Crying Child (25 page)

“I didn’t notice any stairs,” Will said. “But I guess I didn’t even look inside the room; I just grabbed up the wounded and left. You must remember those stairs, Ran.”

“You know, I don’t believe I ever saw those rooms in the tower,” Ran said, frowning. “When I was a kid, the upper floors of the tower were kept locked. I remember once trying to pick the lock on the fourth-floor door. I was nosy, like all kids, and a locked door was a challenge. I didn’t succeed, though. And one of the aunts caught me up there one day and beat the hell out of me. I got the point; that part of the house was out of bounds.”

“I can see why they wouldn’t want you roaming around there,” I said. “I remember thinking how dangerous that stair was, and wondering why they would have it in a child’s room.”

“Why do you keep calling the tower room a child’s room?” Ran asked. “I remember the old nurseries very well; I used to go up there and thank God I didn’t have to live in them.”

“The tower room was also a nursery,” I insisted. “The windows are barred, like those of the main nursery; and there’s a rocking horse up there.”

“A rocking horse?” Ran stared. “There was no such object in the house when I was a kid, that I know. Jo, I’d better have a look at that room when we get back.”

“There is a pattern developing,” Will said. “A rather interesting pattern. It’s still vague, but—”

“It’s too darned vague,” I said. “Nothing we find ever answers any questions; it just raises more questions. I keep thinking we’ll find something clear-cut, like a diary.”

“Wouldn’t that be handy,” Ran said. “There certainly wasn’t anything of that nature at the museum; most of the material was what you might call public records. The aunts wouldn’t hand over personal papers, especially if they showed the sacred Frasers in a bad light. Hey—you said you were going to look through that trunk, Jo. I gather you didn’t find anything.”

“No. Just forty of Mrs. Hezekiah’s account books. Talk about dull.”

“Dull?” Will swung around to face me; I was sitting in the back seat while he and Ran occupied the front. “It’s obvious you’ve never done any historical research. How detailed were the accounts?”

“Detailed is not the word. The old bag wrote down every cent she spent.”

“I gather you took a dislike to the lady.”

“I hate people who keep account books,” I said.
“No, really, she was an iceberg. I didn’t examine the books in detail, I just skimmed through one to see what it was; but I’ll never forget one of the entries. She had nine kids, and lost four—”

“Not a bad average,” Will said.

“Yes, I remember thinking that myself. But, Will, that woman listed the expenses of their funerals, right down to the cost of the black crepe armbands for the servants. I tell you, it made me shiver to see that neat precise handwriting record items like, ‘Coffin for Baby Jonathan, four dollars.’”

“My God,” Ran said. “I’m on your side, Jo.”

“You aren’t being fair,” Will objected. “New Englanders pride themselves on their fortitude. And believe me, you appreciate that quality after you’ve had a series of hypochondriacal patients who howl about a scratch on the knee. Mrs. Hezekiah may have been torn to pieces inside, but she wouldn’t show it, not even to an account book.”

“I still pity her poor children.”

“What were their names?”

“Oh, names like Jeremiah and Jonathan and Patience…No Kevin. I’m sure of that; I found a genealogy.”

Will swore.

“A genealogy and those account books, and you say you didn’t find anything? Jo, you are the most…If I didn’t have a sick kid and a hys
terical mother on my hands, I’d come back now and go through those books item by item. Don’t you realize that books like that are an absolute mine of information—impartial, unbiased information, because there is no attempt to mislead a reader? Look up the year Hezekiah died. Look for the names of servants and their wages. I don’t know about this portrait, but all the other evidence we’ve got suggests that the woman was a governess or housekeeper. She’d have to be paid, wouldn’t she? Good God, when I think of all the time you wasted—”

“Time,” I said coldly, “is what I have not wasted. We don’t have enough of it, that’s all. Do you know how long it’s going to take to go through even one of those blasted books?”

“I don’t care how long it takes.” Will opened the car door and a long white tendril of fog moved in like a groping arm. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Certainly in time for dinner—”

“That,” I said. “I expected.”

Ran was excited and animated as we drove back to the house. I made suitable responses, not wanting to ruin his mood; one of us might just as well be happy. But what I had said earlier was true; it seemed to me that instead of solving problems we were just getting more problems to solve. All we had were theories. They might make sense, but they didn’t lead to anything.

I remember the rest of that day as chaotic. A number of incidents stand out in my mind, separated by periods of aimless wandering around. The fog didn’t help.

One thing I remember vividly is the conversation I had with Anne after lunch. I have excellent reasons, now, for remembering it.

When Ran and I got back to the house we found Anne and Mary in the library with an enormous jigsaw puzzle spread out on the table. Jigsaws were one of Mary’s favorite dull-day activities; I don’t know how Anne had wormed this fact out of her, but she had; and there they were, the two of them, matching pieces and looking as cozy as a basketful of kittens. Ran’s face lit up at the sight of them, in the pathetic way it did whenever he saw Mary seemingly better; and after lunch he invited her to a tête-à-tête with the puzzle. They went off arm in arm and as they left the room Ran turned his head and gave me a meaningful glance. I nodded reassuringly. Then I asked Anne to come upstairs with me, saying I had something to show her.

We had agreed on the way home, Ran and I, that Anne ought to be told about our latest discoveries. He said we owed it to her. Maybe we did. I didn’t think it would make any difference one way or the other, so I agreed to take on the job of showing her the miniature.

She was impressed. I didn’t have to tell her who
the subject of the portrait was, she recognized it immediately; and she listened in silence as I narrated the circumstances of its discovery.

“Of course it isn’t as conclusive as Will thinks,” I said flatly. “I could have seen another portrait somewhere in the house—although none of the people who have lived here for years remember any such picture. I might be in collusion with Sue; though I don’t think anyone could suggest why I would go to such an incredible amount of trouble, or how I could convince Sue to join me in a plot. But I suppose it’s easier for you to think that than to accept the only other conclusion.”

“No,” she said. “I know you don’t like me, Jo, but give me credit for some intelligence. I’m—hit rather hard by this.”

She was wearing another gorgeous outfit—a full hostess skirt, slit up the sides, over tight black slacks and jersey. But her face looked old—older and yet somehow softer. Old sucker Jo; I felt rather sorry for her.

“I don’t dislike you,” I protested. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”

“It’s natural that you should feel hostility. You must think I’ve attempted to supplant you in Mary’s affections. Of course I’m anxious to win her confidence, but her rejection of you is her own idea. You must have noticed that she’s been avoiding you.”

“Yes. I can’t think why.”

I could think of a reason, and it made me feel terrible. With my big mouth and my guilty conscience I might have spoken up if Anne hadn’t spoken first.

“You can’t? But it’s obvious, surely. Mary is antagonistic toward all of you because you are thwarting her in the one thing she wants.”

“What is it she wants?” I demanded, with sudden anger. “She can’t really believe that—that thing that cries out there in the night is a human soul. If a child had been born, and died, I could see why she might cling to that idea, dreadful as it is. But even then—what does she want from it? She can’t expect to—to call it back!”

“Now you’re being illogical,” Anne said. There were bright spots of color on her cheeks. “You don’t expect a woman in Mary’s condition to be consistent, do you? Yet there is a consistency to her position, though she probably couldn’t verbalize it. Whatever it is that cries in the night, it is unhappy. She wants it to stop crying; to be happy and at peace. It’s as simple as that.”

Her voice was unsteady. I looked at her in pleased surprise; it was reassuring to know that she could empathize so closely with a patient’s feelings. Maybe she wasn’t as hard as I had believed.

“But that’s what we all want,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

Anne sat back. There was a pocket in the big skirt; she found her cigarettes and a slim silver lighter.

“So,” she said, very much preoccupied with her cigarette, “you still won’t consider the idea of a séance?”

“No, oh no. You wouldn’t suggest it if you really believed in this.”

“I don’t dare believe,” she said, in an odd muted voice. “You don’t know what it would mean to me to admit it…”

I remember that sentence, and the tone in which she said it, so clearly. If I had only had the compassion, or the intelligence, to inquire a little further. But I was too damned preoccupied with my own feelings.

“I know,” I said. “It hasn’t been easy for me either. I used to think of myself as rational. Are you staying over tonight? I certainly wouldn’t want to drive in fog like this”

“The whole coast is fogbound, according to the radio,” she said, in her normal voice. “I think I won’t risk it tonight. I ought to be back by late tomorrow, I have a rather important appointment. But—well, we’ll see what it’s like in the morning.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to be rather dull around here this afternoon.”

“I’ve got letters to write. Might as well do it
now, while my host and hostess are with one another. Jo…Thank you for showing me that.”

“Sure,” I said carelessly. I wasn’t even thinking about her, I was so anxious to get back to my account books.

After a couple of hours my enthusiasm had waned. I started with the very first book, so as not to miss anything; and it was a terrible job, deciphering that finicky handwriting and stopping to wonder what some items might mean. If I had been looking for any one specific piece of information it might not have been so hard. I was looking for Miss Smith, but that wasn’t all I wanted to find out about, and after what Will had said I was afraid to skip a single entry.

I got up to 1834 without finding a thing, and my eyeballs were beginning to roll around in my head; I knew I ought to stop for a while. The house had that Sunday afternoon hush which drives a lot of people into taking naps. Anne was presumably still writing letters; her door was closed and no sound came from behind it. I glanced into the library, and saw Ran and Mary both asleep in front of the television set. So I went to the kitchen. Mrs. Willard was cracking nuts for a cake and she pressed me into service. I had no sooner sat down than Jed came in. His hair was beaded with moisture.

“Good day for ducks,” he said. “That fog is practically solid water. What’s up, Jo?”

“I came to report,” I said. “Look what we found.”

I had already shown the box and the portrait to Mrs. Willard and she thought she had seen both before—that the portrait was probably the source of her memory of the face. Jed agreed.

“In fact, I’m sure this is what I saw. Haven’t seen it for years, though. I remember the frame now, and the general look of the thing. But it must have been ten, fifteen years ago, wouldn’t you say, Bertha? Haven’t seen it since. And I don’t remember ever seeing that child’s face before. The picture must have been lying around the house, in a drawer, maybe, till the old ladies sold it.”

“No,” Mrs. Willard said positively. “It was always in the box, just like it is. I remember the box well enough now that I see it again. Ugly thing, I always thought; it was on a shelf in one of the spare bedrooms for years.”

“Well, that’s nice to know, but it doesn’t really get us any farther,” I said despondently. “We still don’t know who these people were. All these separate facts, and no way to fit them together. Like that jigsaw puzzle of Mary’s.”

“But they do fit together,” Jed said. “You just haven’t found the key piece yet. What did Ran find out?”

I told him about Hezekiah’s death. That piece
of news and its concurrent facts startled him out of his usual composure.

“That is odd,” he said. “I must have been in that room a half dozen times, and I never thought about those stairs, or wondered about ’em; and yet that is a very peculiar arrangement there. Those two upper rooms are self-contained, you realize that? You could shut ’em off from the rest of the house and nobody could get in or out. And the bars on the window—”