysteries or crime—that would interest me.
While most of this unsolicited assistance was not very interesting, one letter—from the wife of one of the policemen involved in the Runa Fairleigh incident—was a little different. She wrote about the existence of the manuscript and filled in some of the story behind it. Apparently, she was something of a mystery buff, and also, courtesy of her husband, the only person actually to have read the manuscript. She said that she thought it was wonderful, and that she had long felt something should be done with it, but she didn’t know how to go about it. Finally, after reading an article about me, she had decided to write and see if I would come and take a look at the book.
I sent a polite, noncommittal reply, but I had no real intention of pursuing the matter. Still, the basic situation was sufficiently intriguing that I didn’t forget about it either, and when, six weeks later, it turned out that I’d be in the area, I decided to make some inquiries.
The police thought the request to read the manuscript was somewhat unusual, but agreed to it, provided that the book was not taken out of the station. They put me in an uncomfortably spartan interrogation room, and brought me the box containing the manuscript. I had expected to look at the first chapter or two, then leave. Four and a half hours later, as I turned the last page, I was unaware of the hard wooden chair I was on or the sickly glare of the fluorescent lights overhead. But I was quite conscious of the fact that I’d just had a most extraordinary—and completely unexpected—experience. While the book was hardly a major work of literature, it was none the less clear that the enigmatic Runa Fairleigh had left behind one of the most remarkable mysteries ever written. In what is the highest praise one writer can give the work of another, I can remember sitting, almost stunned, and thinking, “This is a book I wish I’d written.”
With the considerable enthusiasm and excitement I felt for the book, it was easy to arouse the interest of this publisher. Over the next ten days, one by one, the entire editorial staff made the 150-mile trip to the police station to read the manuscript.
The decision to publish was unanimous and immediate. Arranging to do so took a bit longer. The legal status of the manuscript and the author was, at best, ambiguous, and for a while it appeared that publication would not be permitted. Eventually, however, the court agreed to allow it. An attorney was appointed to negotiate a contract and to establish a trust fund to be held for Runa Fairleigh (or any heirs she might have in the event her death is confirmed). All this was accomplished without difficulty, and publication was arranged shortly.
It is fervently hoped that the release of this book—which, we must assume, represents Miss Fairleigh’s life’s work—will cause the author herself to come forward, if not to accept the praise that is due to her, at least to claim the income that has accrued. Failing that, it is hoped that anyone able to offer any information about either Runa Fairleigh’s present circumstances or her equally enigmatic past will get in touch with this publisher. Any assistance in this regard will be greatly appreciated, and confidentiality (if desired) will be scrupulously maintained.
That, such as it is, is the story of Runa Fairleigh and how her book came to be published. It only remains to say a few words about the book itself.
Beyond the statement of the basic situation, which appears on the cover of this edition, almost nothing can be said about the story without saying too much. It is hoped that readers and reviewers will recognize this, and avoid spoiling the fun for those who come after them.
The text is exactly as the author left it in the box on the bookshelf in her cottage. There is, of course, no way of knowing how many drafts preceded the version we now have, but it seems likely that there were a great many. Certainly, the present version is quite contemporary in most respects—in the over-all style, the ideas and attitudes of the characters, and the tone of the narrative voice. (This very obvious modernity suggests that Miss Fairleigh had contacts with—or at least sources of information from—the outside world that still remain unknown.) At the same time, however, internal evidence—certain of the characters, some of the stylistic mannerisms, idiosyncrasies of diction, and sentence rhythms—make it clear that there were other, much older versions, and probably more than a few. The combination of the contemporary and the dated results in a curious kind of ambiguity; there is a feeling of timelessness or, more precisely perhaps, a feeling of somehow being “out of time”, a quality that, whether intended or not, seems altogether appropriate for this type of story. Thus, no editorial changes other than minor corrections of spelling and punctuation were made.
Runa Fairleigh called her book An Old-Fashioned Mystery. However, it might equally well have been titled The Last Mystery, since it is most definitely the mystery to end all mysteries. Indeed, it may be the eschatology of the mystery.
L. A. Morse
Toronto
July 1983
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport.
CHAPTER ONE
“‘This chutney tastes a bit off to me,’ the major said. These seemingly innocuous words begin one of the most intriguing and challenging mysteries you will ever read.” Sebastian Cornichon read aloud from the cover of the paperback he held in his hand, then made a rude noise. “No, I won’t,” he said, and lobbed the book across the large room, where it struck the nose of the moosehead mounted on the wall.
“Really, Sebastian,” Violet Cornichon said from her place on a huge, overstuffed, floral-patterned couch.
“‘Really’, yourself,” Sebastian said as he dropped heavily onto a matching couch opposite his sister. “You’re starting to develop the precise tone of disapproval that I thought one encountered only in tight-lipped matrons who donate their time to art museums. I’m glad you’ve finally decided to get some help.”
“Help? What do you mean?”
“Binky Edwards told me he saw you coming out of what’s-his-name’s office—that very au courant up-town therapist whose treatments tend to be noisy, painful, and expensive.”
Violet sighed, rolling her very large, alarmingly blue eyes. “You’re the one who needs treatment if you credit anything Binky Edwards says he saw. That near-sighted butterfly blurs out past the end of his cute little nose. I once saw him having a long conversation with his reflection in a mirror. Probably went away thinking what a nice young man that was—not terribly talkative but a really good listener.”
Sebastian laughed. “That’s Binky, all right. But if you’re not seeing someone, then I think you should. You may not realize it, but you’re beginning to act a little peculiar.”
“Your concern touches me, Sebastian, but I’m not quite sure how to take being thought peculiar by someone whose every new deviation for the past ten years has been chronicled in the papers.”
“That’s called trend setting, my dear,” Sebastian smiled.
“Only if someone follows you,” Violet smiled back.
Sebastian started to say something, stopped, then laughed again. “Score one for the younger of the Cornichon twins, the erstwhile Society-Girl Detective.”
They again smiled at each other, similarly ambiguous expressions that were a complex mixture of affection and hostility, maliciousness, understandi
ng, and the kind of respect accorded a long-time adversary who’s been found worthy.
An observer would have been struck by the similarity not just of their expressions, but of everything else about them. While, obviously, only fraternal twins, Sebastian and Violet, as occasionally happens, could not have appeared more identical had they in fact been monozygotic. Both were very blond, fair-skinned, and blue-eyed; both had high foreheads, prominent cheekbones, and expressive mouths; both were slender and lithe; and while Sebastian was slightly shorter than average for a man, Violet was a little taller than average for a woman, so they were essentially the same height. Indeed, except for the fact that Violet’s hair was a little longer than her brother’s, and that Sebastian wore a touch of eye shadow, there was nothing to choose between them. Some felt that perhaps Sebastian was the prettier of the two, while Violet seemed the stronger and tougher, but that was more the result of subjective impressions, not something that could be concretely demonstrated.
Thus, the major difference between them was not physical, but rather that Sebastian was four minutes older than his sister. This slight temporal advantage, combined with several unintended ambiguities in their parents’ wills, had made Sebastian, ten years earlier at the age of eighteen, sole heir to the Cornichon fortune. Violet had been left, as Sebastian had put it (merely stating the facts), on her own.
The Cornichons had long been one of the city’s leading families. That they could trace their ancestry back to the famous Ducs de Cornichon (advisors to the kings of France) only increased the high esteem in which they were held. High esteem, though, did not put bread on the table, and Violet was forced to do something that no Cornichon within memory had done. She went to work.
Violet scraped together some money, mostly borrowed from friends of her parents who felt under some vague obligation to the orphaned girl. Using this small stake, a good deal of energy, intelligence, and imagination, and a little luck, Violet founded a cosmetics company. Contrary to all expectations—except perhaps her own—the company prospered.
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