by Rhys Bowen
“Mr. Turnbull, about that painting of Colleen Van Horn.”
“I told you. It’s not for sale,” he snapped.
“I don’t want to buy it. I want to borrow it for about an hour. Is that possible?”
“Why?”
“I want to save her sister’s life. You do still have the picture, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I have it. How do I know I’ll get it back if I lend it to you?”
“You could come with me, if you like and bring the picture yourself.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not going near that place and seeing them. Don’t ask me to do that.”
“What do you have against them?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s not their fault.”
“What’s not their fault?” I was confused. I sensed a powerful emotion in him, almost ready to explode, and wondered for a moment if he might strike me.
“Nothing. None of your business. Okay, you can borrow the picture as long as you bring it back safely and promise you won’t leave it with any of them.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Then come with me. It’s in my workshop.” He gathered his things and stomped ahead of me, his big seaboots making a thumping sound on the cobbles. I followed, trying to keep up with his giant strides. What had made him so angry with the Hannan family? Had they tried not to pay him for the painting? Or not paid the agreed price? I thought of old Miss Gallinger and her assertion of women’s intuition. What exactly was this emotion that I was sensing and suddenly a word came into my head. Jealousy. And I thought what old Miss Gallinger had said about Irene slipping in and out through the secret door in the wall.
“You were in love with Irene Hannan,” I blurted out as he paused outside a bright red door to take out his key.
He spun to face me, his eyes blazing. “Who the devil told you that? Did she?”
“Nobody told me. I figured it out for myself.”
He turned the key and kicked the door open. Then he went inside ahead of me, throwing down his things on a scrubbed pine table. He didn’t invite me in but I followed anyway.
“I loved her since we were kids,” he said. “They used to come here before her father had the house built. They’d rent an ordinary place and she’d come to watch the boats. We’d play together. Then she was sent off to finishing school in Europe. And then I heard that she’d married a snooty Dutchman, one of the Four Hundred. But when I saw her again, I knew right away that she still loved me.”
“She slipped out to visit you,” he said.
“She was always so careful,” he said. “How did you find that out?”
“She wasn’t careful enough. She was seen. But don’t worry. None of the family knows.”
“I always thought that those girls were mine,” he said. “Twins run in my family, you know, and Colleen … she had a look about her, when she was puzzling something out … well, I could see myself in her.” As he spoke he took out his brushes and mechanically cleaned them in a jar of turpentine that stood on the table. “You don’t know what a torture it was, knowing she was so close and yet only being able to see her once in a while. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the little girls … It was like a dream come true when Old Hannan commissioned the portraits. He was going to have one painted of Kathleen too, but of course Colleen came first. She always did. I had to come to the house every day. It was like being in heaven. And then that awful thing happened.”
“She was with you at the time, wasn’t she?”
“How do you know that? What are you, some kind of witch?”
“No, I’m a detective, actually, and if you want to know, it was a guess. Someone told me that Irene wasn’t with them at tea. She came running up when she heard Kathleen’s scream.”
“I haven’t seen her since,” he said. He picked up a filthy rag and dried one of the brushes on it, his back still toward me. “She wrote me a note saying that she could never see me again. She felt so guilty, you see. If only she’d been there, she could have saved Colleen. And her father added insult to injury by bringing back the painting. They no longer wanted to be reminded of her. I didn’t want to be reminded either. It was locked away for years. Then I needed money and decided I might as well sell it. But I couldn’t. Wait there.”
He went into a backroom and returned with the painting. “Here,” he said. “Take it. You say you want to help the other twin? Isn’t she in a mental home? That’s what Irene told me.”
“She’s at the castle,” I said, “and she’s accused of killing her nurse. She’s blocked out all memory of her sister and I thought if she saw the portrait, it might reawaken her memory.”
“So she’s not mad?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think she killed her sister, and I want to help her.”
“Here you are, then.” He handed me the portrait. “Anything to help her.” And as I took the painting from him he added, “How does she look now? Anything like Colleen?”
“Very much like Colleen, I would say.” I could read his expression—wary, not daring to hope for something he couldn’t have.
Thirty-eight
The heat of the day and the weight of the painting started to grow on me as I walked back from town. I was delighted then when I heard the honk of a horn behind me and an automobile drew up, enveloping me in a cloud of dust. As I brushed the dust away, coughing, I saw Police Chief Prescott sitting behind the driver.
“Mrs. Sullivan. Do allow me to give you a ride,” he said. “I’m on my way to the house now.”
The driver jumped out and opened the rear door for me, taking the painting and helping me up the step.
“Have you been purchasing art?” Chief Prescott asked. “I understand we have some fine painters in the area.”
“No, I’ve just borrowed it,” I said. “I’m hoping to conduct a little experiment.”
“Really, what kind of experiment?”
I lifted the painting for him to see.
“Good heavens,” he said. “It’s the child in the tower.”
“It was her dead twin.”
“The resemblance is striking,” he agreed. “What do you plan to do with it? Surely not show it to the family at this time. Wouldn’t it only cause more grief?”
“I want to see if we can reawaken Kathleen’s memory about what happened to her twin.”
He looked wary. “What would that achieve? Do you want her to be burdened with the knowledge of what she did? Isn’t it kinder to leave her in oblivion?”
“Chief Prescott.” I put down the painting and turned to face him. “Do you want this case solved or not? I don’t believe this child is responsible for anything that has happened here.”
“How can you go on insisting that? What about the housekeeper?”
“I don’t think she killed the housekeeper or her twin. I’d like one chance to prove her innocence—that’s all I’m asking.”
“What do you plan to do, Mrs. Sullivan?” he asked warily.
I told him and he listened, frowning.
“Most irregular,” he said, “and I can’t see what you could hope to achieve.”
“What harm could it do?” I said.
“What harm? What about the harm to the child? What if the shock is too much for her and pushes her into madness for life?”
I nodded. “I have considered that. I know we’d be taking an awful risk but I see no other way to save her. If nothing is achieved then the poor child will spend the rest of her life locked away, shut off from love and affection, among the mad. I’ll do anything in my power to prevent that from happening. If you’re a just man, you would not want another horrible miscarriage of justice, would you? If it was your daughter, would you want her locked away in a madhouse?”
“No, of course not,” he spluttered. “But then my daughter has not been in a catatonic state for eight years.”
“Maybe your daughter did not witness a shocking crime to the one she loved best. Ten minutes, Chief Prescott. That’s al
l I ask.”
He sighed. “I don’t really see how this will bring us to the truth, but I suppose it can’t put her in a worse position than she is in already.”
“Thank you. You won’t regret it. And your men should be standing by unobtrusively, just in case…”
“‘In case’?”
“In case the true murderer is revealed.”
We reached the gates. They were opened for us and we drove through, the tires crunching on the gravel drive.
“Could you make sure that tea is served and everyone is summoned to the lawn?” I asked him as we alighted. “And could I please go up and explain my plan to Miss Walcott?”
He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Sullivan, do you interfere like this in all your husband’s criminal cases?”
I smiled. “We haven’t been married long enough to tell yet. But I will say this—I have been successful before when the police have failed.”
With that I went into the house and up the long stair to Gus and Kathleen. When I entered, Kathleen was playing with the dollhouse and Gus was sitting behind her, taking notes.
“Hello, Molly,” she said, looking up as Kathleen scurried to cling to her skirts. “Any news from Sid yet?”
“She’s on her way back here, and she’s made some interesting discoveries.”
“I’ve been doing rather well myself,” she said. “I think I’ve made a good start in unlocking her language. Of course I can’t really tell. I’ve tried speaking to her in her own tongue, but she just looks confused and won’t answer.”
“Gus, I think we have one chance to help her escape this nightmare for good,” I said. “This is what I want you to do, if you’re up for it.”
I led her away from Kathleen and whispered into her ear. As I unfolded my plan, she drew away from me, looking horrified.
“Are you mad?”
Kathleen scurried under her bed at the sound of Gus’s raised voice. Gus lowered her voice and leaned closer to me, her eyes still on the cowering child. “Haven’t you thought what it might do to her? Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
I took Gus and led her into the other room. “It’s the only way,” I said. “The one chance we have. I have no other way to prove who really killed her sister. And as things stand, they’ll come and take her away however much you try to defend her, Gus. She’ll be locked up in a madhouse for life.”
“But what you’re suggesting might really drive her mad,” Gus hissed back at me.
“Isn’t it worth a risk to try and save her, even if it is going to be traumatic? And the very least we’ll get is justice for her dead sister. She’d want that, wouldn’t she?”
Gus looked at me, long and hard. “You’ve let your emotions take over before, Molly. The results haven’t always been good.”
“I know that,” I said. From the window I heard sounds on the lawn below as chairs and tables were being carried out. “But I really believe this is our one chance to reawaken her memory, if she has kept the details of that traumatic event locked away until now.”
“We’re not alienists. Either of us, Molly,” Gus said. “I like to think I know what I’m doing with the child, but I really don’t, and neither do you.”
“But since they won’t let a real alienist get involved, it’s up to us, isn’t it, and we both want what’s best for her, don’t we?”
Gus sighed and started to walk back into Kathleen’s room. “Come on out, precious,” she said. “It’s all right. Gus is going to take care of you, no matter what.”
And she knelt down beside the bed. “I’ll get her ready to come down when you say,” she said quietly.
I hugged her. “Thank you. Let us hope for a miracle, shall we?”
I went back down and chose my position with care among the trees. One by one the family emerged from the house.
“What on earth can he be doing now?” Joseph was blustering to Father Patrick. “They’ve already searched our rooms once. What more do they think we are hiding?”
“At least tea is ready and waiting for us,” Father Patrick said. “And my favorite little cakes too. You see, there is a good side to everything.”
“You have to say that because you’re a damned priest,” Joseph snapped. “You always were a holier than thou little prig, weren’t you?”
They took seats on the lawn. I waited among the trees, hardly daring to breathe. At last the rest of the family was there.
“Why have the chairs been moved here today?” Irene demanded. “This is too close to the ocean. Too breezy for me. Archie, have the servants move them back where they usually are.”
“That annoying police fellow had them put here, I suppose,” Archie said. “I can’t wait to go home, back to a normal life. Why are we still here—we know what happened now and the poor child isn’t responsible for her actions.”
Among the trees I saw a movement. Gus and Kathleen had arrived. I signaled and waited. A few minutes later I saw a flash of white skirts as they came toward me through the undergrowth. As they stepped out onto the lawn, Kathleen caught sight of the people sitting there and gave a little scream of horror, and at the same moment I stood up from behind a bush, holding the painting up in front of me.
I couldn’t see what was happening, but suddenly terrified screams filled the air. I came forward with the painting. Kathleen grabbed Gus, trying desperately to drag her away.
The family had all risen to their feet.
“What on earth’s she doing down here?” Archie demanded. “Who brought her out? Can’t you see how it will upset her mother to see her like this? Take her back immediately.”
“The poor child. Why are you trying to frighten her in this way?” Father Patrick said gently, going toward her.
Gus stopped him, shielding the child.
I dropped the painting and ran toward them. Kathleen was cowering behind Gus as Father Patrick came toward her. With one hand she clawed at Gus’s sleeve, with the other she flailed at the air as if warding off an attack. “No, no!” she shouted. “No boo Coween.”
“It’s all right, child. Nobody is going to hurt you.” He reached out his hand as if to touch her gently. “She should never have been let out. Let’s take her back to safety. Can’t you see how distressed she is?”
I put myself between him and Kathleen. “She’s distressed because she recognizes you and she remembers now that you killed her sister,” I said.
“What utter nonsense. The child’s babbling the gibberish of a diseased mind.”
“Miss Walcott has made remarkable strides in understanding her speech, which is the language of twins, the language she used to speak to Colleen.” I knew I was stretching the truth; conscious of the family members closing in on us, I addressed them as much as Father Patrick.
“You accuse me of killing her sister?” he said, his normally gentle voice now high and taut. “I adored Colleen. We all did.”
“Did you love the other little girls you killed?” I asked. “Those little girls in Granville and Cambridge?” I looked around the faces of those who were frozen in a group around us, staring with a mixture of horror and fascination. “That was why your brother summoned us all here, wasn’t it? Because he had finally figured out the truth.”
“Your mind is as diseased as this child’s,” Patrick Hannan said. “I don’t know exactly who you are but your meddling is causing this family great distress.” He glanced up at the policemen who were now making their way across the lawn toward us. “Officers, this woman is mad. Please remove her.”
“It’s no use, Father Patrick,” I said. “I went to Brian Hannan’s office, you see, and I saw what he had written. He had figured out for himself why your bishop moved you from parish to parish so frequently.” I stared at him defiantly. “That’s why you had to kill your brother, wasn’t it? You had to kill him before he revealed what he had found out to the rest of the family and had you put away.”
“He told me he’d spoken to my bishop,” Patrick said, “When he sai
d he was calling the family together to decide what to do with me, I had to stop him. We’d used that cyanide on a wasps’ nest last summer. I met him and told him I wanted to talk privately first. And I offered him a drink.”
The family members stood there, staring with expressions of horror and disbelief. Archie Van Horn was the first to move. “You killed my daughter?” he shouted. “You killed Colleen?” He started toward the priest, his eyes blazing.
“I didn’t mean to, I swear.” Patrick stepped back, almost sobbing now. “She was like a little angel. I just wanted to touch her, to hold her in my arms. But she started to scream and I put my hand over her face, and when I took it away she was dead. I didn’t know what to do…” He looked around from one face to the next, hoping for understanding, I suppose. “I must have panicked. The cliff was right there. I pushed her body over, hoping to make it seem like an accident. I didn’t think anybody would see.”
“But Kathleen saw, didn’t she?” I demanded. “And the shock drove her mad.”
“I’m so sorry,” he whimpered. “I didn’t mean…”
“And what about those other little girls?” I demanded as he stood with his face in his hands, shaking. “Didn’t you mean to kill them either?”
He looked up at me then, his face surprisingly innocent and serene. “Oh, yes, I ended their lives quite deliberately. I realized when I had killed Colleen that I had done her a service. She was a little angel and I had made sure she’d gone straight to Heaven, uncorrupted by the world.” He looked around us for understanding. “They were all little angels, you see. Beautiful children. Uncorrupted. I was just making sure they went straight to Heaven, before they could be sullied by the world. I was helping them.”
I realized then that he wasn’t sane. Out of the corner of my eye I saw two policemen closing in on him. Suddenly Patrick’s demeanor changed. He darted forward, grabbed at Kathleen, and pushed her in front of him. She gave a whimper of terror as his hand came around her throat.
“Stand back!” he shouted. “If you come any closer, I’ll throw her over the cliff.”
“Don’t do this,” I pleaded. “It can’t help you in any way. Think of all those years you spent as a priest. Think of all the good you’ve done. You’re essentially a good man, I’m sure you are. You don’t want to harm her.”
