by Robin Cook
“Should I call somebody?” Kevin demanded.
To Kevin’s surprise, Edward reached out and grabbed him around the upper arms. Edward held him with unexpected strength.
“It feels like the room is moving,” Edward said. “And there’s a mild choking sensation.”
“I’d better call for help,” Kevin said. His own pulse was racing. He eyed the phone, but Edward strengthened his grip.
“It’s OK,” Edward said. “The colors are receding. It’s passing.” Edward closed his eyes, but otherwise he didn’t move. He still had hold of Kevin.
Eventually Edward opened his eyes and sighed. “Wow!” he said. Only then did he become aware he was gripping Kevin’s arms. He let go, took a breath, and smoothed his jacket. “I think we got our answer,” he said.
“This was idiotic!” Kevin snapped. “Your little antic terrified me. I was just about to call emergency.”
“Calm down,” Edward said. “It wasn’t that bad. Don’t get all bent out of shape over a sixty-second psychedelic reaction.”
Kevin pointed up at the clock. “It wasn’t sixty seconds,” he said. “It was more like twenty minutes.”
Edward glanced up at the clock’s face. “Isn’t that curious,” he said. “Even my sense of time was distorted.”
“Do you generally feel OK?” Kevin asked.
“Fine!” Edward insisted. “In fact I feel better than fine. I feel . . .” He hesitated while he tried to put into words his inner sensations. “I feel energized, like I’d just had a rest. And also clairvoyant, like my mind is particularly sharp. I might even feel a touch euphoric but that could be because of this positive result: we’ve just ascertained that this new fungus produces a hallucinogenic substance.”
“Let’s not be so lax with the term ‘we,’” Kevin said. “You ascertained it, not me. I refuse to take any credit for this craziness.”
“I wonder if the alkaloids are the same as Claviceps?” Edward asked. “I don’t seem to have even the slightest signs of reduced peripheral vascular circulation, a frequent sign of ergotism.”
“At least promise me you’ll get a urinalysis and a BUN or creatinine this afternoon,” Kevin said. “Even if you’re not worried, I still am.”
“If it will make you sleep tonight I’ll do it,” Edward said. “Meanwhile I want some more of these sclerotia. Is that possible?”
“It’s possible now that I have figured out the medium this fungus needs to grow, but I can’t promise you a lot of sclerotia. It’s not always easy to get the fungus to produce them.”
“Well, do your best,” Edward said. “Remember, we’ll probably get a nice little paper out of this.”
As Edward hurried across campus to catch the shuttle bus to the medical area, he was thrilled with the results. He couldn’t wait to tell Kim that the poison theory involving the Salem witchcraft episode was alive and well.
As excited as Kim was about seeing the progress at the compound, she was even more curious as to why her father had called her. Confident she was early enough to catch him before he left for his Boston office, Kim detoured to Marblehead.
Entering the house, she went directly to the kitchen. As she expected, she found John lingering over his coffee and his clutch of morning papers. He was a big man who’d reportedly been quite an athlete during his days at Harvard. His broad face was crowned with a full head of hair that had once been as dark and lustrous as Kim’s. Over the years it had grayed in a comely fashion, giving him a stereotypically paternal appearance.
“Good morning, Kimmy,” John said without taking his attention away from his paper.
Kim helped herself to the espresso machine and foamed some milk for a cappuccino.
“How’s that car of yours running?” John asked. The paper crinkled loudly as he turned the page. “I hope you are having it regularly serviced like I advised.”
Kim didn’t answer. She was accustomed to her father treating her as if she were still a little girl and she mildly resented it. He was forever giving her instructions on how to order her life. The older she got the more she thought he shouldn’t be giving anyone advice, especially considering what he’d done to his own life and marriage.
“I heard you called my apartment last night,” Kim said. She sat on a window seat beneath a bay window overlooking the ocean.
John lowered his paper.
“I did indeed,” he said. “Joyce mentioned that you’d become interested in Elizabeth Stewart and had been asking questions about her. It surprised me. I called you to ask why you wanted to upset your mother like that.”
“I wasn’t trying to upset her,” Kim said. “I’ve become interested in Elizabeth and I just wanted to know some basic facts. Like whether or not Elizabeth truly had been hanged for witchcraft or whether it was just a rumor.”
“She was indeed hanged,” John said. “I can assure you of that. I can also assure you that the family made a good deal of effort to suppress it. Under the circumstances I think it is best for you to leave it alone.”
“But why does it warrant such secrecy after three hundred years?” Kim asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to you or not,” John said. “It was a humiliation then and it is today.”
“Do you mean to tell me that it bothers you, Father?” Kim asked. “Does it humiliate you?”
“Well, no, not particularly,” John admitted. “It’s your mother. It bothers her, so it should not be a subject for your amusement. We shouldn’t add to her burdens.”
Kim bit her tongue. It was hard not to say something disparaging to her father under the circumstances. Instead she admitted that not only had she become interested in Elizabeth but that she’d developed a sympathy for her.
“What on earth for?” John questioned irritably.
“For one thing I found her portrait stuck away in the back of Grandfather’s wine cellar,” Kim said. “Looking at it emphasized that she’d been a real person. She even had the same eye color as I do. Then I remembered what had happened to her. She certainly didn’t deserve to be hanged. It’s hard not to be sympathetic.”
“I was aware of the painting,” John said. “What were you doing in the wine cellar?”
“Nothing in particular,” Kim said. “Just taking a look around. It seemed like such a coincidence to come across Elizabeth’s portrait, because I’d recently been doing some reading about the Salem witch trials. And what I’d learned just added to my feelings of sympathy. Within a short time of the tragedy there was an outpouring of regret and repentance. Even back then it had become evident innocent people had been killed.”
“Not everyone was innocent,” John said.
“Mother intimated the same thing,” Kim said. “What could Elizabeth have done for you to suggest she wasn’t innocent?”
“Now you are pushing me,” John said. “I don’t know specifics, but I’d been told by my father it had something to do with the occult.”
“Like what?” Kim persisted.
“I just told you I don’t know, young lady,” John snapped angrily. “You’ve asked enough questions.”
Now go to your room, Kim added silently to herself. She wondered if her father would ever recognize that she’d become an adult and treat her like one.
“Kimmy, listen to me,” John said in a more conciliatory and paternalistic tone. “For your own good don’t dig up the past in this instance. It’s only going to cause trouble.”
“With all due respect, Father,” Kim said, “could you explain to me how it could possibly affect my welfare?”
John stammered.
“Let me tell you what I think,” Kim said with uncharacteristic assertiveness. “I believe that Elizabeth’s involvement could have been a humiliation back at the time the event occurred. I also can believe it might have been considered bad for business since her husband, Ronald, started Maritime Limited, which has supported generation after generation of Stewarts, ourselves included. But the fa
ct that the concern over Elizabeth’s involvement has persisted is absurd and a disgrace to her memory. After all, she is our ancestor; if it hadn’t been for her, none of us would even be here. That fact alone makes me surprised that no one has questioned over the years this ridiculous knee-jerk reaction.”
“If you can’t understand it from your own selfish perspective,” John said irritably, “then at least think of your mother. The affair humiliates Joyce, and it doesn’t matter why. It just does. So if you need some motivation to leave Elizabeth’s legacy be, then there it is. Don’t rub your mother’s nose in it.”
Kim lifted her now cool cappuccino to her lips and took a drink. She gave up with her father. Trying to have a conversation with him had never been fruitful. It only worked when the conversation was one-sided: when he told her what to do and how to do it. It was as if he mistook the role of a father to be an instructor.
“Mother also tells me you have embarked on a project at the compound,” John said, assuming that Kim’s silence meant she’d become reasonable about the Elizabeth issue and accepted his advice. “What exactly are you doing?”
Kim told him about her decision to renovate the old house and live in it. While she talked, John went back to glancing at his papers. When she’d finished his only question concerned the castle and his father’s belongings.
“We’re not going to do anything to the castle,” Kim said. “Not until Brian comes home.”
“Good,” John said as he advanced the page of his Wall Street Journal.
“Speaking of Mother, where is she?” Kim asked.
“Upstairs,” John said. “She’s not feeling well and is not seeing anyone.”
A few minutes later Kim left the house with a sad, anxious feeling that was a complicated mixture of pity, anger, and revulsion. As she climbed into her car she told herself that she hated her parents’ marriage. As she started the engine she pledged to herself that she would never allow herself to be ensnared in such a situation.
Kim backed out of the driveway and headed toward Salem. As she drove she reminded herself that despite her revulsion toward her parents’ relationship, she was at some risk to re-create a similar situation. That was part of the reason why she’d reacted so strongly to Kinnard’s sporting trips when he’d had plans to be with her.
Kim suddenly smiled. Her gloomy thoughts were immediately overpowered by the memory of the flowers that had been arriving from Edward on a daily basis. In one way they embarrassed her; in another they were a testament to Edward’s attentiveness and caring. One thing she felt quite confident about: Edward would not be a womanizer. In her mind a womanizer had to be more assertive and more competitive, like her father, or, for that matter, like Kinnard.
As frustrating as her conversation with her father had been, it had the opposite effect of what he’d intended: it only encouraged her interest in Elizabeth Stewart. Consequently, as Kim was driving through downtown Salem, she detoured to the Museum Place Mall.
Leaving her vehicle in the car park, Kim walked to the Peabody-Essex Institute, a cultural and historical association housed in a group of old refurbished buildings in the center of town. Among other functions it served as a repository for documents about Salem and the environs, including the witchcraft trials.
A receptionist in the foyer collected a fee from Kim and directed her to the library, which was reached by a few stairs directly across from the reception desk. Kim mounted the steps and passed through a heavy, windowed door. The library was housed in an early nineteenth-century building with high ceilings, decorative cornices, and dark wood molding. The main room had marble fireplaces and chandeliers in addition to darkly stained oak tables and captain’s chairs. A typical library hush and a smell of old books prevailed.
A friendly and helpful librarian by the name of Grace Meehan immediately came to Kim’s aid. She was an elderly woman with gray hair and a kind face. In response to a general question from Kim, she showed her how to find all sorts of papers and documents associated with the Salem witch trials including accusations, complaints, arrest warrants, depositions, hearing testimony, court records of the preliminary hearings, mittimi, and execution warrants. They were all carefully catalogued in one of the library’s old-fashioned card catalogues.
Kim was surprised and encouraged by the amount of material that was so easily available. It was no wonder there were so many books on the Salem witch trials. The institute was a researcher’s paradise.
As soon as the librarian left Kim on her own, Kim attacked the card catalogue. With a good deal of excitement she looked up Elizabeth Stewart. She was confident she’d be mentioned in some form or fashion. But Kim was soon disappointed. There was no Elizabeth Stewart. There were no Stewarts at all.
Returning to the librarian’s desk, Kim asked the woman directly about Elizabeth Stewart.
“The name’s not familiar,” Grace said. “Do you know how she was connected to the trials?”
“I was told she was one of the accused,” Kim said. “I believe she was hanged.”
“She couldn’t have been,” Grace said without hesitation. “I consider myself an expert on the extant documents concerning the trials. I’ve never come across the name Elizabeth Stewart even as a witness, much less one of the twenty victims. Who told you she was accused?”
“It’s a rather long story,” Kim said evasively.
“Well, it certainly wasn’t true,” Grace said. “There’s been too much research by too many people for one of the victims to have been missed.”
“I see,” Kim said. She didn’t argue. Instead she thanked the woman and returned to the card-catalogue area.
Giving up on the documents associated with the trials, Kim turned her attention to another important resource of the institute: genealogical information on families from Essex County.
This time Kim found a wealth of information on the Stewarts. In fact they took up most of an entire drawer of the genealogical card catalogue. As Kim went through the material it became obvious that there were two main Stewart clans, hers and another whose history wasn’t quite so old.
After a half hour Kim found a brief reference to Elizabeth Stewart. She was born on May 4, 1665, the daughter of James and Elisha Flanagan, and died on July 19, 1692, the wife of Ronald Stewart. No cause of death was given. A quick subtraction told Kim that Elizabeth died at age twenty-seven!
Kim raised her head and stared with unseeing eyes out the window. She could feel tiny gooseflesh rise up on the nape of her neck. Kim was twenty-seven, and her birthday was in May. It wasn’t the fourth but rather the sixth, so it was close to Elizabeth’s. Remembering their physical similarities from the portrait and considering the fact that she was planning on moving into the same house Elizabeth occupied, Kim began to wonder if there were just too many coincidences. Was this all trying to tell her something?
“Excuse me,” Grace Meehan said, interrupting Kim’s reverie. “Here’s a list I copied for you of the people who were hanged for witchcraft. There’s also the date of their execution, including the day of the week, their town of residence, their church affiliation if there was one, and their age. As you can see, it is very complete—and there is no Elizabeth Stewart.”
Kim thanked the woman again and took the paper. After the woman left, she dutifully glanced at it and was about to put it aside when she noted the date of Tuesday, July 19, 1692. Five people had been hanged that day. Looking back at Elizabeth’s day of death, she noticed it was the same. Kim understood that just because the dates were the same, it didn’t prove Elizabeth was hanged. But even if it were only circumstantial, it was at least suggestive.
Then Kim realized something else. Thinking back to the previous Tuesday, she remembered it had been July 19. Looking again at the paper Grace Meehan had given her, she discovered that the daily calendar was the same in 1692 as it was in 1994. Was this yet another coincidence whose meaning Kim had to ponder?
Going back to the genealogical information, Kim got a book that s
ummarized the early history of her family. In it she looked up Ronald Stewart and quickly learned that Elizabeth had not been Ronald’s first wife. Ronald had married Hannah Hutchinson in 1677, with whom he’d had a daughter, Joanna, born 1678. But then Hannah died in January 1679, with no cause of death listed. Ronald at age thirty-nine then married Elizabeth Flanagan in 1682 with whom he had a daughter Sarah, born 1682, and sons, Jonathan, born 1683, and Daniel, born 1689. Finally Ronald married Elizabeth’s younger sister, Rebecca Flanagan, in 1692, with whom he had a daughter named Rachel, born in 1693.
Kim lowered the book and again stared off into space while she tried to sort out her thoughts. Mild alarm bells were going off in her head in relation to Ronald’s character. Looking back at the genealogy book, she reviewed the fact that three years after Hannah died, Ronald married Elizabeth. Then after Elizabeth died, he married her sister the same year!
Kim felt uneasy. Knowing her own father’s amorous proclivities, she thought it possible that Ronald could have suffered a similar flaw and indulged it with far more disastrous consequences. It occurred to her that Ronald could have been having an affair with Elizabeth while married to Hannah, and an affair with Rebecca while married to Elizabeth. After all, Elizabeth certainly died under unusual circumstances. Kim wondered if Hannah did as well.
Kim shook her head and silently laughed at herself. She told herself that she must have watched too many soap operas, since her imagination was taking unwarranted, melodramatic leaps.
After spending a few more minutes going over the Stewart family tree, Kim learned two more facts. First she confirmed she was related to Ronald and Elizabeth through their son Jonathan. Second she learned that the name “Elizabeth” never reappeared in the family’s three-hundred-year history. With so many generations, such a situation couldn’t have happened by chance. Kim marveled at the opprobrium Elizabeth had brought on herself, and Kim’s curiosity waxed concerning what Elizabeth could possibly have done to warrant it.
