Mr. Shane looked at Greta, but his brow remained furrowed. "But, Miss Roscoe, does that explain everything, do you suppose? You said yourself, when he confronted you on the way to the landings, you couldn't imagine why he was tormenting you again. Something remains hidden here. His theft of your family's meager assets, his hostage taking...for that is what he's done to you and Tess."
Greta couldn't help scoffing. "After everything I've told you, Marshall still seems a mystery? Honestly, Mr. Shane. What motivation does someone like him need other than the joy of Fielding tradition? He's as morbid as his father was. He's had all of this planned from the beginning, from that day he soiled the threshold of my family's house."
"But, Miss Roscoe," the minister insisted, "doesn't that award Mr. Fielding super-human cunning? Do you really...honestly...consider him that clever?"
Greta was stunned into silence. How dare he question her? Was it his family who had endured all those years of oppression or hers? How could he possibly understand the Fielding mind? What a question. Did she consider Marshall that clever? Did she?
"I think I am tired, after all," she said.
Her voice was trembling, angering her all the more. She headed to one of the bedroom doors and, without thinking, walked through the wood.
Chapter Thirteen
Revelations
Aaron stood as quickly as he could, but Miss Roscoe's back was to him, and she was through the door before he could say a word. What had happened? His hands were trembling as badly as Miss Roscoe's voice had been. Gads, he could hardly cope with the wild swings of that woman's emotional pendulum.
He stomped around, indulging his frustration. But his compassion regained the upper hand soon enough and he walked back to the divan. How he wished she had remained in that precious moment, telling her story. Her strength and honesty were diamonds carved so miraculously from the black, stony pain she'd had to endure, and how alive those diamonds had been in her eyes.
There was a fine, transcendent point in human tragedy where two beings can touch through the heart and mind. They had been there, she and he. But he had waited too long to offer comfort, to say that God must be so proud of her for keeping that diamond will through it all.
What came unbidden to his mind next was shameful. Shameful. Miss Roscoe was in crisis, in need, and what came to his mind was how he longed to soothe her in his arms. Oh, that was shameful. And she saw that, didn't she? She saw the gleam in his eye and did what any proper woman would have done. He should go to her door this very minute and apologize. No, to do so would only encourage her to think him truly vile, scratching at the threshold. Better to let her rest, and when she came out he would make amends as best he could.
Aaron sat down feeling rather weak, and finished his brandy, which he had barely touched while listening to Miss Roscoe. It was warm to the last. Then he went to the door next to hers, bit his bottom lip, took a breath, and rushed forward. He passed through as easily as when he had chanced it at Tess' little room, and found himself in a cozy, nicely appointed gentleman's chamber. The sconces were burning, again a gas hearth whispered, casting a gentle play of light across the dark, cherry wood posts at the foot of the bed. There was a wine colored smoking jacket laid upon the plump toffee comforter, black velvet slippers nearby at the bedpost. Now how could Aridite have known which room...?
Aaron didn't bother to finish the thought. He slipped off his black jacket, unbuttoned his clerical collar and tugged it off. When he went to the large ornate closet to put them away, he found a full wardrobe of coats and trousers waiting inside; plus an empty jacket hanger and one for pants. The smoking jacket, of course, fit perfectly. He almost wished he smoked.
He surveyed the room, then walked to the window to see stars glittering in a dark blue sky. But there were no roof tops, no ground that he could make out. When he opened the window, there was only that dense black void. Aaron shut it again, the night sky reappeared, and he turned away. He noticed there was a door in the wall common to his and Miss Roscoe's rooms, and blushed to look at it. Who had occupied these rooms before? Had they used that door? He went over to it, making sure it was latched.
Aaron sat before the hearth. Miss Roscoe's tale was full upon his mind, and his soul ached as he thought of her pain. But something wasn't quite right about that history. Not that he doubted Miss Roscoe's integrity. What he doubted was her perception.
Miss Roscoe didn't sense what Aaron sensed; that Mr. Fielding surely had additional motive to so utterly destroy her family. Lazy? This outrageous plot didn't seem the product of a slothful mind. Less powerful than his father? Only slightly, surely, with so much wealth. Aaron couldn't accept Mr. Fielding ever spending all his father's riches. His estate was rumored to be in the millions. No, something else was afoot. Something that Miss Roscoe couldn't see through her veil of torment. And where was the blame in that? To grow up in such a family, and still she maintained a love and sympathy for her father, recognizing his struggle for the family, though he had been weak, most certainly weak. It made Aaron think of his own father. Father. Dear God, how could he have forgotten him?
"Aridite! Aridite!"
"When I said 'give a shout', I didn't mean it literally."
Aaron turned to his left to see the angel beside the bedroom door. "My father. Does he know yet?"
"Yes, of course…"
"I've got to go to him."
"Good. Let's go."
The angel's agreement dampened Aaron's panic with confusion. "Let's go? No fuss? I mean, you tried to stop Miss Roscoe."
"But you can learn something with this visit."
"What do you mean?"
"Your goal, Aaron, you can pick up something to move you toward the goal."
Miss Roscoe's voice came strong and clear through the adjoining door. "What's going on in there? Mr. Shane, are you all right?"
"Come right in, Greta," Aridite said.
The doorknob rattled. "It's locked."
"Greta, really."
"Oh, of course." A moment's hesitation, then Miss Roscoe emerged from the wood as if her body were created from it. "I'm starting to enjoy that."
Aaron looked at the angel plaintively. "Aridite, what do you mean?"
"Greta, we're going to Aaron's old house."
Miss Roscoe looked down at the dressing gown she wore, a rich blue velvet. "I need to change. There's a whole closet full of clothes in there, it's amazing."
"Don't bother to change," the angel replied. "You're thinking leftovers, again."
Aaron was beside himself. "Aridite!"
"Relax, Aaron, we're there."
Aaron looked around. They were standing in the front yard of his father's rectory, the dark silhouette of St. Peter Episcopal looming a quarter-block away. The night was as still as any number that had passed before it. Only the light burning in the kitchen window hinted that anything was different; through the paper shade, Aaron could see the profiles of two people. Again, Aaron was confused.
"You said he knew."
"He does," said the angel. "He's in the kitchen with someone."
"But where are the police?" Miss Roscoe asked.
"They've come and gone already."
Aaron frowned. "Who's Father with?"
"Well, let's go see, shall we?" Aridite suggested.
The three walked up to the lighted window and passed through. In the little kitchen, chilly in the deep of night, Aaron's father sat in his old plaid robe across from a large sandy-haired man, rough looking, dark-clothed. The elder Shane was deeply in mourning: His creased face was gray, his eyes red-rimmed. When he lifted his coffee to drink his hand trembled. The bulky man sitting opposite the elder seemed vaguely familiar, but Aaron was more taken with his father. Emotion caught in Aaron's throat, and he was about to go to his grieving parent when the rough looking visitor spoke.
"Look, Dixie didn't have a choice, understand? Your boy saw everything."
The elder Shane's voice was weak. "He would have come to me. He wou
ld've."
"He would-a gone to the police first, you can bet on it. He didn't know what was goin' on. Or did he?"
Aaron's father looked up. "No. No, of course he didn't."
"Well, it's gonna stay that way."
The elder Shane glared at the man and seemed to find some dignity. "Don't you have a heart at all? My son is dead."
"Your son was nosey. Got him into trouble. Just a bad piece-a luck, Reverend. Mr. Dubenshire sends his regrets."
Aaron's father looked into his cup. "How thoughtful of him to send them via one of his thugs."
The man smiled. "Just think of me as Mr. Dubenshire's way of askin' for faith durin' hard times."
The smile died and the man leaned forward, sitting there until the elder Shane lifted his eyes to him. Nothing else was said. The man rose from his seat and left through the kitchen's back door.
Miss Roscoe said, "We should follow him."
"Not really," Aridite replied. "He's just going home to get some sleep. You won't learn anything more from him tonight."
Aaron was only half aware of their exchange as he stared at his haggard father. Aaron couldn't believe what he had just heard; he couldn't believe what he had just seen. And yet no matter how he tried to twist the words into something sensible, he couldn't deny what had just taken place. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, expecting Aridite. But it was Miss Roscoe at his side.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
The elder Shane pushed back from the kitchen table, the chair's legs scraping against the linoleum and Aaron's nerves. He plodded into the next room, and Aaron heard the stairs creak as the old man mounted to his bedroom. He looked again at Miss Roscoe. He wanted to say, "I can't believe it", but that would have been a lie.
Finally he swallowed and asked Aridite, "How much does he know?"
"Well, he obviously knows something of Mr. Dubenshire. Considerably more than Greta knows."
"And who is Mr. Dubenshire?"
"Can't tell you that. To do so would interfere with your goal."
Aaron turned to him irritably. "Then what can you tell me?"
"I can tell you to have a chat with Greta. You need to coordinate your information. Why don't you have a seat here and I'll leave you two alone." Aaron hesitated, but the angel shrugged and said, "It won't do you any good. I'll help you all I can. That's why I'm here. But it's your voyage and your goal to be met."
Aaron looked at Miss Roscoe, then went to the chair nearest his father's and tried to pull it away from the table for her. But his fingers slid from it every time he made the effort. When he tried to do it quickly, his hands simply passed through it.
Aridite moved next to him, and said, "I forgot you don't know that trick yet. Watch." He pulled the chair away as easily as any living person.
Aaron said, "Watch what? I didn't see you do anything differently."
"Think of it like this, at least until you can understand fully. You're now in closer contact with everything around you than when you had a physical body containing your soul, all right? So," Aridite took hold of the chair again. "When you want to move something, you're 'inviting' it's essence to move with yours. The shell it inhabits will automatically follow."
"Do you honestly mean to tell me that the chair's alive?"
"Not as it was when it was a tree, but it does contain an energy of sorts. Here, just put your hands on it. Greta, you pick a chair and practice, too. Don't really grab, just pretend to, because you're still very visual. Okay, invite." Aaron's and Miss Roscoe's fingers slid through the chairs. "Tsk. You didn't concentrate and you'll have to concentrate for the time being, just like you had to concentrate when you first learned to walk. Look at the chairs and invite them to move."
Aaron looked down at the chair. He wasn't sure exactly what was meant by 'invite', but then again, he didn't know exactly what 'walking' meant when a mere tot, either. He said to himself, Please, chair, won't you move back. And he had to admit that when he did so, there was a sense of working with the thing as opposed to making it move. The chair scooted back.
Miss Roscoe was watching him, and said, "Well, I'll be." She looked down at her chair, and her chair moved, too.
"Very good," Aridite said. "Now sit and talk."
He passed through the nearest wall. They both sat gingerly, hoping to avoid sliding out of the seats, and they managed quite well. Aaron, in the chair his father had occupied, couldn't speak; his mind was turning mournfully around what he had witnessed. He stared at the coffee cup on the table. Its half-drunk contents were already cold from the kitchen's chill.
Miss Roscoe repeated, "Are you sure you're all right?"
"It's hard to accept what just took place. My father's involved in my death."
"No." Miss Roscoe leaned toward him and laid a hand on his. "He only understands why it happened."
Aaron indulged himself, allowing the pleasure of this small touch, looking at her until a thought occurred. "You don't seem very surprised."
Miss Roscoe stiffened and removed her hand. "Well, I'm not."
"Why is that?"
She cleared her throat. "Because I knew your father was involved with Marshall."
"Involved how?"
"Well, I'm not sure how much your father knows. But I was on the brink of learning a good deal. I was on the brink of setting Tess and me free."
Aaron didn't want to believe what she implied. "Wait one minute. You're accusing my father of something seedy and low, aren't you? If anyone's in need of redemption it's Marshall Fielding, you've made that abundantly clear. What my father was probably involved in was trying to save his soul."
"Are you already refusing what you just heard for yourself, Mr. Shane?"
He couldn't rebuke what he couldn't deny. "So what part do you think my father had in all this?"
"He was only a courier of some sort. A messenger. Marshall visited him at St. Peter's, ostensibly for spiritual guidance."
"A go-between?"
"Yes, for this Mr. Dubenshire. So he and Marshall wouldn't be seen together too often. At least, that's my thought on it. I never let on as though I heard of Dubenshire, and Marshall's always been very careful to never mention him in my presence." She smiled a little wickedly. "Or, at least, he thought."
"So, who is Mr. Dubenshire?"
"Aridite already told you, I don't know."
"Well, then, what do you know, Miss Roscoe? Why did someone put a gun to your head and a garrote around my throat?"
"Because we were close to finding out what Marshall was up to. And, as it's obvious now, of exposing Mr. Dubenshire. That creature who just left is clearly his hireling. He's the one that murdered me. Didn't you recognize him? That was the thing, really, wasn't it? I was murdered because I was jeopardizing Dubenshire, not Marshall."
"What do you mean 'we' were so close? I wasn't close to jeopardizing anyone."
Miss Roscoe rolled her eyes. "Not you and me. Judge Tandy and I. Remember? He put on a magnificent show in front of you at the party."
Aaron was speechless as he recalled the moment. Chagrined, he said, "You mean he wasn't really…"
"Yes, that's what I mean." Miss Roscoe's face softened. "You'd like him. He's a genuinely honest man." Then her mood shifted again, sudden as the weather in spring. "God," she exclaimed, making Aaron startle from the abruptness as well as the profane use of the Creator's name. "I was so close, we were almost free. But something went wrong. The judge and I were to leave as if eager to be alone. He was very calm when he approached me, but as soon as he'd called for our wraps, he whispered into my ear, 'Something's up. We may be in danger.' That's when Marshall bore through the party and pulled my arm from the judge's grip.
"He was absolutely furious, I knew that look. We were found out. He told the judge the deal was off. Tandy tried to protest, as though he couldn't understand what the problem was. But in the end, when he knew the bluff wasn't working, he looked at me and said, 'Miss Roscoe, you don't have to stay with this man.' God bl
ess his soul. But Marshall had Tess. I wasn't going anywhere without her.
"Marshall took me to the west parlor, ordered me to stay put, warned that he could get to Tess before I could and locked me in. He had the party halted in 30 minutes. When Marshall returned, he was followed by that armed hooligan. I was astonished. I'd never seen Marshall with a strong-arm before. The house cleared, a gun-toting beast; I was in fear for my life. Worse still, it became clear that Marshall was not even in control of the man. He argued with him, ordering him to leave, that I was Marshall's to deal with. To which the cretin replied that he followed orders from 'our man', not Marshall." Greta shrugged. "We know why, don't we? I was already considered dead. I don't know with whom Marshall was angrier, me or this unseen partner for not trusting him to handle things. Regardless, it was I who took the blows. That's what you witnessed; Marshall trying in his warped way to remain in charge. Shaking me, screaming at me, 'How much do you know, how much do you know?'"
"Which brings me back to my question," Aaron said. "How much do you know?"
Miss Roscoe sighed and looked down at her hands, as if the ashes of her near-escape were in her palms. Finally, she said, "A murder is in the works, and it's of great profit to Marshall." She shrugged. "But this is not his scheme; there's this Dubenshire fellow. With the information I had that night, I'm sure the authorities could have stopped it, pieced together who the marked victim was and why. But what was most important for me was that Marshall would've been ruined, and doing a lifetime of hard labor in prison. As I'm Marshall's sole adult relation, Judge Tandy would have wielded all his authority to have me appointed the executrix of his estate while he languished. Tess and I could've lived, at last, in some sort of peace and comfort."
"But somehow Mr. Fielding found out."
"Somehow?"
"Do you think your brother is in danger now?"
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