Mysteries of Winterthurn

by Joyce Carol Oates

  It was true that evenings at Ravensworth, and elsewhere, were somewhat lacking in spontaneity, so far as young persons might be concerned: but the wily Xavier Kilgarvan employed his two-hour stint at the dining-room table, amidst numberless crystal wine glasses, and champagne glasses, and goblets, and antique china, and gleaming silver cutlery of a staggering variety, and God knows what all else,—such legerdemain being required to dine at Ravensworth, it were best to accomplish it, in any case, sheerly by rote—examining, as covertly as he could, the probable murderer in their midst; and, at other, freer moments, allowing his thoughts to drift upon his belovèd Perdita, with whom he had not had the pleasure of exchanging a single word in weeks. (So infatuated with Perdita was the young detective, he would not disobey her expressed wish that she would summon him when the moment was propitious: for he had come away from one or two abashed visits to Mrs. Spies’s house, at the tea hour, with the admonition fairly ringing in his ears,—though couched, it scarcely needs be said, in the gentlest of tones—from Thérèse, that Perdita was “indisposed at the present time,” but would communicate with him soon, if he would but respect her wishes. Thus, he contented himself with writing three or four love missives, in language so restrained, the young lady should not guess at, or be repulsed by, his passion: and sending such gifts to her,—a pair of ringed turtle doves; a volume of Tennyson’s poesy; a heart-shaped box, splendidly wrapped, of Swiss chocolates, from a downtown sweet shop—as he supposed appropriate for a suitor to send to his belovèd, in such awkward circumstances. Of the degree of unwholesome fantasizing, and brooding, and excitable rehearsal of the future, in which poor Xavier indulged, regarding the visit to the Devil’s Half-Acre on which Perdita would accompany him,—it is very frankly repugnant to this editor to speak; and may best be passed by, in prudent silence.)

  Valentine Westergaard being an altogether more profitable object for scrutiny, by anyone fancying himself an actual artist of detection, and not a mere lovesick swain, Xavier directed his energies toward a covert examination of this ambiguous personage, the while idle remarks and perfunctory queries and simulated little exclamations of interest washed around him, and over him; and the inexorable progress of the dinner continued. Yet what could be said, in all fairness, regarding Valentine’s behavior?—was it suspiciously natural, excessively charming, zealously proper? How gracious the heir of Ravensworth Park was, in his assiduous attention to the lady on his left (the long-widowed dowager Bunting, devoted mother of the young reverend), and now to the lady on his right (Xavier’s mother herself,—looking very attractive, it seemed to her admiring son, in a summer gown of some lightsome, gossamer, many-layered material, in divers shades of yellow; and with the three-stranded De Forrest pearl necklace looped about her graceful throat; and her eyes girlishly aglow in the candle-flame: for Valentine’s attentions did flatter her),—yet it had always been the case, in Xavier’s memory, that the heir of Ravensworth was unfailingly charming in these circumstances, if not invariably in others. For, surely, Valentine had acquired a precocious skill at social legerdemain himself, by his thirteenth year: and might have performed an entire evening by rote. And, moreover, though it disturbed Xavier to confess this, he himself was not beyond being “charmed” by the sinister creature!—and felt a curious thrill of pleasure, or intrigue, when, as if by happenstance, Valentine’s pale-lashed green eyes moved upon him, and some seemingly harmless (or subtly flattering) remark was aimed in his direction.

  Thus, the gentleman’s impeccable behavior. And though he was in all likelihood a murderer of the most loathsome stripe, who would, surely, strike again, and yet again, if he were not stopped,—it was an eerie yet incontestable proposition that, of all the gentlemen ranged about the table, not excluding the insufferable old boor Westergaard and the pious young prig Bunting (with his new-acquired “pontifical” air), why, Valentine was certainly the most congenial: and the most humorous: and, withal, the most intelligent,—that is, following Xavier himself. (“For I shall outwit him by and by,” Xavier inwardly vowed. “Only, dear God, give me time; and a fulcrum from which to move the Universe.”)

  So far as Valentine’s appearance went,—again, in all fairness to the subject, it was highly problematic that any conclusions could be drawn. Young Westergaard’s smooth, pale, somewhat low brow glistened with perspiration; and, at surreptitious moments, he employed his linen napkin to dab at his damp upper lip. Yet all of the gentlemen guests, in their high starched collars, and dark woolen suits, and formal white ties, were freely suffering on this airless August eve: the portly Henry Peregrine, as upstanding a man as one might encounter in all of Winterthurn, giving evidence, by the testimony of his glistening skin and a frequent expression of panicked discomfiture about the eyes, of being more visibly “guilty” than Valentine Westergaard—! And though Valentine might now and then squirm in his seat, or too urgently drain his wine glass, or so forget himself as to allow his delicate features to shift, for an instant, into a pained grimace: though, indeed, his long slender fingers unconsciously rapped and drummed on the tablecloth, and his sea-green eyes swerved in their sockets, as if seeking out the solace of a clock’s face,—Xavier could hardly conclude that he exhibited any excessive uneasiness in these circumstances. (Albeit it gave Xavier some small pleasure to note that Valentine’s hairline was receding; and that the creamy ointment, or zinc mixture, which he had fastidiously dabbed on certain tiny pustules about his mouth, had become by degrees more noticeable. “He is under treatment for some foul disease,” Xavier thought, “unless I imagine it, in my zeal to condemn the monster to death!”)

  In all, Valentine comported himself with his usual facility, in making lightsome conversation with one admiring lady, and then with another; raising his eyes to smile courteously in the Colonel’s direction; inquiring gallantly of Miss Mary-Louise Von Goeler her plans for the morrow, or her considered opinion of a lawn fête held at Goshawk Manor the previous Sunday; and visibly gratifying Mrs. Kilgarvan by his seemingly unfeigned interest in the impending Burke-Kilgarvan nuptials. (“What a fine couple they shall make, your Bradford, and Mayor Burke’s Marian,—ah, is it Miriam?—do forgive me, for transposing a letter or two,” Valentine softly exclaimed. “I shall have to tax my powers of imagination to compose a suitable little song for the occasion, if, indeed, I am up to the task,—a bachelor like myself who has been left quite behind, it seems, in the species’ fervent campaign of perpetual motion.”) All the while, however, Xavier fancied that Valentine’s secret absorption was in him: and in performing the unstudied mannerisms of an innocent man,—or, it may have been, a mockery thereof.

  “Perhaps the villain knows that, since June, I have made discreet inquiries after him, through Winterthurn; and, when he condescends to spend his days in the city, I have bored myself to distraction in trailing after him; and ‘keeping vigil,’ as it were, on his townhouse in Hazelwit Square,” Xavier broodingly thought. “Perhaps too the villain knows how frustrating,—nay, maddening—the enterprise has been: for, of a sudden, it seems the ‘Cruel Suitor’ has radically modified his ways, to present the tiresome face of innocence to the world.” Xavier sighed so audibly that his dinner partner glanced at him, in naïve wonderment, perhaps, that she was the provocation; and he took advantage of a spirited discussion further down the table, of the relative merits of the Sweetwater, and the Rose Tree, hunts, to surreptitiously dab at his lower lip, with his napkin. “But he must soon discover,” Xavier consoled himself, “that Xavier Kilgarvan is not so easily duped.”

  AH, WHILE LEMON sorbet is gravely served by several white-gloved menservants, how felicitous it would be, that the Detective might slip from his corporeal being, to make his phantom way to Hazelwit Square, some six or seven miles distant: there to enter (whether lawfully, or no) Valentine Westergaard’s red-bricked Georgian townhouse, his commodious “bachelor digs,” and to examine every square inch of the interior, from the cellar (where, very likely, part-destroyed evidence is buried, though not so cleverly X
avier could not retrieve it), to the low-ceilinged attic (abuzz, in all probability, with the murderous wasps and hornets of the blackguard’s sickened conscience). Splashes of maiden’s blood,—or streaks, or mere freckled dots, all but invisible to the eye: on a door frame, or against the silken wallpaper of the bedroom, or near-camouflaged on the wainscoting of the library: yet Xavier Kilgarvan should discover them, and examine them with the aid of his magnifying glass: and come away with the necessary evidence to force the police to make an arrest. (For it must be confessed, neither they nor the District Solicitor’s office have shown the slightest inclination to search Valentine’s townhouse: and the mere mention of the possibility, on Xavier’s part, elicited stares of shocked disapproval. “And what might be gained by so desperate an action?” Mr. Hollingshead has asked, with brusque impatience. “Only the virulent enmity of old Westergaard, and the censure of all the Valley—!”)

  Though restrained in his attentions to Xavier during the lengthy meal, save for several pointed questions, and a half-dozen languorous glances, Valentine lost no time, once the gentlemen retired to Colonel Westergaard’s study for the respite of brandy and cigars (both of which Xavier was obliged to refuse), in expressing his fascination with him. Indeed, as they were ceremoniously en route from one room to the other, Valentine smilingly murmured in Xavier’s ear: “Now, doubtless, you can see why your brother Wolf and I, and some others, grow restive at Winterthurn’s dining-room tables, upon occasion,—and long to ‘kick up our heels,’ as it were, like naughty schoolboys!”

  In the Colonel’s study, amidst the general air of masculine relaxation, Valentine seated himself close to Xavier, to ply him with flattering questions, and to make him, for some uncomfortable minutes, the center of attention: a position Xavier did not relish, as it violated not only his intrinsic modesty but his shrewd wish, as an amateur-professional in his art, to maintain invisibility. He asked Xavier his impressions of Paris, and the Parisian police, and the Parisian underworld (“It is said the crimes there are more imaginative than our own,—but I cannot believe it”); he might wish, he said, with a slight frisson of delight, for an entire evening,—nay, an entire night—to hear Xavier’s discussion of crimes and criminals in North Africa, and the Mideast (“For one does hear such tales back home!—scarcely to be credited, I fear”). He inquired of Xavier’s acquaintance, rumored to be intimate, with the famed gentlemen of Scotland Yard, of whom, alas, Valentine had only read; and would probably never have cause to meet. Were there not remarkable new developments in crime detection, scarce comprehended by the layman; was there not a sense,—for so Valentine had heard, from some redoubtable source—that Evolutionary Progress itself was leading to a narrowing of the margin for crime, and that all crime, if not the criminal heart itself, would one day soon be refined out of existence?—by the end of the next century, perhaps: for, alas, there were not very many years remaining in this century—!

  Here, Xavier started,—for were these not his own words—his own words mockingly repeated to him in Valentine’s insinuating drawl? Yet he essayed to disguise his amazement, and his growing repugnance at Valentine’s physical closeness,—for, indeed, Xavier could scarcely draw breath without inhaling the pungent fragrance of the other’s eau de cologne—by remarking, in a neutral voice, that Valentine seemed to be uncannily cognizant of Xavier’s travels, interests, and beliefs,—rather more, it seemed, than Xavier of his. “Why, that is easily explained,” Valentine said, opening his pale-lashed eyes wide, and sniffing with evident pleasure at his brandy, “for, as you know, Wolf,—or is he called ‘Roland’ at home?—keeps me informed of things in which he knows I have an abiding interest; and, during the long months of your absence,—fifteen in all, I believe; a cruel absence—when we chanced to meet at one or another tea, or reception, or charitable bazaar, your mother delighted in speaking of you, to me: and, upon one or two striking occasions, even read portions of your letters,—which impressed me with their rare sensitivity and intelligence, and, not least (for I have pretensions along such lines myself), their capturing of a distinct literary tone. Yet, withal, I am bound to say, dear Xavier, it seems to me a tragical sort of blunder for a young man of your capacities, and breeding, and unique charm, to expend his energies in brute matters,—nay, in unspeakable things—better left to such custodians of our civilization as the police, and dear droll Mr. Deck. Ah, I hope I have not displeased you,—for your expression shows some surprise, and ire!—when I mean, my young friend, to do hardly more than repeat, in somewhat more forceful terms, the sentiments your own mother oft shared with me.”

  For some shocked seconds Xavier could think of no reply: for, while his pride smarted that Valentine Westergaard, of all persons, should be privy to certain of his secret ideals, he suffered a distinct pang of guilt: as it was a certitude, his choice of a career had long greatly worried Mrs. Kilgarvan.

  These thoughts the yet somewhat dazed Xavier did not precisely think, so much as feel, while, in a pretense of camaraderie, that meant to prick the interest of several of the other gentlemen, Valentine ranged wider in his conversation, to speak of how very promising it was, and how hopeful for those of Christian belief, that the art of crime detection was so rapidly improving: for he had read somewhere, it may have been in a medical journal, that arsenic, through the centuries prized as the “poison of poisons,” and, somewhat too callously, “inheritance powder,” was now very easily detected by informed pathologists,—albeit, as the lethal substance was all amazingly tasteless, and odorless, and innocently white as sugar, it could never be detected by the victim himself!—an infelicitous state of affairs. Yet was it not the case (though Valentine confessed himself but shabbily informed of such matters) that certain plant alkaloids,—amongst them belladonna, and cocaine, and morphine—were detected only with great difficulty?

  Xavier bit his tongue, for his immediate impulse was to inquire of Valentine why he wished to know about these rare poisons; and why he spoke with such unusual intensity. But he contented himself with stating that the science of toxicology was a new and precise one, like dactyloscopy (fingerprinting), or forensic medicine in general,—and that, in his opinion, the art of crime detection would be revolutionized by the turn of the century. “Only think,—murderers will no longer be able to elude Justice,” Xavier said, fixing his gaze unblinkingly upon Valentine’s, “and the incidence of crimes will shrink correspondingly.”

  “Ah, it is marvelous to think so—!” Valentine sighed.

  At this point, Harrier Von Goeler intruded into the conversation, to inquire of Xavier what the truth of the situation had actually been, in the matter of the Halsey-Wielkopolski Scandal: and Xavier was obliged to say a few words, albeit he believed he had fairly sickened of the subject, and had earned a respite from it. As he spoke, he could not determine how to interpret Valentine’s rapt interest, as to whether it was genuine, or mocking, or, oddly, both simultaneously: for while Xavier hurriedly limned his understanding of the case, and sketched out his own role (which he wished to underplay) in the detection of the crime, and the ferreting out of the actual criminal,—the Senator being, as the world has doubtless forgotten, altogether innocent of the strangling death of his mistress—Valentine rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa, and leaned his chin on the back of his hand, and stared, and stared, at Xavier, with unblinking eyes. From time to time he murmured, “Ah! is that so!” or “Not really!” or “You do say?”—though never with any discernible air of derision.

  AS IT IS the strategy of the present volume to concern itself solely with mysteries of Winterthurn, and to but glancingly allude to other cases, or adventures, of Xavier Kilgarvan’s; and, indeed, as several other dedicated connoisseurs of crime have dealt in book form with the Senator Halsey-Countess Wielkopolski Scandal,—or Tragedy, as it was alternately called—I shall not devote any significant space to it here. Suffice it to know that, by locating in the Countess’s suite in the Plaza Hotel, amidst a dismaying tumble of ripped clothes, bed linen, flowe
rs, overturned and smashed furniture, pots and tubes of rouge, powder, mascara, lip paint, et al., one single oily fingerprint,—indeed, but part of a thumbprint; by having this print photographed, and many times enlarged, that it might be compared, in the courtroom, with a similar magnification of the Senator’s prints; and by producing, to the amazement of all, the identity of the actual murderer,—Xavier Kilgarvan, in the employ of the defense, was able to save the Senator from the gallows. Not only this, but the sensational trial marked the first time in our history that an American judge,—and, following his directive, an American jury—was willing to accept this arcane species of scientific evidence, and to bring in a verdict accordingly. (For, at this time, the very concept that each individual possessed unique fingerprints, unchanging through his life, was not only unknown but, if argued, jeeringly rejected, even by intelligent persons: all the spirals, ellipses, circles, whorls, and slanting lines at our fingers’ tips being, to the naked eye, invisible!) Thus, Xavier’s triumph; and the great leap forward in criminal detection, whose fruits we enjoy even to the present day. Yet the young detective’s painstaking labor brought him but a flawed sort of gratification, for the publicity attending the case, centering upon the murdered Countess, and her grotesquely corpulent lover, and, by and by, the dashing figure of the youthful “Detective of Genius,” as presented by Mr. Hearst’s Journal in particular, was so fraught with exaggerations, errors, and outright falsehoods, and, withal, so alarming in its general tone of strident vulgarity, as to more greatly demoralize Xavier, as he put it, than the fact of human wickedness, and crime, itself. For while wickedness might be said to spring from some unfathomed schism in the soul, did not the lurid trickery of the newspapers spring from a most shallow, and easily detected, motive, indeed?—one which cast a blight, as it were, upon even the triumph of Justice, and the detective’s pride in his work. In granting interviews, Xavier had stressed the fact that he was but building upon the scientific discoveries of others,—namely, William Herschel, Henry Faulds, Sir Francis Galton, and one or two other Englishmen—and that earlier cases upon which he had embarked, whether as a consequence of his own curiosity or at the request of acquaintances of his on the police force, must be counted as failures; he had smilingly said that he was not the romantic species of detective about whom amiable entertainers like Conan Doyle spun their tales,—albeit, as a boy, he had reveled in such fantastical adventures. He had even made an appeal of sorts to the Journal reporter, that the confused nature of crime detection be explained to readers: for it was something of a scandal that so very few crimes were solved, or even recognized as crimes; that so many murderers not only went “scot free,” but were never even suspected; that numberless deaths counted as natural were, in harsh truth, unnatural. “We have exposed but the very tip,—the very glimmering of the tip—of the iceberg of Crime,” Xavier had forthrightly declared, “and have, I am afraid, a great distance to go before humanity abandons its old ways, out of necessity.”