Barbara Greer

by Stephen Birmingham

  ‘Where were you when it happened?’

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘Asleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’

  ‘I don’t know—around midnight, I guess.’

  ‘And you heard cries which woke you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s see—the time must have been around one-thirty.’

  ‘I guess so. About that.’

  ‘You heard cries and went down—running down, I suppose. Where was the rest of the family at the time?’

  ‘Everyone was in bed,’ she said.

  ‘I see. Then when you came running down, whom did you meet?’

  ‘I don’t remember, really. Everyone came—’

  ‘Who? Who is everyone?’

  ‘Myself, Mr. and Mrs. Woodcock, the servants—everyone.’

  ‘Well, now wait a minute,’ Liz Gage said. ‘I think, in the story she gave to the police, the widow—Mrs. Callahan—said she awoke in the night and found her husband gone. She dressed and went through the house, looking for him, and then she went outside. Then she heard him calling for help, from the lake, and she went running down. So she wasn’t in the house.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘And the sister? Where was she?’

  ‘She was in bed, too,’ Nancy said.

  ‘So, then, all of you gathered at the side of the lake—there would have been, let’s see, seven of you. You, Mr. and Mrs. Woodcock,’ she counted on her fingers, ‘the two servants, Mrs. Callahan and Mrs. Greer—all of you still in your nightclothes, I suppose, except for Mrs. Callahan, who was dressed.’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘And then what did you do?’

  Nancy closed her eyes. ‘Please, I don’t—’

  ‘What did you do? Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Someone said we should call the police. We called the police.’

  ‘Who called?’

  ‘Please—I don’t remember!’

  Liz Gage tapped the ash from her cigarette. ‘It really is too bizarre, isn’t it? she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, really, the whole thing is crazy, isn’t it? For one thing, what in the world was he doing in that canoe? It was full of holes, a mass of leaks, and he was no swimmer. And why, particularly, did he take it out at that ungodly hour of night? Really, the whole thing makes no sense. If it was suicide—and there’s nothing to indicate it was—he chose a damn queer way to do it. Why did he do it? Was he out of his head? What’s your theory?’

  ‘It was a hot night,’ Nancy said. ‘He was probably hot and couldn’t sleep. He thought he’d cool off on the lake. In the dark, he couldn’t see that the canoe had leaks.’

  Liz Gage stared at her for a moment. ‘Level with me, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Of course!’

  Liz Gage shrugged. ‘For one thing, it wasn’t a hot night. It was chilly. It was hot, but then it rained and cooled off. The temperature last night at midnight was sixty-four. That’s not exactly torrid, is it?’

  ‘It was hot here,’ Nancy said. ‘It was hot in the house. Now please—’

  ‘Was it? Hot? Well, maybe, in an old house like this one. Holds the heat, I suppose—built like Fort Knox.’ She smiled. ‘By the way, did you know there was a story that this house was haunted?’

  ‘No, I never heard any such nonsense. Now please—I’ve got a headache. You’d better go.’

  Liz Gage looked at her wrist watch. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’d better or I’ll miss my deadline.’ She stood up. ‘I don’t know if I’ve got much of a story, but at least I tried.’ She smiled and extended her hand to Nancy. ‘Thanks. And thanks for the drink, too.’

  ‘I hope you won’t use my name in your story,’ Nancy said.

  ‘Why not? You’re probably mentioned in the obit already—as one of the guests in the house when it happened.’

  ‘For Mr. and Mrs. Woodcock’s sakes I’d rather you didn’t quote me, or indicate that I’ve said anything.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see,’ Liz Gage said.

  ‘I let you stay and talk to me. In return, I’d like you to promise me this.’

  Liz Gage squeezed Nancy’s hand. ‘It’s a deal,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I wish you could explain to me just one thing.’

  ‘What is that?’ Nancy asked. They started across the terrace and Liz Gage took Nancy’s elbow. Suddenly she stopped. ‘Oh-oh,’ she whispered. ‘Who is this? The widow?’

  ‘It’s Barbara—Mrs. Greer. Excuse me, I’ve go to—’

  ‘Let me talk to her.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Greer?’ Liz Gage called. ‘Mrs. Greer? May I speak to you just one second?’

  Barbara came across the terrace, a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘I’m Liz Gage,’ the woman said. ‘Liz Gage from the Eagle. I’m intruding, I know, but the fact is that your family has occupied such a prominent position in Burketown for so many years that this tragedy concerns every individual in the community. This is what my editor feels.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Barbara said. ‘We’re all terribly busy and upset, and I’d rather—’

  ‘Just a couple of quick questions. Please? How long had you known Mr. Callahan?’

  ‘Since he and my sister were engaged. Now, I must—’

  ‘Just one more thing. I’ll ask you the question I was about to ask Miss Rafferty. I mean, really, the whole thing is a complete mystery, isn’t it? Why would a young man who couldn’t swim a stroke go for a ride in a leaky canoe? And why, especially, at that ungodly hour of night? One might think suicide if it weren’t such a crazy way to commit suicide—though I must say I’ve heard of crazier. But this guy had everything in the world to live for. A beautiful wife—a rich wife …’

  ‘Please, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Just a sec. My point is, where was he going?’ She paused and seemed to study Barbara’s face for a moment. ‘I came in here cross-country,’ she said. ‘Through the woods, I went past that little cottage over there, across the lake, and I noticed that the door was standing open. I looked inside and, the funniest thing, there were two Martinis sitting on the coffee table inside. Two untouched Martinis, nice and warm of course. Now tell me, Mrs. Greer, what do you think of that? Doesn’t it look as though that was where he was going last night, and as though someone was waiting for him there?’

  Barbara sat down hard in one of the iron chairs and pressed her hands together in her lap.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mrs. Greer?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Barbara whispered. ‘What do you want?’

  Liz Gage stepped forward. ‘I want the full story,’ she said. ‘No fibs.’

  Barbara bent sharply forward and clasped her hands to her face. ‘Oh, please!’ she said. ‘Please … please! I’ve got two little children!’ she sobbed. ‘I’ve got two little children!’

  ‘I see,’ said Liz Gage.

  At the Dorchester, Carson waited while the mail clerk looked through a small pile of letters. ‘No, I’m sorry, Mr. Greer, there is nothing,’ the clerk said finally. ‘Thank you,’ Carson said. He turned away. Then the clerk called, ‘Oh—Mr. Greer?’

  Carson turned back. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is it Mr. Carson Greer, sir?’

  ‘That’s right …’

  ‘Are you stopping at the hotel, sir?’

  ‘No,’ Carson said, ‘but my mail—’

  ‘I see, sir. That explains it. Sir, I believe there was a telephone call for you quite early this morning. The operator tried to locate you, sir, but of course, since you were not registered …’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any of the particulars of the call, sir, but I believe it was an overseas call, from America.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Carson said. ‘It must have been my home. If there should be any other calls for me, I can be reached at Bayswater 0170.�
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  ‘I’ll make a note of it, sir.’

  Carson gave him a ten shilling note.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Outside the hotel, he looked at his watch. It was twelve-fifteen. There would not be time, between now and his lunch date, to go back to his hotel and make the call. He would do it first thing after lunch. He stepped to the kerb and waved for a taxi. It couldn’t be anything serious, he decided, or she would have followed the call with a cable.

  Edith Woodcock tapped on Preston’s study door. ‘Come in,’ he called.

  She opened the door. ‘Preston,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid something rather dreadful has happened.’

  He turned in his chair. ‘Yes,’ he said dully. ‘What is it?’

  She went to him and stood looking gravely down at him. ‘There’s been some sort of awful woman here, a reporter, from the Eagle …’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, and she managed to talk, darling, to Barbara.’

  ‘What did they talk about, Edith?’

  ‘Darling, in some devious way—the way they all have—she got Barbara to say, or imply at least that it was because of Barbara that it happened.’

  ‘How could it have been because of Barbara?’

  ‘Well, as I say, she managed to get Barbara to imply that she was across the lake, in the guesthouse, waiting for him. That he and Barbara had—some sort of meeting arranged there last night.’

  ‘I see,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Nancy was there when the woman was talking to her, to Barbara. Nancy heard it. Poor Nancy is dreadfully upset, and Barbara is terribly upet, too. She’s in her room, Preston, and—well, the only thing we must do is to keep anything of that sort from being printed in the paper …’

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘Was she there last night?’

  ‘Darling, I don’t think that’s what matters. What difference does it make whether she was or not? He’s dead now. It’s nobody’s business whether—’

  ‘They won’t dare print anything that might not be true,’ he said.

  ‘But they could imply things, suggest things—’

  ‘The Eagle won’t suggest anything that might be slanderous,’ he said.

  She turned away from him, folding and unfolding her hands. ‘Well, my dearest,’ she said softly, ‘then—then I’m afraid we must assume that it is true.’ I, for one, am quite sure it’s true. I haven’t the slightest doubt that it’s true. So, you see, we must do something.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘How can you think such a thing about your daughter?’ he said.

  She returned to him. ‘It’s not what I think, Preston. It’s what I know. I blame myself—I do. I saw it, I saw something happening, long ago. I should have done something then, at the time. I did—I tried. I talked to her, to Barbara. I thought my words had sunk in, but they hadn’t. Yesterday morning I called Nana’s house to see if she was still there. She wasn’t. She’d met him there, Preston—they’d gone for a drive together. I’m afraid they’ve been seeing each other for a long, long time. Yesterday, I warned her again! But she didn’t listen to me. So I blame myself.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Oh, Preston! I tried, I tried, yesterday. You were—your mind was somewhere else, Preston. You’d been drinking.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, I see …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So—perhaps we should blame ourselves.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He reached for her hand and took it, held it tightly pressed between his own two hands. ‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘Well, well. What shall we do, Edith?’

  ‘Darling, I want you to call Billy, tell him. Tell him the whole thing. Ask him to call the Eagle and do whatever he can.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, no …’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We don’t need to drag Billy in on this. No. I’ll call the Eagle. I’ll call Tom Daniels.’

  ‘Well—’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps Billy, because, well, don’t you think Billy might have more influence?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘He might. Yes, but I’ll do it, Edith. In fact I’ll drive down and see Daniels in person right now.’ He stood up and reached for his jacket which lay across the back of his chair. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, ‘not Billy. She’s not Billy’s daughter. She’s mine, you see, so I’ve got to do it.’

  ‘All right, Preston. All right. But hurry, dear.’

  Back in his hotel room, after lunch, Carson picked up the telephone and gave the operator the Locustville number. There was a long delay, filled with mechanical crackling and distant dialogues between trunk operators. At last, he heard Flora’s voice shrieking across the Atlantic, ‘Hello? Hello? Yes? Hello?’

  ‘Hello?’ he yelled. ‘Hello? Flora?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘It’s Mr. Greer, Flora. Is Mrs. Greer there?’

  ‘Why no,’ Flora said. ‘She went up to the farm, Mr. Greer. She went up on Saturday afternoon and planned to be back today but she’ll be back now on Wednesday, Mr. Greer.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, is everything all right, Flora?’

  ‘Oh, everything’s fine here, Mr. Greer. The boys are fine—everything’s fine. Up at that farm of theirs, that family’s farm of hers, things aren’t so fine though, Mr. Greer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ah, Mr. Greer, there’s been a terrible tragedy.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘That sister of hers? Her husband.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Dead!’

  ‘Dead? Barney?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He drowned, Mrs. Greer said. In a boat. She called this morning. The funeral’s Wednesday, see. That’s why she’s staying for longer. Oh, they’re terribly upset, Mr. Greer.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carson said. ‘Yes, I’m sure they are. Well, that’s—that’s very sad news, Flora.’

  ‘It is, it is. I never met the man of course, but it does make me sad. Such a young man!’

  ‘How in the world did it happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s all she said. Drowned in a boat.’

  ‘She apparently tried to call me last night to tell me and wasn’t able to reach me.’

  ‘I’m sure, sir, that she wanted you to be notified first thing.’

  ‘Well, I’ll call her, Flora. And I’d better give you my number here in case you need it.’

  ‘Your number?’

  ‘It’s Bayswater 0170. Have you got that? That’s where you can reach me in London.’

  ‘What was that number again?’

  ‘Bayswater 0170,’ Carson said.

  ‘Let me get a pencil and some paper.’ Flora was gone for a long time; when she returned, she said, ‘Now what was that number?’

  He repeated it several more times before she had it. Then he said, ‘Thanks, Flora. Give my love to the boys.’

  ‘How’s the weather over there?’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘You sound so close, Mr. Greer! Like you were in the next room. I’ve never talked to London, England before.’

  ‘Well, goodbye, Flora.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr. Greer!’

  He sat for a moment, thinking about Barney. Drowned in a boat, Flora had said, whatever that meant. It was sad, shocking news, of course, but its effect on him was a strange one. He had never, for some reason, known Barney Callahan well. He had been with him often enough but now, having just heard of Barney Callahan’s death, he couldn’t remember ever having talked to Barney, or anything that Barney had ever said to him. They must have talked, of course, but what about? It was not that Carson had disliked Barney, really, nor had Carson really liked him, either. It almost seemed to him now as though he had, for several years, rather ignored Barney, and he wondered why this had been. Barbara seldom mentioned him. It was as if Barney had floated across a portion of their lives and, now
, had floated out of it. The surface behind his path was smooth and unrippled. Drowned in a boat. How very strange because, now that he tried to picture Barney Callahan’s face, he couldn’t. What had he looked like? Even Carson’s recollection of his face was blurred and watery—submerged. To Carson, Barney Callahan had seemed drowned for a long time.

  It was nearly two hours before Preston’s car drove into the driveway again. Edith had been lying, stretched out, on the library sofa, waiting for him. Her head had begun aching horribly and Emily had brought her an ice pack. When she heard him drive in, she tossed the ice pack aside, jumped up and ran to the door to meet him. ‘Well?’ she asked tensely. ‘Did you see Daniels? What did he say?’

  He looked very tired. ‘I saw him,’ he said. ‘I talked to him. I think it’s going to be all right, Edith.’

  ‘Think? Don’t you know?’

  ‘He didn’t promise anything. He hadn’t seen the woman’s story yet. But he said he’d look it over very carefully, every detail.’

  ‘But he didn’t give you any assurance?’

  ‘I think he understood. I said—look, Tom, it’s my daughter, and—well, never mind what I said. He was very nice. He told me I shouldn’t worry.’

  ‘Shouldn’t worry! That’s easy for him to say!’

  ‘Edith,’ he said, ‘I’m very tired. I want to lie down. I want to be alone for a while …’

  ‘Oh, Preston!’ she cried.

  And so, at five o’clock, when the evening paper was due to arrive, she was waiting for it. When at last it was delivered, she seized it, took it into the library, and began tearing open the pages, looking quickly at each. On the next-to-last page, there was a small, rather blurred photograph of Barney, and under it were the words:

  BERNARD J. CALLAHAN, 28,

  DROWNED IN BOATING ACCIDENT

  Wife a Member of Noted

  Burketown Family

  And there followed a tasteful and brief obituary, and a note that the funeral services would be held on Wednesday.

  There was nothing else.

  Edith ran quickly with the newspaper to her husband’s room. She knelt on the floor beside him. ‘Oh, my darling!’ she said. ‘You’re so wonderful … so wonderful.’ She wept. ‘I love you so!’ she said.

  A little later, Nancy Rafferty came down the stairs looking trim in her suit and gloves, carrying her bag.