Mysteries of Winterthurn

by Joyce Carol Oates

  THE WHISPERED JUDGMENT of numerous staring spectators that Valentine Westergaard, returned to the courtroom after three days’ absence, looked but the ghost of his former self, was, in truth, only a slight exaggeration: for, possessed now of a prominent, bony, marble-white brow, and deep-shadowed eyes, and drawn and sunken cheeks, he looked a full decade older than his age; and had to be helped to the witness stand by his faithful valet, with as much care as if his legs might buckle beneath him at any moment. So visibly did his upraised hand shake, while he swore the oath on the Holy Bible, it seemed a painful thing to observe,—even by those who had crowded into the courtroom to see him, as it was said, “hang himself.”

  Not a person amongst the hundreds of spectators failed to observe, moreover, how totally Valentine’s spirit had seemed to depart from him; how modestly, and even meekly, the defendant was now clothed, in an altogether ordinary gabardine suit,—plain, dull, drab, black, penitential—such as a young minister might wear, ascending to the pulpit of a middle-class church. His shirt was white, but not dazzlingly so; his collar and cuffs were properly starched, but did not call attention to themselves. And the handkerchief he raised repeatedly to his face, to dab at his wet lips, and, upon occasion, at his rapidly blinking eyes, was naught but simple cotton, bordered in very homely lace.

  So enfeebled was Valentine’s voice when he first began to speak, Judge Armbruster at once interrupted, with an air of undisguised impatience, and disgust, commanding him to speak with more volume; or forfeit his “day in court.”

  Thus, Valentine summoned all his strength, and, gazing out into the assemblage with an expression of infinite sorrow, declared that all Colin Kilgarvan had said of him, was true.

  All Colin Kilgarvan had said, that is, pertaining to external events.

  So far as inner events were concerned, however,—why, there was a great deal that must be added; and explained. For the things that had been performed by Valentine Westergaard’s unwilling hands had been, in fact, forced upon him,—by the spirit of a malevolent personage, an enemy to both God and man, long dead, but known (as it would be disclosed) to inhabitants of Winterthurn.

  So it was, Valentine told his long, convoluted tale, the while every individual in the courtroom strained to hear; and even those persons who had conceived a violent revulsion toward him and wished fervently to see him executed, scarcely dared to breathe, for fear of missing a single precious syllable. How mesmerized, in particular, were the ladies!—their pretty fans more slowly, and yet more slowly, in motion; and their eyes fixed unswervingly upon the heir of Ravensworth Park. For now, at last,—after so many weeks of obfuscation, and the tedium of testimony, by insignificant persons—they were gazing (so intimately, it seemed!) into Valentine’s very bared soul: and, ah! what a surprise, to glimpse what lay within. For it could scarcely be doubted that the defendant now spoke the truth.

  As Valentine Westergaard’s complete testimony,—lasting some six hours and forty-five minutes—is available elsewhere, in the official published transcript of the case, and in Professor Myron Haskins’s definitive study, I shall abbreviate it greatly here; albeit there are passages of especial poignancy, and a happily inspired sort of lyricism (in the asides to Nature, Woman, the Muse Melpomene, etc.), that might interest the general reader. Nor shall I attempt to communicate, through the oft-times inadequate medium of mere language, the candid, guileless, and somewhat hypnotic effect, of Valentine’s words.

  All ineluctably, the tragedy was set into motion some eighteen months previous, when, quite by happenstance, in a nocturnal perambulation along the river, the solitary walker, so deep-immersed in a prayerful communion with his Maker, took a mistaken turn; and, thinking himself in the vicinity of the Old River Road and the railroad track, continued hiking unwisely,—and soon found himself lost. (As to young Mr. Westergaard’s nocturnal walks, of which no one had known, it seemed, save his late and belovèd sister Imogene,—while hardly more than a boy, of a sudden made parentless by a caprice of Fate, or, it may have been, a canny species of Divine Wisdom, Valentine had taken to spending many hours of the day in prayer: either on his knees, in the private sanctuary of his bed-chamber, or while walking in the wilder and rougher sections of the forest, of Ravensworth Park. Following the untimely death of his sister Imogene, with whom, as all knew, he had been inordinately close, and to whom he had been selflessly devoted, Valentine had, for a space of some months, lapsed into near-despair; he had fancied that the world was indeed, as the Bard had hinted, “weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable”; and that it could yield no pleasure for him. Ah, how pierced to the heart he had been, by poor Imogene’s death!—how stubborn in mourning,—how slow to be reconciled! Thus, from that time onward, his prayerful communion with God was the more greatly, and despairingly, intensified, as its outward manifestation was kept jealously hidden from the world. “For what lies between the individual soul, and Almighty God,” as Valentine quietly stated, “cannot be displayed in Society,—which is to say, ‘worn upon the sleeve, for daws to peck at.’”)

  Thus it was, one midsummer night, by an evident miscalibration of the moon’s trajectory in the sky, Valentine lost his way; and found himself in that inhospitable area some miles south of the river, known as the Devil’s Half-Acre.

  Ah, if only he had not wandered out of his way, and become hopelessly lost!—if only the moon’s solemn refulgence had not betrayed him!—five young women who had died most cruelly before their times, would be living still; and Valentine Westergaard, who had, many years before, pledged to his Maker a lifetime of the secret performance of Christian charitable acts (whereby moneys were to be given, anonymously, to institutions, organizations, needy and deserving individuals, et al., with as much dispatch as if by God’s own command), should not now be on trial for his very life.

  But, as the vagaries of Fate would have it, he was set adrift in that place of misshapen boulders and stunted trees, with no familiar landmark to give him succor, and, after an incalculable period of stumbling, and staggering, and groping, he heard, with pounding heart, and reeling senses, a voice most horrific, yet imbued with an eerie authority, that seemed to come from the very air about him: I claim you! You are mine! Who goes there,—trodding o’er my grave,—desecrating my slumber: HE IS MINE!

  For, all unknowing, poor Valentine had trod upon the final place of rest, of the bones of Elias Fenwick, who had died better than a century before: nay, who had been publicly executed, in just retribution for his loathsome deeds—! Too late,—ah, too late!—the affrighted young man saw how he had blundered; saw the ill-featured rock, into whose pocked and leprous surface crude letters had been carved, in warning:

  THIS STONE IS GOT

  TO KEEP THE SPOT

  THAT MEN DIG NOT TOO NEAR.

  Herewith, there ensued some minutes of futile struggle on the part of the mortal Valentine, against his superhuman foe: with Valentine pleading, and begging, and weeping for mercy, that he be released from the erstwhile “Bishop’s” grip, and allowed to go his way; and the “Bishop” all gloatingly reiterating his claim that, as Valentine had desecrated his slumberous peace, by trodding so rudely upon his grave, he must forfeit his soul,—and would be required to bring five brides to the Half-Acre, for the delectation of Elias Fenwick.

  Brides—? queried the sobbing Valentine, who had sunk to one knee, beneath the invisible assault of the fiendish spirit. I do not understand: brides? young women? living and breathing young women—?

  Whereupon the portentous voice intoned: Nay,—not living and breathing.

  So potently had the spirit of Elias Fenwick insinuated itself into Valentine Westergaard’s being, not even the most adamant pleas to Our Almighty Father proved efficacious; for, as Valentine had unwittingly violated the “Bishop’s” sleep of many decades, it seemed that a species of actual curse had descended upon him, in concordance (alas, how, and why, we are not given to know!) with God’s instructions. Thus it was, though the young man valiantly struggled against t
he fiend, and against his own wretched fate, there was little to be done save acquiesce; for, in truth, not the most minute sinew, joint, or artery, of his tremulous body, was any longer under his dominion,—but only under that of the “Bishop.”

  These fearsome words Valentine calmly, albeit in a melancholy tone, asserted, the while hundreds of persons leaned forward in their seats, to grant him their absolute attention: not excepting, of course, the twelve gentlemen jurors, who frankly gaped at this most extraordinary of narratives: and Chief Justice Armbruster, who, it might be surmised, had by this stage in his career heard virtually everything.

  After a pause of some minutes, during which strained respite Valentine was proffered a glass of water by his white-gloved valet, and a vial of ammoniac spirits, to be shaken beneath his nose, the testimony was resumed: by slow, painful, arduous steps, progressing to the first of the “sacrifices” of the “Bishop’s” brides,—which is to say, the death of Miss Euphemia (or “Effie”) Godwit, with whom Valentine had become acquainted, in a somewhat incidental and casual way, at one of the charity Musicales held in the Armory. (On his part, Valentine had had not the slightest wish to become acquainted with the importunate young miss,—indeed, he had earnestly sought to discourage her, by alluding to a secret engagement, between himself and a young Winterthurn lady. But, alas, the forward young miss had refused to be discouraged!—with what lamentable results, the world well knew.)

  Thus, the first of the Bishop’s five brides met her destiny,—and poor Valentine, it seemed, was most helplessly plunged into his.

  For, following this initial horror, which had been performed, evidently, with no knowledge, volition, or inclination, on Valentine’s part, it was but an inevitable step to the sacrifices of those other young women known, in the popular press, as the “Damsels of the Half-Acre”: viz., Miss Dulcinea Inman, Miss Tricia Furlow, Miss Florette Sparks, and, not least, Miss Eva Teal.

  Each of the “sacrifices” occurred while a kind of mental eclipse overcame Valentine’s consciousness; and when, hours later, he woke groggily from his trance, not only had the heinous act been committed, but the body was itself gone,—having been transported to the Half-Acre by an emissary of the “Bishop’s”; and very little remained to press upon Valentine the fact that an outrage of some sort had occurred, beneath his very roof,—save haphazard splashes of blood, torn, stained, and stridently perfumed female apparel, an extreme lethargy through his being, and the like. Colin Kilgarvan, who had of late forcibly befriended him, was evidently of the fiend’s party, and in constant communion with the fiend: knowing how most pragmatically to lure the prospective victims to Hazelwit Square, and how to deal with them, once they were secured: and, afterward, knowing with a most practiced thoroughness how to “expedite” the bodies to the Half-Acre. So inhuman and fearsome a creature as this Kilgarvan, Valentine had never before encountered in his somewhat sheltered life; yet he could no more escape his calamitous influence than he could escape the influence of Elias Fenwick, diffused through his very being.

  So it happened, that the five prescribed brides were, one by one, brought to their damn’d husband; and Valentine himself,—ah, how ironically!—was both the instrument of this unspeakable horror and its primary victim.

  At the conclusion of his lengthy confession, Valentine had grown so weakened, he could scarcely hold his head erect; and his delicate hands visibly shook. Yet, all bravely, he summoned forth the shuddering strength for a final effort, and, with tears now unabashèdly streaking his face, softly cried: “May God Almighty have mercy on my soul!—may this Christian court have mercy on my soul! For the ‘Bishop’ assuredly did not.”

  The “Cruel Suitor” Judged

  It is frequently charged against narratives of Mystery and Detection that “natural” seamless actions are willfully interrupted, in the pursuit of an histrionic effect: that the fluid chronological sequence of events, in that ill-comprehended element we call Time, is most cunningly,—and, upon certain occasions, most shamelessly—distorted, to extract, from the proceedings, the very last droplet of apprehension, suspense, and outright dread. Thus, the alleged authenticity of History is laid upon a sort of grid, or narrative artifice, with the most egregious of intentions: that of stirring the reader’s emotions.

  Yet it is difficult to see how narratives like mine might be otherwise presented, for, if granted a “natural” and “seamless” form, they would necessitate hundreds of pages: for, only consider, one might fruitfully investigate any number of ancillary themes stirred by the case at hand,—the response of the small Jewish community of Winterthurn, for instance, to the lynching of Rosenwald; or, for another, the response of the Catholic-immigrant community to the verdict finally handed down against Valentine Westergaard. These worthy subjects, in conformity with the rigorous structure of Mystery, must remain unexplored; our concern is solely with the monomaniacal zeal of the young detective.

  So far as the prolonged strain of the jury’s deliberation is concerned,—this, I shall abbreviate, for it involved eleven long hours in all, and a strict fidelity to the laws of chronological time would be ill-advised. I shall therefore refrain from sympathizing with the torments of waiting suffered by various parties (amongst these, Miss Von Goeler, whose impassioned loyalty to Valentine had unaccountably increased with the passage of weeks; and old Colonel Westergaard, whose health had so deteriorated during the weeks of the trial, Dr. Hatch had at last commanded him to take to his bed; and Eva Teal’s mother, haggard, and sober, and penitent, who attended mass daily, and said numberless prayers for the repose of her daughter’s soul, and in the hope that her murderer might “hang high”; and such principals of the case as James William Hollingshead, and Angus Peregrine, who waited out the verdict in a Union Avenue tavern, their past animosities drowned in convivial tankards of bock beer; and the redoubtable “Veiled Lady,”—now whispered to be an actual lady, of birth and breeding, if not precisely of behavior, heiress to Pullman fortunes—who had all brazenly commandeered the Garden Room of the Winterthurn Arms, and issued instructions that a “victory celebration” be prepared, for Mr. Westergaard and all his relatives, friends, and supporters, when at last the verdict was announced; and, not least, our hapless Xavier Kilgarvan, who had been so stricken and demoralized by his brother Colin’s admission, he had, through the several hours of Valentine’s preposterous defense, found it highly difficult to concentrate,—assuaging his heart with the promise that, should the jurors be gulled by this “defense,” and vote acquittal, he would himself see to Valentine’s punishment.)

  All these hours, and half-hours, and quarter-hours, and minutes, and slow-dragging seconds, of mental anguish, it is a mercy to overleap: and, in the interests of brevity and economy, to open a door, as it were, upon the final strained minute or so, when the decision was announced: The principals reassembled in the courtroom: Judge Armbruster, roused from a nap in his chambers, now settling himself, with an irritable sigh, behind his bench; the jurors filing solemnly back into the jury box, and casting their fatigued eyes upon the Judge, and the prosecutor, and defense attorney, and the sickly red-haired Westergaard; the grave-brow’d foreman of the jury handing over to the bailiff a folded slip of stiff white paper, to be conveyed to the Judge, and the Judge, with due ceremony, unfolding it,—and holding it slantwise to the light,—and frowning,—and squinting,—and at last raising his spectacles, that he might better read the message,—and pronouncing to the courtroom, in a voice that betrayed but faintly a tone of perplexed incredulity, these irrevocable words,—

  “Not Guilty.”

  The Turtle Dove’s Fate

  14 February

  MIDNIGHT

  My Dear Xavier,—

  Belovèd Xavier,—

  Sweet Cousin,—

  Dearest,—

  (You see I know not how to address you,—how to conform to the Heart’s, & the World’s, demands!—& have scribbled over these past five or six days numberless missives, & in despair torn each in twain. At
this very moment,—as Winterthurn’s church bells begin their chimes,—at this moment, yet again my strength so fails me, I find I am scarcely capable of lifting my hand, to force my wretched Pen along the page,—knowing the sorrow my words must cause—as indeed I am myself pierced to the heart. FOR AGAIN I HAVE BROKE MY PROMISE TO YOU, & all savagely & irremediably despoiled my own Happiness. Yet I swear, ’twas not done wantonly.)

  Withal, I have performed the horror in such wise, it is not to be revoked by God, no more than by Man. For Perdita has pledged her word, on the Holy Bible, & ’tis said, such, freely given, cannot be retracted.

  Will you forgive me?—ah, I do not dare beg you!—I do not dare presume!

  Simply & bluntly,—& most grimly,—

  I, Perdita Kilgarvan, have, in fullest consciousness,—for the health & safekeeping of my immortal soul (Cousin, does such a phantasmagoric entity exist?—would Uncle Simon Esdras claim yea, or nay?) & in craven terror of perpetual Damnation in the fiercest flames of Hell—entered into a formal engagement, to be yoked in Holy Matrimony to our much-honored Reverend HARMON ATTICUS BUNTING III: said long-deliberated action, being, as I said, not wanton; & having been taken, Xavier (Please, will you believe me?), some two or three days before the Tragedy of your brother Colin erupted, to stun us all; & before the outrage of the Verdict. (As to this “outrage,”—I wonder, since the imminent Master of Ravensworth Park has been proclaimed from the very dome of the Courthouse innocent of all wrongdoing against my sex,—& since so many of my sex, for reasons I cannot conceive, persist in believing him innocent, & in adoring him,—how dare I, who could not have qualified to sit upon the Jury—how dare I, Perdita, raise my Skeptic’s voice?)