The Mysteries

by Lisa Tuttle

  I picked up the phone and called Laura Lensky's office number. I was anticipating voice mail, and the usual irritating delays, but she had a secretary who put me through as soon as I told her my name.

  “A quick question,” I said. “Where could I get a copy of The Flower-Faced Girl?”

  “You've talked to Hugh? I've got a copy, on video.”

  “Could you send it to me?” I glanced at my watch, confirmed that it was still early enough. “By messenger?”

  “It's at home.”

  I grimaced, disappointed. “Well, tomorrow?”

  “How about tonight? You could come over and watch it and I could answer any other questions you've got. Now that you've heard Hugh's story, you'll probably want to know what I remember and, I don't know, take a look around the place.”

  “What time?”

  “I'll be home by seven; if you wanted to come a little after that . . . ?”

  “That's good for me.”

  “Do you need directions?”

  “I've got your address and my trusty A to Z. If I get very lost, I'll give you a call.”

  When I lived in Texas I went everywhere by car. Dallas and its surrounding sprawl were not designed for pedestrians, and the countryside, flat and featureless, had none of the inviting pathways you find in other parts of the world. People who walked anywhere but inside an air-conditioned shopping mall, or on a treadmill in a gym, were regarded with fear and loathing.

  During my first few months in Britain I had a rented car, but I gave that up once I'd moved to London. I enjoyed exploring the city on foot, and living without a car was cheaper and easier than the alternative. Being a regular walker was useful, too. You noticed things at street level that drivers seldom saw. If I needed to go out of the city, I could always add a rental car to my expense sheet.

  West Hampstead was not one of my usual stomping grounds, so I set off early that evening to give myself plenty of time to scout the territory. I took my briefcase with me, chiefly as a means of unobtrusively transporting a bottle of wine, but there was room alongside the London A–Z and my notebook for T. W. Rolleston's Myths and Legends of the Celtic Race.

  The previous day's rain had washed away some of the city's grime and left everything feeling fresher. In the balmy evening light lots of people were out, tidying their well-kept gardens or just taking the evening air. I passed Hampstead Cemetery. On Fortune Green joggers jogged, dog walkers scooped the poop, and kids of all ages zoomed past me on scooters and skates. I gazed without envy at the fine, big houses, feeling only a mild curiosity about the people who lived there. My English friends were much preoccupied with questions of class, and placing people according to background, accent, income, address, and other accoutrements, but although I'd learned to recognize the distinctions, I couldn't take them personally. Even after almost ten years I remained an outsider. I was like an anthropologist, there to observe the quaint customs of the British people, but not to judge or disparage them.

  I walked past solid, redbrick mansion blocks and streets of Victorian terraces. I didn't go east of Finchley Road to Frognal or into Hampstead itself, where there was far more of architectural interest. I'd been there before. Today, I was sticking firmly to the limits of West Hampstead, of which the great architectural historian Nikolaus Pevsner had declared, “The houses and streets require no notice.” They might not require notice, but I was happy to look at them, anyway, and feel the tingle of happy anticipation. On even the most unpromising street I might find something previously unknown.

  That evening I discovered, behind some of the most ordinary three-story Victorian terraces, a beautiful, hidden, communal garden. This was the English passion preserved even in an area where there was no room for separate houses with expansive grounds. And it was not for me: All I could do was peer through the iron railings of a locked gate, where I found my curiosity foiled by heavy shrubberies. This wasn't a park, but a garden to which only the local residents had keys.

  Laura Lensky didn't live on a street with a private garden. Her address was part of an unimpressive Victorian semi that had been converted some time ago into two flats—or maisonettes, as they were probably called. A blue-flowering bush grew beside the front wall. I paused as I went through the gate and checked my watch. It was seven minutes past seven. I looked up at the upper front window, thinking of Hugh's description of his last sight of Peri, but there was no one standing there now.

  Beside the front door were two buttons, one labeled Biggs, the other Lensky. I pressed Lensky and shortly received an answering buzz that unlocked the door. An overhead light came on as I entered the hall: I saw another door to my left, and a staircase straight ahead. Upstairs, a door opened, and I heard her call, “Mr. Kennedy?”

  “It's Ian,” I called back. “I left Mr. Kennedy in the office.”

  I bounded upstairs, pleased to see her smile; pleased, to tell the truth, by the sight of her in general. She looked more relaxed than she had on our first meeting. She was casually dressed in a light cotton sweater and jeans, and her figure was as attractively trim as I remembered.

  I followed her into her living room, which was modestly furnished: a couple of two-seater couches, a table and chairs, and one wall covered with shelving units which housed the TV and video, sound system, CDs, tapes, and books. Even the pictures on the walls had the impersonal air that suggested they'd come, like the other furnishings, with the flat: reproductions of old British Rail advertisements from the 1950s promoting holidays in Scotland and Wales, and one bright, Mediterranean-looking landscape. The big room was open plan, divided by a breakfast bar from the small kitchen area.

  “Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?”

  “Well, actually . . .” I fumbled with the briefcase fastenings and pulled out the bottle of wine. “I brought this.”

  “Merlot,” she said, looking at the label but making no move to take it from me. “Well, that's nice.” Her expression didn't match her words; she looked not just surprised, but something worse, and in that moment, my confidence completely deserted me. What had possessed me? She was a client, not my date. Although I'd had no romantic expectations of this evening, it was obvious she thought I did.

  “We could wash down our popcorn with it while we're watching the movie,” I said. “I know Coke usually goes with popcorn, but, what can I say, I like wine. But that doesn't mean I have to have a drink, because I don't; I honestly don't have a problem with keeping a clear head, and if you'd rather, we can stick to water. I would like a drink of water, in fact, right now, because I'm thirsty. Really thirsty. Probably a sign that I've been talking too much.” I stopped abruptly, tilting my head in a manner I hoped was not only nonthreatening but appealing, and waited.

  Her expression was unreadable. Then, to my surprised relief, she broke into a peal of laughter.

  “I'm funny?” I asked hopefully.

  “You're American!”

  That was the last thing I'd expected to amuse her. “You're not telling me you've only just realized?”

  She bit her lip, but that didn't stop her smile from spreading wider, and her dark eyes sparkled. “It was the way you said ‘water' that clinched it. Because otherwise you sound so totally, totally English!”

  “Not to the English, I don't, I assure you.”

  “I assure you,” she said, mocking me. “Totally! Even your name is English!”

  “Please! It's Scottish.”

  “But you're not Scottish?” She looked uncertain.

  “No, I'm American, born and bred. Uh, could I do something with this?” I waved the bottle.

  She bit her lip and her brows drew together in an anxious little line. “There isn't any popcorn.”

  “Hell, I hate popcorn. I don't care; I was just kidding.”

  “You thought we were going to have dinner,” she declared.

  Nervous again, I didn't dare speak. I walked over to the breakfast bar and put down the bottle. “All we need's a couple of glasses and a corkscrew,” I
said.

  “It's my fault; I'm so stupid,” she said. “Of course, if you invite somebody over for sometime after seven, you've got to give them a meal. I'm just so out of the habit; I've never entertained here, and I don't cook just for myself. A lot of times I don't get home until eight or nine. And if I've had a big lunch, I don't want anything else. Maybe a bowl of cereal before I go to bed. But I should have thought—”

  I stopped her. “Look, it's OK. I wasn't expecting anything, honestly. I work unsociable hours and I eat on the hoof. I can pick up a take-away after I leave. Now, do you want me to open this wine or just leave it?”

  “I'll get the corkscrew.” She moved past me into the kitchen and dug in a drawer. “And then I can order us a pizza.”

  “Only if you want it, Ms. Lensky.”

  Her head jerked up at that, and as she handed me the corkscrew she was smiling again. “Ms. I should have realized you were American when you called me that. British guys don't say ‘Ms.'”

  “They don't know how to pronounce it,” I said. “Me, I was taught by my mother.”

  She put two wineglasses down on the counter. “Anyway, since you're not a proper English gentleman, I think we are definitely on first-name terms by now.” She picked up the phone. “What do you like on your pizza?”

  “Anything but anchovies.” I don't think much of pineapple or sweet corn, either, but didn't think I needed to mention that to a fellow American.

  “Pepperoni and mushroom?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  I walked away from the counter, letting the wine breathe while she ordered the food, and amused myself by inspecting her collection of books and videos. Among the books were hardback novels by Larry McMurtry, Toni Morrison, and Carol Shields, some classics in Penguin paperback editions, as well as a bunch of recent travel writings. The videos were mostly undemanding fluff like Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, and Bridget Jones's Diary.

  “Put on some music if you want,” she called to me across the room.

  I hadn't even looked at the CDs. Music doesn't play much of a role in my life, and I don't know enough about it to interpret other people's tastes.

  “I thought we were going to watch a movie?” Turning to look, I saw that she was pouring the wine.

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  Her voice was steady enough, but I remembered Peri's image from the Web site. If those few frames had moved me, who didn't even know her, how much more powerful the effect it must have on someone who did. “Look, it's all right if you don't want to . . . I can take it away and watch it later, on my own.”

  “No, I'll watch it with you. We might as well wait until after the pizza. It's not very long, anyway.” She brought the glasses across to me.

  I held mine up. “To families happily reunited.”

  She managed a small smile and clinked her glass against mine. “Come and sit,” she said, going to perch on one of the sofas.

  I sat down beside her.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Milwaukee.”

  She frowned a little. “I don't think I know anyone from there. Where did you go to college?”

  I knew what was coming, because it's a national habit. Whenever two Americans meet abroad, a certain amount of time is always spent winkling out possible points of past contact, acquaintances, or even mere landmarks held in common. It's as good a way as any of getting to know someone, but right then I decided to pass. This was not a cocktail party. I'd already blurred the boundaries with my bottle of wine, but if that had been a mistake, it wasn't irretrievable. I had a job to do, and even though she was the one who had hired me to do it, that didn't mean I could trust her unreservedly. She might have her own reasons for keeping me away from the truth, and I couldn't risk letting myself be swayed by the irrelevant fact that I found her attractive.

  As gently as I could I said, “Why don't you tell me what happened that night after Hugh brought your daughter back here.”

  The sparkle in her eyes went out. “I don't know.”

  I waited, but she didn't expand upon her flat reply.

  “Hugh said that the last time he saw Peri she stood in that window there, with you, waving him good-bye. You can confirm that?”

  She shook her head, eyes downcast, mouth a tight line.

  I frowned. “No? What do you mean? Are you saying Hugh was lying?”

  Her eyes came up to meet mine. “No! I don't think so. I believe him.”

  “But?”

  She took a hasty sip of wine. “But I don't remember.”

  “You don't remember standing at the window?”

  She shook her head. “Not that. Not anything.”

  “So what do you remember?”

  She took another drink of wine. Watching her closely, mirroring her movements, I did the same.

  “I remember that Hugh came over to pick Peri up that evening, after dinner. After they'd gone, I had some ironing to do. Peri had brought back a whole load of dirty clothes—well, never mind. Anyway, after I'd finished my chores I sat down, here, on this couch, to watch TV.”

  I followed her gaze across the room to the blank eye of the television screen.

  “After the program—it was Jonathan Creek, you know, that mystery show?—after that was over, I just channel-surfed. I wasn't really watching anything, I wasn't interested in anything else that was on, but I felt too tired to read or do anything else, and there didn't seem any point to going to bed, because I knew I wouldn't be able to get to sleep while listening for her. I was still too excited about having her home again, and I guess I wanted to hear how her date went, just to be able to spend a little more time with her, you know? So, I was waiting for her, and then, all of a sudden, I woke up.

  “I knew immediately that it was very late, and I was surprised to see the TV was off. I got up and looked around.” She half turned, gesturing toward the door. “The first thing I saw was Peri's purse, on that table by the door, with her set of keys lying on top. And then I noticed that she'd put the chain on the door.”

  She made an odd little sound, half laugh, half sigh. “Well, that did it for me. Seeing that, I just knew Peri was home. She had to be, right? I thought she must have come in, dumped her purse, come over and seen me asleep on the couch, and turned off the TV without disturbing me. And then she must have gone up to her room. She couldn't have gone out again, not without taking the chain off.”

  Laura paused to take a drink of wine. This time, she held the glass with both hands, seeming to need them both to guide it steadily to her lips.

  “Anyway, that's what I thought. And yet, I felt like I was alone in the flat. You know the feeling? So, I went up to her bedroom. She had been there, her coat was lying across the bed, and the light was on, but she'd gone.

  “She wasn't in the bathroom, and she wasn't in my bedroom, and there wasn't anywhere else for her to be. She just wasn't here.” Laura stared at me, baffled and haunted. “I called her name, I even yelled at her like she was a five-year-old playing a silly game. I raced back down here thinking she had to have been hiding from me, but—her purse was still there on the table, and in the kitchen I found her watch lying on the floor; she must have dropped it. She had been here, but she was gone. Yet the chain was on the door. It was locked from the inside. There was no way out.”

  “Fire escape? Anything like that?”

  She shook her head. “The windows all have bolts on them so they won't open more than a few inches. I mean, you could take the bolts out from the inside if you wanted, but they were all still in.”

  “Is there an attic?”

  “There isn't one. The bedrooms are upstairs—I guess that was the attic, before the house was done over.”

  “Could I see?”

  She got up. After putting her glass down on the counter, she went to a door to the right of the one by which I'd entered. It opened onto a narrow hallway and a steep flight of stairs.

  “Bathroom's here,” she said, opening a door besi
de the stairs. “There was just enough room for the two bedrooms upstairs. You want to go first?”

  I did, then waited for her on the small landing. It was warm and stuffy up there, with a faint smell that made me think of hot plastic. Then her scent came to me, fresh and somehow green, already surprisingly familiar, and my pulse speeded up as she squeezed past me to open one of the two doors.

  “This was Peri's room.”

  It was obvious at a glance that although Peri had not been there long enough to impress her personality upon it, the room had no other purpose now than to be a sad little shrine to her loss. It had been cheaply furnished with twin beds, a pine dresser, and matching wardrobe. On one of the beds was a battered, almost shapeless stuffed animal that might have been a dog. On the bedside table two other toys were perched in front of a short stack of paperbacks: a purple plastic pony and a slightly walleyed teenage fashion doll wearing a shiny purple dress long enough to hide her legs, or the lack of them.

  “The Guardians,” I said.

  I heard Laura gasp. Then she said, rather flatly, “Oh, yes. They were in the story.”

  “Anything else in that story taken from life? That you know of?”

  “Well, the neighborhood we used to live in, and the neighbors . . . she changed their names, but anyone who knew us would have recognized them from the description. But none of that actually happened.”

  “You're sure about that?”

  “I know the—the people concerned. Anyway, it's an obvious fairy tale.”

  “Yes. You don't happen to know when she wrote it? Or why?”

  “No. She never showed it to me—and she always showed me her school essays and things. I only found it after she disappeared.” She turned away. “My bedroom is just here, across the way—you can see, there's no way out, and really nowhere to hide.”

  Her bedroom was the same size as Peri's, but had far more in it: neatly organized ranks of toiletries and cosmetics on the dressing table, a couple of large square woven baskets full of sheets and towels, and, beside the book-piled bedside table, a two-drawer filing cabinet.

  “I even looked behind the door and under the bed and in the wardrobe,” Laura said in a sad, small voice. “But she wasn't anywhere.”