Читать книгу Murder at the Falls - Arlene Kay - Страница 13

Chapter 5

No one spoke for a moment. As tension built, the silence was deafening. It took the soothing presence of Keats and Poe to break the logjam and restore order. Poe sidled up to Magdalen and placed his paw on her knee. That freed her to bend down and hug him. As she stroked his shiny coat, Magdalen Melmoth told her story.

“My parents never said much about our heritage. Father died during the Second World War, like so many other fine young men. My mother was hesitant to tell me much about his family. I grew up surrounded by a large, boisterous Irish group, my mother’s family, the Kingsburys. It was a comfortable life, filled with fun, horses, and every type of pet.” She paused, as if recalling those halcyon days. “Why, I did all the things a farm child enjoys—even operated machinery and bailed hay. I was quite a tomboy in those days.”

That gave Pruett the opening he sought. “No one mentioned Oscar Wilde or hinted at your connections?”

She shook her head. “Only on her deathbed did my mother speak of Sebastian Melmoth, my grandfather. That was the name she used. Never the other one. It simply wasn’t done in those days, you see, particularly when something scandalous was involved.”

Pruett leaned forward, his shoulders tense as he surreptitiously took notes. He knew that by letting Magdalen tell her story her way, he would ultimately get the information he needed. Patience was a virtue he often lacked, except in pursuit of his professional goals. “Perhaps your first name was a clue. If I’m not mistaken, a beautiful poem called ‘Magdalen Walks’ was one of Wilde’s big successes.”

Her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “How perceptive of you, Mr. Pruett. Of course, that poem was about Magdalen College, Oxford, but still…”

“What was your father’s name?” I asked, praying that this family saga wouldn’t go on forever.

“Fingal. A common family name in Ireland, I understand, although not here. We immigrated to America when my mother remarried. Mama always caught the eye of the men around her, you see. Declan Farraday was a good man, quite a prosperous builder in his day. He offered to adopt me, but Mother refused. She said it would be tantamount to renouncing my father.” Magdalen shook her head. “We simply couldn’t do that.”

Pruett was growing restless. I knew his moods and could read him perfectly. To his credit, he gritted his teeth, turned up the charm machine, and stayed the course. “What did your mother tell you? Did she offer any proof or documents?”

Magdalen’s gentle smile reproved him. “Of course not. Mother said that my grandfather was a noted literary genius whose reputation had been tarnished in England.” Magdalen’s cheeks colored again. “Naturally she never specified what caused his downfall. In her day it simply wasn’t done. ‘The love that dare not speak its name’—that was the closest she came. Of course, later as I read more about him, I understood.”

Pruett furrowed his brow. “What about your father? Any diaries or letters about his parents?”

Once again Magdalen chuckled. “None that I know of. Just oral tradition. My father was a brilliant man. He took two firsts at Oxford. I recall Mother said that he followed in his father’s footsteps. Sebastian Fingal Melmoth was his full name.”

I tried not to sigh. Memories were therapeutic, but essentially unhelpful. They got us no closer to Oscar Wilde and the manuscript.

Pruett’s manner was gentle but firm. He held Magdalen’s hand and looked directly into her eyes. “Tell us about the manuscript. It’s important, Magdalen.”

There was something refreshingly girlish in her manner, a throwback from another more modest age. A photo on her mantel showed teenaged Magdalen clad in jodhpurs and formal riding regalia holding a palomino’s bridle. Wow! She was quite a stunner in her youth. Made me wonder why Magdalen had remained single.

“I’ve never actually seen it,” Magdalen admitted, “not the entire manuscript at least. But I’ve read fragments. and Mother said it was the best thing my grandpa ever wrote.”

Pruett gritted his teeth. His frustration was understandable because he was a gung ho, carpe diem kind of gonzo journalist. I decided that strategic intervention was in order to save the day.

“Oscar Wilde only wrote one novel. Is this a novel, Magdalen? If so that’s big news.”

Once again, she hesitated. The silence was broken by a rap on the door and the entrance of Babette and Clara. After preliminary small talk, Babette cut to the chase. “What did I miss? Tell me everything about that manuscript, Magdalen. I barely slept last night just thinkin’ of it.”

Magdalen fluttered and flushed, but after taking a mighty sip of tea, she continued her story. “To answer your question, Persephone, the work is a novel. The title sounds somewhat odd, but then, by all accounts, my grandfather was known as an eccentric.”

Talk about your understatements of the year. If indeed Magdalen’s grandpa was the celebrity in question, he was called many things of which “eccentric” might have been the kindest. Oscar Wilde’s brilliance stretched to so many areas that some considered him a dilettante. I called him a genius. I checked my watch. Our session was scheduled to end soon, followed by a general seminar for all residents involved in the Therapy Dog program. I bit my lip in frustration, but once again Babette rode to the rescue.

“What’s the title, Magdalen? You must know that much at least. You’re killing us here.” Babette framed her question with a sweet smile that tempered her pointed words.

Magdalen tilted her head toward the ceiling. “Oh yes, dear. Forgive an old lady for woolgathering. You mentioned Dorian Gray, Perri. Well, Sebastian Melmoth used a character in that novel for his final work. He called it Sybil Vane.”

Babette leaned forward. “I don’t get it. Why is that such a big deal?”

Pruett smiled. “As I recall, Sybil was the young actress who almost saved Dorian Gray. Right, Ms. Magdalen?”

She clapped her hands in delight. “How perceptive you are. That’s absolutely true. After the dogs perform, I’ll explain how to find it. I’m counting on you—all of you—to preserve my grandfather’s legacy.” Magdalen reached into her pocket and pulled out an antique gold pocket watch. “I see that our time here is up. Persephone, if you will do the honors.” She reached into the drawer of her escritoire and withdrew a manila envelope. “Keep this safe until we get back here.”

* * * *

The house was packed for our presentation, although the stars of the show were canine, not human. Keats, Poe, and Clara, joined by Gomer and Portia, gave a formal demonstration that included several dance routines and a formal explanation of the Therapy Dog program. Several familiar faces surfaced in the crowd, including Doctors Fergueson and Tully. Nurse Carole Ross stood guard at the back of the room wearing the grim visage of a prison matron. I wasn’t intimidated, but I confess she puzzled me. Her manner was at variance with the genial, relaxed attitude of the rest of the staff and residents. It was hardly conducive to a homey atmosphere. The audience was overwhelmingly female, a reflection of the longevity of women over men. Perhaps that explained why Wing Pruett garnered the attention of virtually everyone in the audience. He was ensconced on a sofa between two ladies of a certain age who shamelessly doted on him. Magdalen and her pal Irene Wilson snagged a front row seat. They slyly waved at us as we finished our performance and clapped for our dogs. We were expected to mingle with the residents afterward and allow them to greet our pets. Although the results were gratifying, the program took far longer than I’d anticipated. Of course, my mind was preoccupied by thoughts of that manila envelope and dreams of a literary bombshell. I couldn’t really gauge how much time had elapsed and suspected Pruett felt the same way.

Kate Thayer shooed Gomer away from some low-hanging treats and sighed. “I have to duck out early today. That old jalopy of mine broke down again and every time the mechanic gives me a progress report I almost faint.”

“For crying out loud, Kate, get a reliable vehicle. It’s not safe.” Rolf sniffed as he adjusted Portia’s collar. “Ride back with me and I’ll loan you one of mine.”

It was a kind gesture and yet…I couldn’t help thinking it was but another self-aggrandizing move by Rolf. The man’s enormous ego was constantly on display. Don’t get me wrong. I admired initiative, but most of the truly successful people I knew didn’t tout their accomplishments. No one ever suggested that educators, particularly retired ones, could afford expensive cars. Most chose the same route Kate had—nurse the old one as long as possible. I understood that all too well. Fortunately, despite a few dings and dents, my aged Suburban was battered but unbowed. Even the thought of buying a replacement made me blanch.

A faint blush rose on Kate’s cheeks. His allusion to her finances had obviously embarrassed her. “Thanks, Rolf, but I’ll manage. That old Jeep seems like part of the family by now. Kind of an elderly uncle who is still lovable despite his quirks.”

Rolf snorted. “Don’t let pride be your downfall, Kate. As it is, you pay a boatload of property taxes in DC. Must be hard to manage on a teacher’s pension. My portfolio takes a hit every time the assessor waves his pen.” He consulted his watch, an outsize gold Rolex, and grasped Portia’s lead. “I’ve got to meet an important client this afternoon,” he said. “Finally have a chance to wrap up that land deal in Shenandoah County if the old codgers who own it don’t get sentimental. Let’s leave as soon as we can.”

By the time the social hour concluded Magdalen had vanished. Irene Wilson told us not to worry. Magdalen was fatigued and had slipped away to take a nap. She asked that we call her later on that evening. Pruett was miffed, I was disappointed, and Babette was livid.

“We came all the way out here to see her,” she fumed. “Naptime just doesn’t cut it. I don’t care how old she is either.”

Irene made excuses for her friend and dithered about it to the point of tears. “Mags has been under such stress lately,” she said, “and then there were all those peculiar goings-on. They really spooked her.”

Pruett immediately sensed a story. “Peculiar?” he asked with his most winsome smile. “Come on. Give us a hint.”

Irene looked around and lowered her voice. “First there was a mix-up with her heart pills. Mags noticed that they were a different color and kicked up quite a fuss.”

“Understandable,” Pruett said. “I’d react the same way. Probably an error by the nursing staff, I bet.”

Irene beamed at him. “Exactly, Mr. Pruett. Nurse Ross got quite testy about it, and Dr. Tully had to calm everyone down. One of the residents passed recently, you know, and that leaves all of us a bit shaky. Sara Whitman was only in her early seventies and livelier than most.” She lowered her eyes as if hesitant to continue.

Pruett put his arm on her shoulder. “Pardon me for saying this, but death can’t be a stranger at the Falls. What made this so unusual?”

Irene raised her head, as if she’d had a renewal of energy. “We’re realists here, Mr. Pruett. At least most of us are. But Sara just completed a full physical. Top to bottom. No problems. She wasn’t happy here and planned to leave. Come to think of it, she was thick as thieves with that real estate man. You know, the one with the borzoi. I think he egged her on.”

Both Babette and I spoke as one. “Rolf Hart?”

Irene nodded. “There was a bit of a bother about that, and Nurse Ross gave Sara what for. Said she didn’t appreciate anything and didn’t deserve to live here.”

“Anything else?” Pruett asked. “Don’t be shy, now. Not if you want to help Magdalen.”

Irene dithered again but finally relented. “Mags and Sara weren’t friendly.”

That could mean virtually anything. Who would expect everyone living in close quarters to bond? I certainly didn’t. If properly channeled, some level of conflict was probably even healthy. Magdalen was a feisty woman who refused to hold back her opinions. Sounded like Sara Whitman was the same.

“They got into it, did they?” Babette wasted no time in clarifying things.

Irene gave a half-hearted grin. “Threats flew and I thought for a moment that things might get physical. Sara liked to snoop, you see. Magdalen accused her of prowling around in her things. Papers and the like. We’re all sensitive about privacy around here, as you can imagine. Sara denied touching anything, but Mags didn’t believe her, and it’s true that someone had been riffling through her belongings.”

“What kind of threats were made, Irene?” I felt like covering my ears in a hear no evil pose.

“Just the usual.” Irene brightened. “Like on television. All the police shows have someone threatening to kill someone else.”

Babette yawned. “Big deal. I say that at least once a week, especially about my spineless ex-husband.” Her lip curled as she recalled Carleton Croy.

“Then there was the prowler. At least Mags thought that was what he was. She caught someone jiggling the door handle in her room and screamed bloody murder.”

Alarm bells were clanging in my mind. Either Magdalen was delusional or she was quite right to be concerned about her safety. Prowlers, pills, and premature deaths didn’t bode well for anyone, let alone a vulnerable elderly spinster.

“I bet it’s part of this manuscript stuff,” Babette said, turning to Irene. “How many people know about it?”

For a moment, Irene hesitated. “Manuscript?”

Delicacy was never my pal’s strong suit. “Don’t be coy,” she said. “You’re her best friend after all. I tell Perri everything and I’ll bet you share too.”

Irene nodded. “Mags did mention something, but frankly I thought she might be …”

“Lying?” Babette said.

“Oh no! Nothing like that. Exaggerating maybe. Life here is pretty dull, you know.” Irene bit her lip and once again appeared close to tears.

I prized loyalty in my friends and empathized with her dilemma. “Tell you what,” I said. “We’ll call Magdalen later and make sure she’s okay.” Babette grunted and Pruett gave Irene a little hug that elevated her spirits much more than anything I could offer. We exchanged pleasantries and took our leave. I clutched the manila envelope as tightly if it were a living thing, positive that the contents would go a long way toward unlocking the key to Sebastian Melmoth’s literary legacy. If it existed, that is.

The suspense was prolonged by Pruett’s insistence that we stop for dinner at his favorite French bistro in Leesburg. Babette concurred. She seldom refused a chance to chow down à la française, particularly when a man was footing the bill. Over an exquisite meal of crepes, we shared our hopes and reservations about this latest quest. Most of our discussion centered around mysterious Magdalen Melmoth. Pruett had mixed feelings, Babette termed her a kook, and I was undecided. Until we scrutinized the contents of that envelope, speculation was counterproductive and useless. I planned to give my new friend the benefit of the doubt.

After reaching Great Marsh, I tended to my pets while Pruett and Babette sipped bourbon and swapped theories. Feeding and grooming one cantankerous goat, a lively Arabian, an entitled feline, and two large dogs took considerable time and effort. By mutual agreement the envelope remained sealed until all three of us were present.

“Okay, gang,” I said when I finally joined them. “Let the games begin.”

I did the honors, using an antique letter opener to carefully pry apart the flap of the envelope. As the contents spilled on to my farmhouse table, we held our collective breaths and stared. Nothing earthshaking emerged; simply several handwritten pages with the legend Sybil Vane, and a packet of yellowed sheets of what looked like correspondence fastened by a pink ribbon.

“Wow,” Babette grumbled. “Is this the big reveal? Looks like a bunch of junk to me.”

“Hold on.” Pruett’s long, slender fingers carefully untied the letters. He remained focused on the task at hand, blissfully unaware of my impatience.

“This might be something after all,” he said. “Remember. no email, texts, or cell phones in those days. People communicated the old-fashioned way.”

As I reached for the Sybil Vane pages, Babette snatched them from me. “Wait a minute, girlfriend. We’re partners, remember? Heck. We might be making history— touching a masterpiece.” She fumbled in her purse for the reading glasses she abhorred and perched them on the tip of her nose.

I kept my doubts to myself. No need to shatter Magdalen’s dreams prematurely. Time enough for that later. I soon realized we had in our possession the prologue to a novel. The full title read Sybil Vane, a novel by Sebastian Melmoth. It appeared to be a first-person narrative of the title character’s life and tragic death at her own hand. The language was formal, much more typical of the nineteenth century than our own. Nevertheless, it was compelling. I scanned the first paragraph, unable to avert my eyes.

“I never sought to end my life—not until HE who was my sole reason for existence cast me aside. He dismissed any claim I had to beauty or talent as wanting. Like Hamlet, I reviled self-slaughter, but life was bereft of meaning without him and I succumbed.”

Babette gasped and clutched my arm. “Good Lord! This is excitin’.”

Before I could respond, my iPhone buzzed. I considered ignoring it but reached for it from sheer force of habit. The lure of potential customers outweighed personal convenience every time. The voice on the other end was faint, barely audible.

“Who’s speaking please?” I asked.

“It’s Irene. Irene Wilson.”

Alarm bells clanged in my head, but I kept my voice calm and unemotional. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson. How can I help you? Is Magdalen okay?”

Irene Wilson sobbed loudly into the phone. “That’s just it, Ms. Morgan. Mags has disappeared.” She gulped. “And something else. Nurse Ross—she’s been murdered.”