“Emig must have bought the farm after the murders.”
“Who from? Everybody was dead.”
“The state.”
“There wasn’t any—”
“Oh, all right, the colony, or the Crown, or whatever it was. Huber was dead and so was his only heir; the land would revert to the government. We talked about that before.”
“Then why wasn’t the sale recorded? I’ve got a theory. After Huber died, the farm belonged to the girl, and she was missing. I don’t know what the law was in those days, but today you have to prove death before you can take over somebody’s property. The usual period is seven years, but it takes a formal court decision to transfer title. Suppose Emig was a friend. He paid the taxes to keep the place from reverting back to the government, hoping maybe the girl would turn up.”
“I suppose he was one of your ancestors?”
“What does that have to do with it? I can’t remember, to tell you the truth; I didn’t pay much attention to that genealogy book.”
“Well, you make him sound awfully noble. They were poor people. Why should he shell out hard-earned money for a neighbor?”
“I don’t say his motives were purely disinterested. He probably moved in—farmed the land and kept the profits.”
“I still don’t see how he could—”
“Look at it this way. Emig was Huber’s neighbor and pal. He had a son. Maybe the son and Anna Maria were engaged. Hell, they might have been married, for all we know. That would explain how the property came to the Emigs. A woman’s property belonged to her husband.”
“Prove it. Find a marriage certificate.”
“I’ll bet we could at that. To find the record of a marriage you have to know the date and the name of the groom. I could look under Emig. That’s a damned good idea.”
Andy continued to crow until they reached the library. They separated, Meg to search for books on European history, especially “plots and conspiracies and unsuccessful revolutions,” while Andy went off on some unspecified research of his own. He was disgustingly coy about the nature of that research; when they met, some time later, he had an armful of books, but refused to let Meg look at the titles.
“Are you going to read them all now?” Meg asked.
“I hope not. Watch this.”
Andy advanced on the librarian’s desk. Meg stood at a respectful distance and watched. She had never seen him exert his full quota of charm before. It was an impressive performance. He did everything but kiss the dazzled old lady’s hand. He also produced mysterious cards and documents from his wallet. He walked out with the books, including a few Meg had selected.
By the time they started home it was midafternoon. Andy was in an excellent mood; his expression was positively smug.
“You’ve got a theory, haven’t you?” Meg asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“What about?”
“The motive for the murders.”
“Really? Something we hadn’t thought of?”
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
“You’ve got a nerve. I tell you my wild hunches.”
Andy’s smile disappeared. “Do you?”
When they got back, Andy headed for the library with his pile of books, pausing just long enough to ask, “What time is dinner?”
“I’m not planning to have dinner,” Meg said coldly. “That was an enormous lunch. I’ll make a sandwich when I get hungry.”
“Don’t let malice destroy you, child,” said Andy.
Seething, Meg put on old clothes and went outside. For several hours she worked on the lawn, muttering rude comments to herself about Andy’s inadequacy as a caretaker. Of course the place was too big for one man, even full time; but he might have tried to pick up the worst litter. Meg staked and cut back drooping dahlias and chrysanthemums, and picked up armloads of dead branches blown down by the rain. In all honesty she had to admit that her efforts had little effect, but she worked off a lot of steam in a useful fashion.
She didn’t go in until the gathering twilight reminded her of what else might be gathering, under the boughs of the oak tree. She was ready to forgive Andy by then—for what, she wasn’t quite sure. She went to the library door and looked in.
Andy was standing, bent over the table. His hands rested on its surface and he was looking down at an object that lay between them. He glanced up.
“Hi,” he said abstractedly. “When did you say dinner was going to be ready?”
“My sampler!” Meg exclaimed. “What are you doing with my sampler?”
“What was it your girl friend said, about these motifs being unusual?”
Meg took full advantage of the question, giving him a lecture on the patterns and their symbolism. Andy listened meekly.
“The tree is the Tree of Life,” he repeated. “And the peacock symbolizes immortality. Not all the designs were symbolic, though, were they? I mean, flowers are just for pretty.”
“You’re talking like a Dutchman,” Meg said, with a smile. “Even the flowers had meaning. So did colors. White for purity, red for the passion of Our Lord Jesus, and so on. Hey, there’s one of the motifs the lady in the sewing shop questioned. I was right, too; if that isn’t a snake I’ll eat it. It can’t be a vine; it’s got eyes.”
“It’s a snake.” Andy’s voice sounded odd, but when Meg looked at him his expression was equivocal. “Coiled around a tree. The tree is not the Tree of Life, in that case, but the Tree of Knowledge. And here’s your cross with a flower. Funny color for a cross—gray-black.”
“Death and sorrow,” Meg said glibly. “And the red flower in the center signifies the Passion. What are these funny shapes here? They look like Greek letters.”
“I’m hungry,” Andy said suddenly. “I’m going to make a sandwich. Shall I make you one?”
“I’ll come in a minute.”
As soon as Andy had left the room Meg examined the books he had been reading. They were scattered all over the table. The titles did not enlighten her; they were a weird mixture, from a history of magic to a ponderous tome on eighteenth-century rationalism. What was Andy up to? He had not taken notes; several sheets of paper lay among the books, but they were blank.
She followed Andy into the kitchen and saw that he had covered the kitchen table with a wild variety of ingredients—cheese, cold cuts, a can of tuna, pickles, onions, anchovies…
“You’re not going to put all that in one sandwich!” she exclaimed.
“That and more.” Andy took lettuce and tomatoes from the refrigerator. “Haven’t we got any smoked oysters?”
They ate sandwiches and drank beer, from what Andy described as his private stock. Meg was carrying the dishes to the sink when the telephone rang.
It rang so seldom that it startled her. She dropped a plate, and swore as she bent to pick up fragments of lettuce and bread crust.
Andy went to get the phone. He was back almost immediately. “It’s Sylvia,” he said, his face expressionless. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Somebody must be dying,” Meg said. “Sylvia never calls. What do you suppose—”
“If you answer it, maybe you’ll find out.” The telephone was lying on the desk in the library. Meg picked it up with the tips of her fingers.She had a premonition of bad news, which was perfectly understandable. Sylvia was probably mad because she hadn’t written. “Goodness, it took you long enough to get here,” she snapped, as soon as Meg had said “hello.” “This is long distance, Meg. It costs money.” “I’m sorry. I was in the kitchen.” “How are you?” “Fine.”
“No more hallucinations?”
Meg had a wild desire to laugh. If Sylvia only knew! “No,” she said firmly.
“Good. I knew they would stop when you got away from New York. The reason I’m calling is that I’ve decided to come down and look at some of the things in the attic. Georgia says there’s a Duncan Phyfe dining-room set.”
“I’d like to keep that,” Meg said firmly. �
��The dining room set downstairs is junk—that heavy carved mahogany with bunches of grapes all over it like goiters. With the Duncan Phyfe we could fix up the dining room to be quite attractive.”
“Oh. Well, that’s the sort of thing we have to discuss. You had better make a list. I won’t have much time. I have a doctor’s appointment in New York on Saturday.”
“When are you coming?” Meg asked, trying not to sound as depressed as she felt.
“Friday. Just for the day. I’ll spend Thursday night in Philadelphia and drive out early Friday morning. This is costing money, Meg. I’ll see you Friday.”
Meg turned from the phone to see Andy hovering in the doorway. She was annoyed; if he wanted to eavesdrop, why didn’t he do it openly? She was also a little ashamed of herself for not asking about Sylvia’s health. When someone mentioned a doctor’s appointment it was only courteous to express concern, although the appointment was probably only for a checkup. Sylvia took excellent care of her health. She went to the doctor so often and took so many pills that Meg suspected her of mild hypochondria.
“What’s up?” Andy asked.
“She’s coming.”
“Hell. When?”
“Friday.” Meg relented; he had every right to be curious, the whirlwind visit would be as vexing for him as it was for her.
“She’ll arrive in the morning—if I know Sylvia, about six a.m. She says it’s just for the day, so I suppose she’ll leave about five. You’d better brace yourself, my lad; Sylvia intends to do a week’s work in one day.”
“God, yes,” Andy groaned. “Damn it, that means we’ve got to slave for the next couple of days. I wouldn’t want her to decide to stay over because we didn’t have everything ready when she came.”
“I don’t feel like starting now, though.”
“Bright and early tomorrow morning, then. That means I’ve got a lot of reading to do tonight.”
He dropped in his chair and reached for a book. Defiantly Meg took up the sampler. If she wasn’t going to have time to embroider in the next few days, she would indulge herself this evening.
It was like so many other evenings they had spent together: darkness deepening outside the windows, the smooth hypnotic movements of Meg’s needle, and the growing patches of color on the linen fabric. Very domestic and peaceful, Meg thought—and to close the evening’s entertainment, a glimpse into the unknown, a conjuring of scenes and people long dead. With one of the flashes of incredulity that hit her sometimes, she thought, it’s crazy. Really crazy, what we’re doing.
As Andy turned from book to book, he began to read excerpts to her. Meg was perfectly willing to talk; but Andy’s comments seemed to have no bearing on the subject uppermost in her mind.
“I bet you didn’t know that, before the Fall, Adam never had to go to the toilet.”
“I can’t say the question ever entered my mind.”
“Some of the religious types who settled at Ephrata, north of here, tried to get back to Adam’s state of grace by restricting their diets.”
“I’ve heard of Ephrata. It was a celibate community that had one of the first printing presses in the colony.”
“Good schools, too. And a certain small percentage of fanatics.”
“How did fanatics do with their back-to-Adam project?” “They got constipated,” said Andy. He turned the page.
“The Society of the Woman in the Wilderness was a monastic community too. They perched on a hill above Germantown watching the skies for signs of the Second Coming. Many of them were learned men who were kicked out of the German universities for their heretical views. They practiced astrology and alchemy.”
“Simple, pious farmers,” Meg jeered.
“Most of ‘em were. Not all of them were pacifists, either, although the Mennonites and some of the other German sects shared the Quakers’ views about killing. Did you know that the famous Kentucky rifle was really developed by Pennsylvania Dutchmen?”
“Do tell.”
“The companies of riflemen in the Revolution were almost all Pennsylvanians. They were the best shots in the country.”
“You sound like Mrs. Adams bragging about her ancestors.”
“They weren’t so bad,” Andy muttered. “The Germans formed one twelfth of the population, but they made up one eighth of the Patriot army during the revolution. And don’t get smart. They’re your ancestors too.”
He slammed the book shut and tossed it aside. After reading for a few minutes in the next volume, he remarked in a conversational tone.
“Woman is the vegetative passive element. The generative, active male element must be united with the female in order to become the perfect Unity.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The specter of the rose.”
“That’s a ballet.”
“Is it?”
Meg put down her embroidery.
“Andy, I think you’re cracking up.”
Andy went on reading. “Do any of these names strike a familiar chord?” he asked. “Swedenborg, the Count of St. Germain, Cagliostro, Christian Rosenkreutz?”
“Cagliostro was a magician, wasn’t he? If you don’t stop it, I’m going to bed.”
“Wait, don’t go away. We haven’t had our evening seance yet.”
“We aren’t going to have one unless you play fair.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, no fair trying to control the vision. I want to try something. It’s my turn.”
“Okay, your turn first. Although I must say that’s a childish way of looking at it.”
Once again the shadowy kitchen took shape. It was so familiar to Meg that she could have sketched it from memory. The brick fireplace, the mantel with its row of ornaments, the massive cupboard. Meg felt a violent stab of disappointment. The only inhabitant of the room was the old woman. She concentrated as hard as she could, but to no avail. Not only were the people she had hoped to see missing, but the scene was even duller than usual. The old woman was picking over a pan of beans. She sat motionless, the firelight shining on her white apron and snowy cap.
The vision faded. Meg pulled her hands away from Andy’s.
“You cheated,” she said angrily. “It didn’t work!”
“Well, don’t get all uptight about it. What was it you wanted to see?”
“I know,” Meg said suddenly. “I know one thing that’s wrong. We always do this in the library, so all we see is their kitchen. They wouldn’t entertain company in the kitchen… Come on.”
“Where are you going?”
“We’ll try the drawing room. That’s where their parlor was.”
Andy remained seated.
Meg, on her feet, gestured impatiently. “Come on, Andy!”
“Don’t you think once is enough for tonight?”
“No.”
“I do. One of the reasons why I’ve avoided the parlor is that I think that’s where the murder took place. Do you want to see that?”
“Oh, you’re impossible! All right, if you won’t come, I’ll try it by myself.”
“You can’t…” Andy began.
But Meg was already on her way.
The drawing room looked eerie with moonlight sliding in through the high windows. Meg hesitated; her anger and excitement were chilled by a sudden sensation of cold. Walking more slowly, she went to the window.
It looked out over the front lawn. The shadows were there, under the tree.
Meg shivered, but she felt none of the horror that had surged into the house that first night of seeing the figures. With a quick movement she pulled the heavy draperies across the window.
In the near darkness she waited. Darkness or light, it made no difference; the other house had its own illumination. She was convinced of her ability to conjure up the visions by herself; in fact, she wondered whether Andy was a hindrance instead of a help. Perhaps he had been deliberately controlling the visions all along, preventing her from seeing what she wanted
to see. She strained forward, her hands clasped tightly together.
It was not as easy as she had hoped. Instead of the smooth, complete manifestations they had been getting, she caught flickers of light and color that faded out and then strengthened, like a badly adjusted television set. Meg’s nails dug into her palms. “Please,” she whispered. “Oh, please…” A shimmer of blue.
Meg focused on it, concentrated all her will. She could feel beads of perspiration streaking her face, trickling down her body. The blue strengthened and took shape. A dress—a woman, wearing a blue dress… Slowly the rest of the scene formed, but it was hazy and transparent. The sun shone in through the windows of the other room. The blue linen dress shone palely in its light, like satin. The girl had been caught in the middle of a curtsy, her skirts lifted, her fair head inclined; but her eyes were fixed on the man who stood facing her.
House of Many Shadows Page 20
