Must the Maiden Die (18 page)

In the study the rustle of papers ceased as
Erich glowered at Glynis.

"She's missing?" This from the fair-haired
man who suddenly appeared behind Erich. "What does she mean, the
girl is missing?"

So he didn't know. What kind of father,
Glynis questioned, would not bother to ask after his daughter when
he first arrived. Would call her "the girl" instead of by name.
The answer, needless to say, was a father who would sell his
daughter into servitude.

Erich, with the clear intention of closing
the door in her face, stepped back inside the room, but the other
man put out his hand to hold it open. "Who is this?" he demanded of
Erich pointing at Glynis. "And what's she talking about?

"My name is Glynis Tryon, Mr. Jager," she
said, by now too angry to worry about her voice carrying or not.
"I must assume you didn't know your daughter is unaccounted
for?"

"That is none of your affair, Miss Tryon,"
Erich said, but in his tone Glynis thought she detected a trace of
nervousness.

It was with relief that she heard the heavy
tread of boots descending the stairs.

"Sorry, Brant," said Cullen, coming up
behind Glynis, "but nothing that goes on in this house is private
anymore. Think I told you that last night. Now, why don't we all go
in there," he motioned to the library, "and talk this over."

He took Glynis's elbow and propelled her
through the doorway, forcing the other two men to step back.
Despite the desk lamp, light in the library was dim. The surface of
the desk still held scattered papers, but obviously they had been
shuffled through, because there were some on the carpet and on the
seat of the straightened chair. The safe stood open.

Cullen closed the hall door. "All right," he
said to the fair-haired man. "Let's have an answer to the first
question. Are you Tamar Jager's father?"

The man, sturdily built and probably in his
early forties, retorted, "Who the hell are you?"

"Constable Cullen Stuart. Now answer
me."

"I'm Derek Jager."

"Tamar's father?"

"Yes."

"And what brings you here, Mr. Jager? If you
didn't know your daughter was missing, you couldn't have come about
that."

Glynis watched Derek Jager, thinking not for
the first time how quietly intimidating Cullen could be when he
chose. His voice wasn't raised, but Jager had begun to look less
arrogant.

"I'm Roland Brant's business associate,"
Jager said. "Or I was."

"Why are you here?" Cullen repeated. "And
while we're at it, where are you from?"

"From east of here—"

" 'East of here,'" Cullen interrupted,
"doesn't do it, Jager. Again, where are you from?"

"The Syracuse area. I didn't hear about
Roland's death until I saw it in the newspaper."

"The Syracuse paper?"

"Yes."

"And you came here to...?"

"To express my condolences to the family,
naturally," Jager said, a flush rising from his rather short
neck.

Cullen turned to Erich, who was looking at
Jager intently. "That sound right to you, Brant?"

It seemed to Glynis that Erich hesitated
slightly before answering. "As he said, Stuart, he was a business
associate of my father's."

"Does that explain why Jager is here in your
father's library uninvited—as your man Clements just told me?"
Cullen said.

Erich, with a sharp glance at Glynis, said,
"We were looking for some paperwork that Derek needs."

"What kind of paperwork?" Cullen asked.

Derek Jager broke in with, "I can't see as
that's any of your business, Stuart."

"Maybe not," Cullen said, "but we'll leave
it for now." He turned to Glynis.

"Mr. Jager," she asked, "do you have any
idea where your daughter might have gone?"

"How would I know that? And what's it got to
do with all these questions?"

"Aside from the danger she might be in,
Jager," said Cullen, not bothering to hide his disgust, "she's
suspected of killing Roland Brant."

'That's ridiculous. Why would she do
that?"

"Good question," agreed Cullen. "Why
would
she do that?"

"I have no idea."

Cullen again turned to Glynis. "Anything
else you want to ask?"

She sensed he wanted her to leave, most
likely because he thought things would grow more unpleasant as he
made these two men go over the same ground again. Although she
couldn't imagine how much worse it could become than listening to
Derek Jager speak of his daughter as if she were some stranger
about whom he had less than a passing interest.

"I do want to know," she said, watching
Jager and Erich Brant closely, "how long Tamar has been mute?"

"What are you talking about?" Jager said,
then looked at Erich. "The girl's not mute."

Erich's expression seemed guarded when he
answered, "It's true, Derek. She doesn't talk. Hasn't for some time
now."

"That's crazy!" Jager retorted. "She can
talk perfectly well."

"When was the last time you saw her?" Glynis
asked.

"It must have been ... maybe a few months
ago."

Glynis knew by the look on Erich's face that
Jager was either lying, or hadn't seen his daughter for so long
that he couldn't even recall when last it was.

She gave Cullen a brief nod that meant he
should follow her out into the hall, then turned and left the room,
her dislike of Derek Jager so bitter she could taste it.

"Cullen," she whispered after he'd pulled the door
closed, "I only overheard a few sentences, but apparently Derek
Jager was caught by Erich looking through his father's desk. And
Jager, according to Erich, had been here last Sunday."

Cullen's eyebrows lifted. "That so? I'll ask
him about it. But if Roland Brant and Jager were business
associates, it might have no connection to Brant's murder."

"I was on my way down the hall when I heard
them in the library," Glynis told him. "Since Tamar was a kitchen
maid here, the cook very possibly knows more about her than anyone
else."

Cullen nodded and turned to open the library door.
He paused, however, to say quietly, "You shouldn't have been here
alone with those men, Glynis. Don't let yourself get
cornered—remember, somebody in this house could be a killer."

"I could scarcely forget it."

As Cullen returned to the library, Glynis heard a
sound like someone choking. It seemed to come from the front of the
house. She backtracked down the hallway to find a servant in the
parlor; the Phoebe with whom she had collided the previous night.
The woman held a feather duster in one hand, while the other hand
rooted in her apron pocket. As she was pulling out a rumpled
handkerchief, she glanced up and saw Glynis.

"Oh, it's you," she said, sullenly. She
applied the handkerchief with zeal to her red-rimmed eyes and then
blew her nose vigorously.

Her age was difficult to determine, but Glynis
guessed it might be around thirty. The woman's dull brown hair was
skinned back into a tight bun, which accentuated her sharp
features, and the blotches on her face indicated she had been
crying for some time. Glynis, despite the sulky greeting she
received, felt some sympathy for the woman. She appeared to be the
only one in the household expressing grief at Roland Brant's
passing.

"Phoebe, I'm sorry about the awkward incident last
evening," Glynis began. "It certainly was not your fault, but my
own clumsiness"

"Yes, it was your fault," said Phoebe, more
emphatically than Glynis thought called for. "But everybody always
blames us servants."

How on earth did one respond to that?
wondered Glynis unhappily, since in this house it might be true. "I
do apologize, Phoebe."

The woman shrugged, blew her nose again, and after
stuffing the handkerchief back in her pocket, began flourishing the
duster. Her first target was bric-a-brac on a small round table
covered with a damask cloth patterned with blue morning glories.
Her cleaning efforts left something to be desired, since dust
particles flew into the air only to settle again in approximately
the same place. If Phoebe noticed, she ignored it.

Glynis cleared her throat—probably coated with dust
motes—and said, "I wonder if I might ask you some questions?"

The feather duster paused in mid-flight, and Phoebe
eyed Glynis with distrust. "What right you got to do that?"

"Ah, well. . . Constable Stuart has asked me
to assist him."

"Why can't he ask me hisself?"

Because by now, Glynis did not say, he would have
shaken you until your teeth rattled. "He has a number of other
people to see," she explained.

"People more important than me," Phoebe pronounced.
"Well, for your information, I know more things than I'll tell
you."

Glynis decided she couldn't decipher this, and
plunged ahead hoping for clarity. "What things won't you tell?"

Phoebe looked confused. After a slight
pause, she said, "I know more than you think I know."

"I'm sure that's true," Glynis agreed
wholeheartedly. Perhaps her tactics needed revision and the direct
approach might work best. "Phoebe, where were you on Sunday
evening— the night before last, that is."

"I was in bed."

A clear, concise answer. "What time did you
go to bed that night?"

"Same time I go every night."

"And that is?" If the woman said
bedtime,
Glynis vowed she would leave her to Cullen's tender
mercies.

"Nine o'clock," said Phoebe

Emboldened, Glynis asked, "Did you hear anything
unusual during the night?"

The feather duster, which had been winging over the
frosted globe of a lamp, stopped again, while Phoebe stared at her
in unmistakable disgust. "How could I hear anything if I was
asleep?"

"Ah, an excellent point," Glynis conceded,
now determined to see this through, although she would exact from
Cullen a fitting reward.

"Phoebe, I can't help but notice that you
seem to have a great many responsibilities in this house," Glynis
commented, and watched Phoebe's feather duster hover momentarily
while she preened. "Tell me," Glynis went on, praying she was
finally on the right track, "do you also clean the upstairs
bedrooms?"

"Course I do. Who else?"

"Oh, no one else I'm sure would be as
capable as you. And those rooms would include, I suppose, the
demanding task of taking care of Mr. and Mrs. Roland Brant's
room?"

"Ha! Wish it was only one room! They got
separate bedrooms—connected by a door. Some folks do, you know,"
said Phoebe, unaccountably edging closer to Glynis.

Glynis nodded, sagely she trusted, and
smiled as if she were well-acquainted with this arrangement. But
"Yes, indeed," was all she dared say, lest she interrupt the
fruitful intimacy with Phoebe that suddenly seemed to have been
established.

Phoebe took the bait, whispering, "It's
'cause the missus, she don't want to be fussed with, if you catch
my meaning?"

"I catch it precisely," answered Glynis.
"And since you're so familiar with the family's habits, did Mr.
Brant's bed require making up yesterday?"

"Come again?"

"Did his bed look as if it had been slept in
Sunday night?"

Glynis saw instantly that she had erred, as
Phoebe whipped the handkerchief from her pocket, shaking her head
furiously.

"The poor man," Phoebe began to wail. But
not before she choked out, "Didn't even get a decent rest 'fore he
died."

This stopped Glynis cold. But then, wondering if she
could snatch another minuscule victory from the jaws of
near-defeat, she recalled something that Clements had said to her.
Could this woman conceivably have been its source?

"Phoebe, did you have much contact with the
girl, Tamar?"

The feather duster fluttered, then hung
suspended in the air. The wailing had ceased and Glynis had the
woman's riveted attention.

"Her?
"
Phoebe
blurted. "Oh, no! No, you wouldn't catch me near that one!" She
sent Glynis a sly look, adding, "She's been cursed, you know."

"I didn't know," Glynis said, cautiously. "Why is
that?"

"So's she can't spread her evil talk. Struck dumb,
she was, and that's what happens to them who's in bed with the
devil."

"I see. When did this take place—the girl
being struck dumb?"

"I dunno when
.
I just
know why!"

"How long have you worked here?" Glynis
asked.

"Maybe close on a year."

"And the girl never spoke during that
time?"

"I told you, she's cursed! I figured that
out for myself."

"I'm sure you did," Glynis said, beginning a
retreat to the parlor doorway.

"Now she's gone—and you know where?"

Glynis pulled up short. "No, where?"

"To sleep with Satan, that's where! You mark
my words, when she's found, she'll be lying with the Lord of
Darkness!"

Glynis started to step through the doorway, but
paused again when Phoebe said, "And you know what else? Poor Mr.
Brant—she killed him! He wouldn't have died, not otherwise."

Her voice caught, and she was applying the
handkerchief as Glynis turned slowly and asked, "What makes you
think that?"

"Cause that's what evil women do. She put a
spell on him to make him die!"

Glynis quickly stepped into the hallway. It
was believed by most, she thought, that this superstition had
ended more than a century and a half ago with the horrors at Salem.
But to those like Phoebe, that women were witches and willing
consorts of the devil was still the explanation for the
unexplainable.

She leaned back against the doorframe as the
sound of renewed sobbing reached her.

Her fingers fumbled at her work

Her needle would not go;

What ailed so smart a little Maid