Mysteries of Winterthurn

by Joyce Carol Oates

  In Angus Peregrine’s utterly simple exemplum, the defendant was not only fully innocent of all charges brought against him: he was himself the violated martyr of the State: having suffered, over a period of months, far more psychological anguish than any of the victims of the “Cruel Suitor” had suffered. Why, it required no elaborate medical training to gaze upon the defendant, and to see how his health and spiritual well-being had been ravaged, by the ignominy of this slur against his integrity; and by the tortuous proceedings of the trial itself. And all this, Angus Peregrine thunderingly declared,—and all this was to no purpose, as everyone knew that the murderer of Eva Teal had been discovered, and had been punished for his crime, many months before: this being no one other than Isaac Rosenwald.

  The pronouncement of this dread name,—rarely, or, indeed, never heard in Winterthurn City any longer—roused the assemblage to a frisson of startled satisfaction: and seemed, indeed, the proper conclusion to Mr. Peregrine’s potent tale.

  THUS IT WAS, the roles of murderer and victim were, by shrewd degrees, reversed: and if any of the ladies in the courtroom gave way to tears now, their sentiment was solely for Valentine Westergaard: the murdered Eva Teal being quite forgotten.

  And what of poor Valentine?—though splendidly costumed for the day, in a fawn-colored suede jacket trimmed in black leather, and a lavender embroidered vest, and heather-green trousers of an unusual cut, he did appear somewhat peakèd, and even sickly: his eyes dispossessed of their normal luster, and one of the eyelids drooping; a soupçon of gray discernible in the curls at his temples; and his old graceful languor now more resembling the lethargy of an invalid or a convalescent, from whom all vital energy has drained. Staring at the defendant as he had done, day upon day, and week upon week,—and shrinking from Valentine’s occasional furtive glance, as Valentine sought out him—Xavier soothed his nerves with the promise that, should Justice fail, he would punish Valentine himself: he, Xavier Kilgarvan, would seek revenge for the murdered girls, and for Isaac Rosenwald, and, not least, for the insult of the “planted” lavender glove,—the which outrage Xavier, in his pride, would never forget.

  “Yes, I know not how, or when,” Xavier thought, “but if it falls to me to exact vengeance, why then I will have no choice: unless conscience unmans me.” Then, his brow furrowed, his gaze grown stony with brooding, he thought: “But of course I must do nothing that would endanger my love for Perdita, or hers,—ah, hers!—for me.”

  The “Footman’s” Testimony

  So far as an alibi was concerned, it had been Valentine’s somewhat hazy assertion from the very first, that he had spent the evening of June 7, and the better part of the night, in the company of several of his friends: these being Calvin Shaw, and Lloyd Poindexter, and Roland (or Wolf) Kilgarvan: which gentlemen were duly called to give testimony in his behalf, albeit the climate of opinion in the courtroom was such, one might have supposed such testimony to be redundant.

  Led through a series of rehearsed questions and answers, each of the young men confirmed Valentine’s story, though it was a hazy issue, as to precisely how late they had stayed at the Hazelwit townhouse playing cards and drinking: and only when one of the assistants in Hollingshead’s office questioned them closely, and relentlessly, did it emerge that Mr. Shaw had “probably” left shortly before three o’clock: and Mr. Poindexter, testifying second, had “probably” left shortly before two o’clock: and Mr. Kilgarvan, testifying, most conveniently, last, stressed the fact that he had “most certainly” left the townhouse shortly before one o’clock.

  All were emphatic, however, that no young woman answering the description of Eva Teal,—in fact, no young woman answering any description at all—had been present at the informal gathering: nor had they ever heard Miss Teal’s name on Valentine Westergaard’s lips,—that they could recall.

  Young Mr. Shaw not only exhibited certain of the less fortunate symptoms of alcoholic overimbibing in his person (which had grown, in the past year or so, unhealthily bloated), but, in his manner, behaved as if he had hastily downed a substantial number of drinks, to strengthen him for the ordeal of appearing in court. Speaking in a slow, slurred, halting voice, he insisted that his friend Westergaard was innocent of the charges brought against him; that no one in Westergaard’s circle had ever heard of Eva Teal; that no young female answering to her description had been at Westergaard’s residence, that he knew of; and he was fairly certain that Westergaard had immediately retired for the night, following the departure of his friends.

  This testimony was more or less echoed, with minor alterations and emendations, by Mr. Poindexter and Mr. Kilgarvan: who, confronted with the hypothesis,—which Dr. Dunn had earlier set forth as fact—that Eva Teal had been murdered sometime between the hours of three o’clock and four-thirty, of the morning of June 8, did naught but repeat their statements, like frightened children; that no young woman had been a part of their gathering that night; that they had never so much as heard the name of Miss Teal; that it was preposterous to suggest that Westergaard had committed any act of violence whatsoever that night; and so on, and so forth.

  Some days previous, Xavier had waylaid his brother Wolf on the street (as, it seemed, he was never successful in finding him at home), and put it to him bluntly that Wolf was risking charges of perjury if he lied, or “stretched” the truth, in giving an alibi to Valentine, for friendship’s sake: and that, over all, it was a sickening thing for Wolf to have become so intimately involved with a creature like Valentine Westergaard.

  With marked uneasiness, Wolf answered that his baby brother knew so little of his affairs, it were well for him to hold his tongue, and to keep his distance: and to refrain from insulting Wolf, by the mere naming of perjury.

  Xavier coolly replied that he spoke only in Wolf’s best interests,—and in the interests of Justice. For if Valentine were the “Cruel Suitor,” as it surely seemed he was, how could Wolf protect him?—how could he defend him? Why, it was preposterous,—it was intolerable!

  But already Wolf was striding away, with a negligent wave of his hand; already, it seemed, he had passed out of earshot.

  And, in court, seated in the witness chair in a pose of strained affability, Wolf had given his testimony so woodenly, and with so marked an air of detachment, Xavier, staring hard at him, thought that he too must be part drunk, or under the influence of drugs: and, surely, not telling the truth. “For perhaps he does not know the truth,” Xavier thought. “Perhaps he has never dared ask Valentine . . .”

  Thus Valentine Westergaard’s alibi: which was assuredly fraudulent: but which did not appear to be greeted by the courtroom, or by the jurors, as such.

  Yet Angus Peregrine must have surmised that he needed additional ballast, so to speak; and made the move,—disastrous, as it turned out—to summon a surprise witness to the stand, Mr. Colin Kilgarvan, who had actually been in Valentine’s presence, or under his roof, during the hours in question; and who would attest, once and for all, that Eva Teal, or anyone resembling her, had not been in Valentine’s company.

  So, yet another witness for the defense came forward: yet another: and swore to tell the truth, etc., with one hand on the Holy Bible and the other defiantly upraised: and took his seat, with some awkwardness and self-consciousness: and began his stilted perambulation through Angus Peregrine’s artful dialogue: and then, of a sudden, fell queerly silent.

  Mr. Peregrine repeated his question, in a prodding voice, as one might speak to a slow-witted child: but Colin sat mute: mute and staring into space,—or toward that space at the defense counsel’s table inhabited by Valentine Westergaard.

  Yet again Mr. Peregrine repeated his question, having to do with the sequence of events of that fateful night and morning: but the bullnecked witness could do no more than mouth silent words, while, in plain view of the discomfited courtroom, he clenched his fists on his knees.

  All stared at him; even those persons,—not excluding, I am afraid, one or two jurors, and Judge
Armbruster himself (for this session immediately followed the adjournment for lunch)—who might ordinarily have been dozing off; and ladies who had been for days contenting themselves with knitting, needlepoint, and the like, under the surmise that the trial was as good as completed, now glanced alertly up.

  For, it seemed, Colin Kilgarvan, albeit he most painfully desired to speak, could not.

  Alas, how brutish a picture Xavier’s brother presented, on that chill afternoon, so very near the tragical termination of his life!—hulking, and slack-jawed, and ill-kempt, and possessed of so coarse and ruddy a complexion, one supposed him a day laborer: and could never have guessed he was the son of a gentleman. Encountering him by chance in the back streets and alleys of Winterthurn City, Xavier could never look upon him without inwardly cringing; for not only was his once-handsome brother now uncouth and shambling, his costume a potpourri of odds and ends taken from the trash (or, worse yet, pilfered), but, if Colin’s red-lidded gaze fell upon him, there was the likelihood that Xavier would be approached, and, not to put too fine a point upon it, extorted, for a few dollars’ cash. Nor is it a shameful detail to add that Xavier, being of a decidedly slender physique, and pacific in his manner, feared a drubbing from Colin—who must have weighed, at this time, some two hundred and twenty pounds.

  And, it seemed, he harbored no especial love for his younger brother.

  His connection with Valentine Westergaard was a cloudy one, owing nothing at all, evidently, to Wolf; indeed, Wolf was said to be keenly embarrassed by this connection, and would not remain in the same room with Colin, at the Hazelwit townhouse. By way of discreet inquiries at one or another of the lowlife haunts it was Colin’s predilection to frequent, Xavier had learned, to his discomfiture, that Colin ran errands “after dark” for Valentine: which is to say, he did things of a dubious nature, which the servants could not be enlisted to do, or were incapable of doing. On Valentine’s part, it was said that the idle young gentleman thought his “Footman” wondrously amusing, for his combination of the slavish and the quick-tempered: the quality that most endeared him to his master being a peevish unpredictability. None of Valentine’s men friends could tolerate the “Footman,” and none of his women friends had done more than glance upon him, from a distance; all, doubtless, felt distinct uneasiness in his presence; for, despite his slack smile, and slow-blinking eyes, and awkward bodily movements, he did radiate an air of the unpremeditated,—nay, the ungoverned and impulsive.

  “Why, Colin Kilgarvan is as apt to spit on my French carpet, and clench his great fists, and stride menacingly in my direction,” Valentine had once said sighingly, “as he is to thank me, in stammering fulsome wise, for some trifling tip of a dollar or two! I should dearly love to dress the boy in livery, and hire him on at Ravensworth, above the heads of the Colonel’s tiresome old ‘English’ servants,—but must content myself, I suppose, to wait for the old man’s death.”

  Now, the erstwhile “Footman” continued to stare at his master, not many yards distant, the lower part of his stolid face distorted by a wide, thin, mirthless grin; paying no heed to Angus Peregrine’s repeated entreaties that he answer the question put to him; indeed, waving his fist haphazardly in the attorney’s direction, as if Peregrine were but a pestiferous insect. What malefic gaze passed from master to “servant,”—what message of alarmed and infuriated urgency the trembling Valentine essayed to communicate, while daring not to say a word,—I have no way of knowing, for it has not been recorded; nor are journalistic accounts of the incident reliable. Judging from the witness’s writhing contortions in his chair, and the strangulated mouthings of his inaudible words, what he dearly wished to utter, he could not; and what he dreaded to utter at last burst from him, in a voice slow, benumbed, hollow, halting, dazed,—a voice not recognizably his own, though articulated horribly through him.

  Herewith,—I include all that has been recorded of the “Footman’s” infamous testimony.

  “. . . for sport says Master, for sheer divine sport Master says . . . and Colin must obey . . . and she dare not disobey . . . as it is nearing dawn and ah! the tedium to escort her home! . . . the others are prigs Master says and shall not be invited again . . . Master says, Cowards and not men . . . indeed says Master has she not unmanned them! . . . to their shame be it said . . . her tears and her tiresome screams when the cushion is taken away . . . ‘Poor Eva’ says Master for his tears spill onto hers . . . it has grown very late . . . she is bleeding overmuch . . . and she is unclean says he . . . ah, he is very angry! . . . but Colin must not peek: ‘Nature is the very pox to be overcome,’ says Master, ‘but she must be overcome.’ Therefore much scrubbing will be required. It is far worse than the other times. For says Master she is particularly unclean. She is filthy says he and must be punished. Are they not puling cowards to have fled says Master now true divine sport has begun! . . . unmanned by mere screams and such . . . the scent of blood terrifies the weak . . . Tighter says Master and tighter until her foul tongue protrudes, only you and I are equal to the task, as with the other repulsive creatures . . . so determined to provoke manly rage in their thrashings and sobbings and bloody discharges! For sport says Master now it is time says Master, for sheer divine sport Master says . . . and Colin must obey . . . it is sweet says Master and you are sweet . . . for they must be trundled away to the Half-Acre, as it is their place, being unclean . . . being most loathsome and unclean . . . and afterward all must be aired . . . and scrubbed . . . and consecrated. They are filthy says Master please take them away, O please, and you shall be rewarded . . . sweet Colin . . . for the odor is fearsome says he . . . take them away to the Half-Acre and murmur not a word to me afterward says Master . . . for I fear I shall be ill . . . But first sweet Colin says Master come and kneel before me, that I might bestow a kiss upon your chaste brow . . .”

  At this point, while the courtroom was locked in a veritable paroxysm of attention, and naught but the slow, enfeebled, bemazed, half-human voice of the “Footman” sounded, it suddenly happened that Valentine Westergaard essayed to rise from his chair, with an affectation of disdain, or smiling incredulity; and summoned forth sufficient strength, to shake off Angus Peregrine’s quick grasping of his arm, and, a second later, the much firmer grip of one of the bailiffs; and, turning to the crowded courtroom, with a cavalier sort of smile, and his green eyes glistening, seemed about to speak: but, in an instant, as if struck by an invisible blow to the back of his head, lost all strength,—and fell crashing to the floor.

  The “Cruel Suitor” Unmask’d

  As a consequence of Valentine Westergaard’s collapse, it was necessary to adjourn the trial for three days: after which, contrary to his attorney’s desperate wishes, and, indeed, to the amazement of all the courthouse buffs, the defendant insisted upon taking the witness stand to testify in his own behalf,—albeit such a stratagem, at such a point, with prejudice and revulsion now running so strongly against him, seemed hardly less than suicidal.

  For, in the interim, Colin Kilgarvan had freely surrendered to the authorities: had freely, if woodenly, confessed to his role as a “willing accessory” to Valentine Westergaard’s crime,—nay, to five crimes: not only the abduction, torture, and murder of Eva Teal, but those of the other four “Damsels of the Half-Acre”—! In a slow, dull, benumbed fashion, the thirty-one-year-old man recounted each of the slayings,—or “sports”—with not the slightest hint of remorse, or, pity, or withal, reflective consciousness of his crime: enumerating such details as fairly sickened his interlocutors: and betraying impatience only when requested to repeat what he had said, as if so deliberate an act, requiring a more complex degree of mental organization, irked him. Upon several occasions he simply blinked, and stared into space, and, his lips widening in a transfixed, mirthless grin, averred that his interrogators must ask “Master” about such niceties, as he, Colin, knew naught of motives, but only of facts. His confession required some four hours to complete, partly because he spoke in so halting and mechanic
al a manner; and when at last the transcript was prepared, and given to him for signing, he sat motionless before it for a space of twenty minutes, a quill pen in his hand, and his lips silently moving. At last, he signed his name to the document, with a clumsy flourish; and a heaving sigh, such as a brute ox might make; emitting a forlorn murmur,—the first instance, it was alleged, of any betrayal of human emotion: “. . . Master says we live amidst surfaces, and the Art of Life is to skate well upon them . . . but Colin has not skated well . . . Colin has sorely disappointed . . . Colin must needs betake himself to the Half-Acre now . . . for his time is past . . . it is finished: never again will Master bid him kneel before him, that the blessing might be said . . .”

  Thus Colin Kilgarvan was duly booked as an accessory to Valentine Westergaard’s acts of wanton murder, and locked up in the Winterthurn County Jail, under the strictest surveillance; no bail being set; and no visitors allowed, save Angus Peregrine,—who was rebuffed by the prisoner, and sent away with a bleeding nose and mouth. Dr. Colney Hatch was summoned to examine him, with the desire, in particular, of subjecting him to a thorough phrenological measurement: but deemed it unwise to enter the cell with him, even if the prisoner were secured by restraints. Yet it was Dr. Hatch’s considered opinion, which was released to all the newspapers, that Mr. Colin Kilgarvan, though eccentric, was not mad: and that he must bear responsibility for his crimes.

  AS TO THE KILGARVAN FAMILY’S RESPONSE to this unlook’d-to development in the trial,—it were more merciful of this narrator not to discuss it, for fear of lapsing into the maudlin, in delving too deeply into the tragedy; or seeming callous, in failing to do justice to all persons involved. Suffice it for me to note here that the catastrophe was such, Mrs. Kilgarvan never again exchanged words with her youngest, and formerly most belovèd, son. And Xavier,—well, Xavier shall be dealt with, in time, in a fashion befitting his destiny.