‘In the canoe—drowned—’
‘Who? Who?’
Her mother suddenly seemed to notice her and turned to her. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Where have you been? What are you doing here? Get out of here—up to the house—into your room! Get out of here!’
20
Carson’s appointment with Bill Brewer was over at eleven o’clock that Monday morning, and he left Brewer’s office in Victoria Street with two hours to kill before his lunch date at one. The day was sunny and cool and he decided to walk. He felt much better than he had yesterday. It was mostly, he supposed, because it was good to be working again. The meeting with Brewer had gone well; and he was pleased with himself. Whenever his spirits sagged, it was good to be reminded that he was, after all, a damned good salesman. He was a good salesman because he never had to sell very hard. People liked him right away and listened to what he had to say. He got along, he thought, particularly well with the English. They liked him because he was courteous and soft-spoken, with none of the braggishness and swagger that they resented in Americans. He had learned, with the English, never to boast of his product; in fact, he was carefully modest about it and they appreciated this. The company knew that he was good, too, and this was why they wanted him in the International Sales Division. He was a good ambassador.
He walked north, toward the park. As he approached Buckingham Palace he walked more slowly, as a sightseer now, looking up at the palace and down along the Mall, at the vivid red beds of geraniums that matched, almost exactly, the red coats of the guards’ uniforms. In front of the gate, a little knot of tourists stood—all of them girls, college girls, Smith girls he would guess—combed and scrubbed and neat, sweatered and skirted with white raincoats and cameras slung across their shoulders. He imagined them all, on their first trip to Europe, travelling in a group of twenty or thirty with one or two chaperons, filing into the tour bus every morning with their cameras, stopping at Places of Interest, filing out of the bus, winding their cameras, taking pictures. Tomorrow they would do Stratford-on-Avon, where they would visit the Shakespeare Museum and Ann Hathaway’s cottage. And the next day they would file into the bus again for a trip through typical English countryside to the Lake District with, perhaps, a side trip to an Abbey or Stately Home on the way. Carrying their cameras they would file, respectfully, through Wordsworth’s Cottage, then into the bus again. He watched them from a short distance away. Their round, polished faces were intent upon what the guide was saying.
‘The Palace,’ the guide said, ‘was built in 1793 as a mansion for the Duke of Buckingham. It was built on the site of a mulberry garden planted by King James the First for the support of the silk industry. The Palace still retains some of the atmosphere of a country house. The Palace has forty acres of grounds, including a five-acre lake, and enjoys a beautiful setting amid the trees and lawns of St. James’s Park. The present façade, designed by Sir Anston Webb, was added in 1912 and completed in less than three months. The Palace is the London residence of the Queen, Prince Philip, Prince Charles and Princess Anne. When the Queen is in residence her flag flies from the top of that pole up there. There is no flag flying today because the Queen and Prince Philip are at the royal estate at Balmoral, in Scotland …’
Carson skirted the little group and walked on toward Green Park. He decided to walk through the park. Then he would stop at the Dorchester and check on his mail.
‘But you sound so strange, Mrs. Greer!’ Flora’s voice said. ‘Not like yourself at all. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?’
‘No,’ Barbara said. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘You’re coming down with a cold then, a summer cold. My sister has one. She’s all stuffed up with it, a summer cold. That’s what you’ve got.’
‘No,’ Barbara said. ‘Actually, Flora, something has happened. There’s been an accident here.’
‘An accident?’
‘Yes. I ought to tell you this before you read it in the papers. My sister’s husband was drowned last night.’
There was a long pause. Then Flora’s voice cried, ‘Oh my God, how awful!’
‘So you see that’s why I must stay a few days longer. The funeral is to be on Wednesday.’
‘Oh my God, how awful!’ Flora said. ‘How awful!’
‘Yes. You have enough food in the house, don’t you? Enough until Wednesday? I’ll be home Wednesday night. If you need anything you can phone—’
‘How awful!’
‘Lester’s. Have them deliver—’
‘He was a young man, wasn’t he? A young man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ Flora sobbed. ‘My heart goes out—’
‘It’s all right, Flora—don’t—’
‘My heart goes out—’
‘The boys are fine, aren’t they?’
‘Oh, they’re fine, Mrs. Greer. Want me to put them on the line?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘don’t bother, please—’
‘Here’s Dobie. Wants to talk to you.’
‘No, I—’
‘Hello? Hello?’
‘Yes—’
‘Hello? Mummy?’
‘Yes, Dobie. How are you, darling?’
‘Are you coming home, Mummy?’
‘Soon, Dobie. Now goodbye. Now be a good boy. Goodbye—’
Dobie said a few more words that she couldn’t hear.
‘Yes, yes.’
She heard Flora’s voice again saying, ‘Oh, God bless you, Mrs. Greer! And God bless your poor sister. Oh, what you must be going through, Mrs. Greer. Oh, such an awful, awful thing!’
‘Yes, I’ll see you Wednesday, Flora.’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodbye. Goodbye.’ She put down the telephone and sat for a while in the morning sunshine.
‘My name is Elizabeth Gage,’ the woman said. ‘Liz Gage, from the Burketown Evening Eagle.’ She stepped into the garden where Nancy Rafferty was sitting having a drink—the first of the day. Miss Gage smiled at Nancy and held out her hand. She was a small, slim woman—thirty-five, perhaps, or a little older—and she wore a beige linen suit and beige shoes. She was hatless and wore her black hair pulled severely back from her face and tied at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon. Her face was pale, smooth-skinned and oval, but not really pretty. Her deep black and closely spaced eyes were alert and questioning, as she looked at Nancy. ‘You’re not—? Oh, no. You’re not Mrs. Callahan, are you. I can tell from the description you’re not.’
Nancy had not risen. ‘I’m just a friend of the family,’ she said. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ Miss Gage said. ‘My paper sent me, and I’m rather afraid I sneaked in.’
‘Really?’ Nancy asked. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘I saw the police car at the foot of the road—keeping people away. I knew the cop wouldn’t let me in, Press or no, so I parked my car about half a mile beyond and walked in cross-country. Look at my stockings.’ She put one leg forward to show Nancy.
Nancy looked at her coldly. ‘Now, I suggest that you leave the same way you came,’ Nancy said.
The woman gave her a brief, amused look. ‘Oh, are you going to be that way? That’s too bad. I’m not asking your pardon. I know I’m guilty. But a job is a job. My paper sent me here to get a story, so I came.’ She smiled. ‘Someday—who knows?—you, too, may have a job.’
‘The newspapers have the obituary.’
‘I know. I’m here for a human interest story.’
‘There isn’t any human interest here.’
The woman smiled, very slightly, again. ‘Maybe not,’ she said. ‘But I had to try, didn’t I?’
‘Excuse me. I’m going to call Mr. Woodcock.’
‘Good. I’d like to meet him.’
‘I’m going to call him and have him order you away.’
‘Good. That’ll give me a story!’
Nancy studied her. ‘What is it t
hat you want?’
‘First, I’d like to sit down. May I? I feel as if I’ve hiked up Mount Everest.’
Nancy said nothing.
‘Thanks.’ The woman seated herself on one of the garden chairs, crossed her knees and leaned forward. ‘Let’s be friends,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Truly, I mean no harm. I’ll ask a few brief questions, then I’ll go.’
‘As I said, the newspapers have a full obituary,’ Nancy said.
‘But there’s always more, isn’t there, to a person’s life than what one can read in an obituary? Or don’t you agree? I mean, suppose you read an obituary of someone you didn’t know. How well would you know that person when you’d finished reading it? I don’t mean to be mawkish, but there is, isn’t there, always more?’
‘Yes, I suppose there is.’
‘That’s all I want,’ the woman said. ‘Just a few of those more things. The colour of his hair, for instance. His eyes. A few words to describe this house, here, for instance, where he lived, and the grounds. And the Woodcock family.’
‘Why do you need to know so much about poor Barney?’
Liz Gage shrugged. ‘Frankly, it isn’t so much him as whom he was married to. The Woodcocks are pretty important in this town. This is a Woodcock story.’
‘The Woodcocks deserve a little privacy.’
‘What’s in that pitcher?’
‘Lemonade.’
‘Might I have a glass, too? My throat is like leather.’
‘Actually,’ Nancy said, ‘it’s Tom Collinses. I—well, I added a little gin to some lemonade.’
‘Is that what you’re drinking?’ Liz Gage smiled. ‘Well, you can’t get outside of a whole pitcherful, can you? Give me just half a glass, then, would you?’
Nancy hesitated, then took a fresh glass from the tray and filled it, from the pitcher, exactly half full. She handed it to the other woman without a word.
Liz Gage sipped it. ‘I’ll say it’s got gin in it!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Thanks. How well did you know Mr. Callahan?’
‘Who? Oh, Barney. Hardly at all.’
‘Yet you call him by his first name.’
‘Only because I’ve always heard him referred to as Barney.’
‘I see,’ said Liz Gage. ‘How is his wife taking it?’
‘Peggy is being very brave,’ Nancy said.
‘Well, that’s the only way to be, isn’t it? Poor girl. They’d been married just a short time.’
‘Two years.’
‘Well, that’s a short time. By the way. I don’t believe you’ve told me your name.’
‘My name is—’ Nancy hesitated. ‘Are you taking all this down?’
Liz Gage smiled. ‘I never take notes,’ she said. ‘A good reporter doesn’t need to take notes.’
‘I don’t want my name mentioned. I had nothing to do with any of this. I’m only a friend of Peggy’s sister. I just happened to be here.’ Nancy reached for her glass and sipped from it.
‘You’re a bundle of nerves,’ Liz Gage said. ‘Your hand is trembling. Here, let me fill your glass for you.’
‘No thank you.’
‘They’re really delicious Tom Collinses.’
‘I had a frightful headache. I had to have something. It’s been awful, worse than you can possibly know.’ Nancy touched her forehead with her fingertips.
‘Then have another. I’ll buoy you up, Miss—did you tell me your name?’
‘Rafferty. Nancy Rafferty.’
Liz Gage rose and filled Nancy’s glass.
‘Thank you,’ Nancy said, and then, ‘I’m sorry to be like this.’
‘I understand perfectly. Were you here when he—?’
‘When they found him? Yes. I mean no. I was here, yes, but I hid. I couldn’t bear, you know—to have to see.’
‘Of course. But it’s fortunate, you know, that the body was found quickly. In some drowning cases, it’s taken days …’
‘Please. Don’t talk about it.’
Liz Gage was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘I’m new in Burketown. I’ve been here only two months. Frankly, before I came here, I’d never heard of the Woodcock family. I mean, truthfully, they aren’t a widely known family outside their own little sphere. Of course the minute I came here I was aware of the name—the paper company, the library, all the rest.’
‘They’re a wonderful family,’ Nancy said.
‘They must be. This morning I spent some time going through our clipping file, looking for material on them. Believe it or not, there was very little—only one or two rather small items. Considering all the Woodcocks have done for this town, the money they’ve donated and the things they’ve supported, that’s surprising, isn’t it?’
‘They don’t believe in making a splash.’
‘That’s just what I was leading up to. In a way, it’s typical of New England, isn’t it? They do good deeds in secret, but the Lord rewards them openly, or however it goes.’
‘Yes.’
‘I ran across one item, though. Oh, it was a number of years ago, and there was a little stir involving the Woodcocks. Someone was fired from the mill—a Joseph B. Mount—and he accused Mrs. Callahan’s grandfather of political discrimination or some such thing? Had you ever heard that story, Miss Rafferty?’
‘Never. I’m sorry, but I don’t know any of the family history.’
‘I wonder if some of the other things I’ve heard are true. I heard, for instance, that in the old days the Woodcocks really ruled this town like feudal lords. That they owned and operated all the schools and only taught trades connected with paper manufacturing. That they owned horrible little row houses where the workmen lived and rented the houses to the workmen on the condition that no alcohol be drunk on the premises? Had you heard that story? And that the Woodcocks paid the workmen to spy on each other and report any drinking that occurred? I’ve also heard that the Woodcocks used to run a company store where they kept all the workmen in their debt. This was all before the turn of the century of course.’
‘I don’t know anything about that sort of thing,’ Nancy said.
‘It was told to me as gospel,’ Liz Gage said. ‘But people do exaggerate.’
‘Yes.’
‘However, considering the prominence of the family in this town, there must have been a lot of opposition to the daughter Peggy’s marriage.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he’s not, as we say, to the manner born.’ She paused. ‘I mean, was not.’
‘I don’t know anything about his background.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve heard, actually, that there was opposition—considerable of it, but rather tastefully expressed—in the true New England manner. He was a Catholic, for instance, which must have been a bitter pill for the Woodcocks to swallow.’
‘Look,’ Nancy said, ‘I—’
‘What was your impression of him? What was his single most memorable feature? Did he have a magnetic personality, as I’ve heard? For instance, from one of the secretaries at the mill, I hear that he had fantastic sex appeal.’
Nancy put her glass down. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Look here—’
‘Sorry. I guess that wasn’t very nice.’ Liz Gage smiled pleasantly. In a different tone she said, ‘Well, you’ve been very kind to talk to me. I don’t suppose I could talk to Mrs. Callahan, could I?’
‘No. Peggy’s lying down. She’s exhausted.’
‘Of course. She must be. I wonder—’
‘What?’
‘I wonder if any of the other members of the family would talk to me.’
‘I’m afraid everyone’s too busy and upset.’
‘I see. You mentioned a sister, didn’t you, who’s your friend?’
‘Yes, Mrs. Green.’
‘Is she here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I couldn’t possibly see her?’
‘I’m afraid not, Miss Gage.’
‘Well, I get A for effort anyway, don’t I?’ Liz
Gage laughed lightly. ‘Tell me about Mrs. Greer.’
‘What about her?’
‘What’s she like? Is she pretty?’
‘Barbara is my oldest friend. My dearest friend.’
‘Is she older or younger than Mrs. Callahan?’
‘A few years older than Peggy—’
‘I see. Where is her home?’
‘In Locustville, Pennsylvania.’
‘Oh, yes. Is she up here with her husband?’
‘Her husband is in England on a business trip.’
‘Do they have children?’
‘Two boys. Goodness, you ask a lot of questions.’
Liz Gage laughed again. ‘Of course.’
‘It must be fun to be a reporter.’
‘It is.’
‘I wanted to be one once.’
Liz Gage smiled at her intently. ‘You would have made a good one, dear.’
‘Why, thank you!’ Nancy sipped her drink.
‘To get back to Mrs. Greer—did she bring the children up here with her?’
‘No, they’re home.’
‘I wonder why she came?’
‘What?’
‘Why did she come up here all alone?’
‘To visit her parents, of course. Why else?’
‘But doesn’t, it seem strange—’ Liz Gage looked across the terrace toward the house. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I suppose she likes it up here.’
‘She does.’
‘Tell me,’ Liz Gage said slowly, ‘would you describe Mr. and Mrs. Callahan as having been a devoted couple?’
‘I’m sure they were.’
‘Really? What outward signs were there—of their devotion? Of their love?’
‘Really,’ Nancy said, ‘I wish you wouldn’t ask me questions like that. I don’t know how to answer them, and besides I think they’re in rather bad taste.’
‘Sorry,’ Liz Gage said. Slowly she withdrew a package of cigarettes from her purse. She offered the pack to Nancy.
‘No thank you.’
She removed also a long, gold-stemmed cigarette holder. Deftly she screwed a cigarette into it, placed the holder between her teeth, and lighted the cigarette with a small gold lighter, ‘Tell me just a bit about last night?’ she said.
‘It was awful.’
Barbara Greer Page 32
