Window on the Square

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “Why did you marry her?” I murmured despairingly. “Why?”

  His hands dropped from my shoulders, and there was a dark opaqueness in his eyes. “You’ve asked for an answer,” he said, “and I’ll give it to you. I married her to keep her silent. Are you satisfied now?”

  I knew that he was speaking the truth. No matter what concealment he might have attempted earlier, what he had just told me was true. He had corroborated Leslie’s words. I turned without speaking, suddenly empty of emotion, able to say nothing more.

  He made no effort to stop me as I went out of the library and fled upstairs to my room. There I flung myself upon the bed, and, as feeling and painful realization began to return, I think I died a little.

  The afternoon went by in a strange, breathless quiet. With so much of terror and hatred stirring under one roof, it would seem that it must surely explode into sound. But on through mid-afternoon the house was still.

  I did not die entirely, for my lungs continued to draw breath and my body went on living. I could not lie there on the bed forever, rejecting life, even though that was what I willed. Responsibility remained, and I rose at length and went to seek the children. They were alone in the nursery, playing checkers. Selina said Miss Garth had gone to her room with a headache. I sat with them, distraught and absent-minded, and Jeremy watched me gravely. Once he sought to distract me.

  “Selina has told me her secret,” he announced.

  Selina laughed slyly, but I had no interest in secrets just then.

  Jeremy went on. “She has found where the other pistol was hidden, Miss Megan. She has known where it was for a long time.”

  My attention focused abruptly, and I began to listen.

  “I kept the secret!” Selina cried. “I didn’t tell!”

  “I always knew there was another one,” Jeremy said reproachfully. “I tried to tell Captain Mathews and Uncle Brandon that the pistol I brought from the collection wasn’t loaded. I’d checked it to make sure. I only meant to frighten my father. But then there was a terrible explosion and he fell. Afterwards Uncle Brandon picked up the pistol that had been fired. But, Miss Megan, it wasn’t the pistol I’d taken from the collection. It was the same size, but it was a different one. So I kept looking and looking—even though I began to believe I must have shot my father. Everyone else kept saying I had, and after a while I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. Now Selina has found the pistol.”

  I had not died at all, I found. Every nerve was exquisitely atune and ready to throb with pain. Leslie’s words were being proved true once again. The pistol whose existence Brandon denied was real and within reach. For two long years it had lain in concealment while a child pitted his futile child’s strength against the disbelief and cruel concealment of adults.

  Jeremy was looking at me strangely. “You’re very pale, Miss Megan. Are you ill?”

  I rallied strength to ask a question and was astonished that my voice did not crack with strain.

  “How did you know where the pistol was?” I asked Selina.

  She pushed a checker absently with a finger. “I was watching Mama one time when she didn’t know. I was peeking between the boudoir curtains. And I saw her take it out and hold it in her hands. She was behaving as though she didn’t know what to do with it. She put it in the drawer of her dressing table. Then she changed her mind and hid it in the first place again.”

  “What place?” I said. “Where is it now?”

  Jeremy answered. “It’s in that big brass candlestick that always stands on the hearth in Mama’s room.”

  “Let me tell!” Selina protested. “It’s my secret. Miss Megan, the top part of the stick unscrews and there’s a big hollow space down inside the base.”

  “The pistol I took upstairs that time had an ivory handle,” Jeremy said. “It wasn’t the one they found.”

  I shook my head from side to side dazedly. Not in disbelief, but in pain and confusion.

  “Show it to Miss Megan, Jeremy!” Selina cried. “You said someone put the candlestick in Papa’s room, didn’t you? Get it then, and show her the pistol.”

  “It’s not there any more,” Jeremy said. “Miss Megan, after Selina told me this afternoon, I went to Papa’s room to find out about the pistol. I didn’t notice that the bolt on the boudoir door was off. While I was there the door started to open and I didn’t want to be caught in that room. I went down on my stomach and slid under the bed. Someone came into the room, walking softly, and went over to the bureau. I could hear the steps pause and then go back to the door. I looked out from under the bed, and there was enough light coming from the boudoir so I could see. It was Miss Garth, and she was carrying that big candlestick in her hands. So now I suppose it’s back in Mama’s room. And I can’t show it to you. But we must do something about that pistol soon, mustn’t we, Miss Megan? We must make my mother tell.”

  “Yes, we must do something about it.” I could barely manage the words. “But wait a little while, Jeremy. We must—we must find the best way to handle this.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Now someone else will be in trouble,” he said. “We have to think about that.”

  He pushed away the game board and went to look out the nursery window. Watching him miserably, I was reminded of his uncle, staring out at the winter bleakness of Washington Square, longing for escape. There was no comfort I could offer Jeremy. Fear was growing in me. And profound despair.

  By late afternoon the wind began to rise—that dark, cold wind that made the square its playground. Shutters rattled, and there was a whining at every window crack the gale could find. Beneath its oval skylight, the stairway was a funnel that sucked up the stormy flow of air.

  We had an early supper—just the children and I. Garth did not join us, but remained locked in her room, as Leslie did in hers. For once, I gathered, Mrs. Reid had refused the ministrations of her former governess and sent word by Kate that she wanted to rest and be alone. I dared not think what dark plans Leslie Reid might even now be concocting.

  Though the children could not know the full cause, the sense of foreboding, of waiting for disaster to fall, made itself felt in them as well. Selina was less than her usual exuberant self, and Jeremy was quietly watchful, with an air of waiting about him. Now and then I caught his eyes upon me and knew what he waited for. But I could not yet decide what action was to be taken about the pistol. More than once that afternoon I wished for Andrew’s presence in the house. I was ready to confide in him now. There was justice in Andrew. He would know what to do with this knowledge of the pistol’s existence and its hiding place. He would help me to do whatever was right.

  Had Brandon left the house? I wondered, and listened for his step, for the sound of a door. When would I see him again? Even while my mind tried to cope with his possible guilt, my heart dismissed it and would not believe.

  As I descended the stairs from the third to the second floor, I saw that Andrew had not, after all, left the house this afternoon. Leslie must have chosen to recover from her earlier theatrical efforts and sit for her portrait, because Andrew was ahead of me, approaching the door of her room, some of his painting materials in hand.

  I hurried when I saw him, intending to ask for a chance to talk to him. But by the time I reached the foot of the stairs, he had gone into Leslie’s room and I determined to catch him later, when the sitting was over. As I followed the second floor hallway toward the lower stairs, I met Kate carrying up a supper tray.

  “For Miss Leslie,” she said as I went past her down the stairs.

  I did not reach the front door, however, for the crash of Kate’s tray resounded through the house. Startled, I stood at the foot of the stairs, while above me, over the sound of the wind outdoors, I heard a scream, followed by an eerie, wailing cry of terror, a keening that chilled my very blood.

  I whirled about and ran upstairs.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The keening ceased, but now I could hear the desperate, terrified soun
d of a woman sobbing.

  Kate was on her knees outside Leslie’s room, her overturned tray nearby, its broken china and spilled food on the floor beside her. It was she who was sobbing, rocking back and forth with her apron over her face.

  I shook her by one shoulder, shook her hard. “What’s the matter? What has happened?”

  She raised a tearful, frightened face. “I was just bringing the tray to Miss Leslie, as Miss Garth told me to do. And—and—”

  She broke off with such horror in her eyes that I did not wait for her to finish. I started toward the door to find out for myself what had happened. At once Kate reached out and caught me by the skirt, holding me back.

  “No, miss! Don’t go in there! I saw, God help me. And I’ll remember it in my dreams forever. He’s still there, miss. Perhaps he’s gone mad and we should run away before he kills us all.”

  She started to her feet, but I held her by the arm and would not let her go. “Don’t be foolish,” I said. “I saw Mr. Beach go into Mrs. Reid’s room only a moment ago. Wait a moment—wait!”

  How fearfully sharp every detail of that scene will always be, stamped forever upon my memory. The long hallway, half lost in the gloom of faint gaslight, just as I had seen it on my first visit to this house, the very pattern of the wallpaper, raspberry repeated endlessly on cream. There was a moaning of the wind and an accompanying rattle of shutters, the cold, dusty smell of the unheated hallway.

  I heard his steps before they reached the door of Leslie’s room, and the sound of them told me how dreadfully something was wrong. Kate heard them too and she gave a little shriek and clutched me tightly as Andrew stepped into the doorway, pale and shaken and sick with shock.

  A cry from the staircase above jarred me into life. I released myself from Kate’s clutch, and the girl began to weep out loud again. I whirled to see that Garth had come halfway down the stairs. Her attention was fixed upon Andrew, and she must have read in his face that something terrible had happened. He shook his head at her, but she darted down the remaining steps and would have gone past him had he not caught her by one arm.

  “Don’t!” he said. “There’s nothing you can do for her now.”

  The woman struck away his hand and went directly into the room. I heard her gasp as she saw whatever was to be seen and caught her breath. But she made no other sound and in a moment she returned to the door. All color had vanished from her face, and her dark eyes were sunken hollows, her lips bloodless. She fought to command herself, but she could not speak. Only her eyes spoke for her, staring accusingly at Andrew.

  “No,” he said. “No!” and made a faint movement of denial with his hands, as though warding off the accusation she did not speak. Then he swallowed hard and went on. “I stayed to complete the portrait. She said I might come in for the finishing touches. But when I went in just now—” He put his hands over his face as if to shut out the image of what he had seen in that room.

  At our feet Kate sobbed aloud and Garth touched her with the toe of a shoe, recovering her power to act.

  “Stop sniveling at once! Go downstairs and send Fuller for the doctor. Send Henry for the police. Move, now—hurry!”

  Kate scuttled away, clearly glad to escape. I stood where I was, stunned and bewildered, while a new, dreadful fear set up a clamor within me.

  Garth turned again to Andrew. “I’ve never had much use for you, it’s true. I thought her kindness to you misplaced. But you loved her, and I believe you. You wouldn’t have done this. I think we both know who did.”

  Andrew nodded numbly. “Yes, we know. Is he still in the house?”

  Garth moved at once. She flung open the library door upon emptiness and then went into Brandon’s bedroom. Her voice came back to us, stronger now, as she gained mastery over herself.

  “He’s gone, and his bag’s gone. He had it packed this morning.”

  Through my daze and confusion two things began to come clear. Whatever crime had been done, both Andrew and Garth meant to accuse Brandon of committing it. And Garth had said to Andrew, You loved her.

  “Tell me what has happened,” I pleaded as Garth came out of Brandon’s room.

  She spoke without looking at me, and there was venom in her words. “Go and see for yourself what you’ve brought upon this house!”

  Andrew put out a hand to me. “Don’t go in there, Megan. She has been beaten to death. Beaten in violence and anger.”

  “With that heathenish brass candlestick,” Garth said. “He must have used it in both hands—like a club. Oh, my poor pretty lady!” Her control broke for an instant, but weakness was not for Thora Garth and she recovered at once. “He will pay for what he’s done. I’ll see to that. The police will find him; he’ll never get away!”

  This was worse than anything that had gone before. Dwight’s death and a hidden pistol had no meaning for me now. I had only one instinct, and no matter what my fear, I followed it.

  “Brandon didn’t kill her!” I cried. “You can’t make such an accusation! What proof do you have?”

  “Proof!” Garth echoed the word scornfully. “Do you think there’s no proof? Do you think we haven’t all known what was going on between you and my poor lady’s husband? Do you think he hasn’t wanted her out of the way?”

  Andrew tried to come to my aid, tried to spare me something of Garth’s wrath. “That’s not the whole of it,” he said. “Reid had a stronger motive than that. She knew he killed Dwight. That’s why he married her—to keep her quiet. But he must have pushed her too far, so that she was ready to go to the police. And he killed her to save himself.”

  Miss Garth flicked his words aside impatiently. “That’s nonsense. It was the boy who killed his father; we’ve never had any doubt of that. It’s true the older brother married her to keep her quiet. But not for that reason.”

  “Then for what reason—what reason?” I demanded.

  She seemed not to hear my question, following the trend of her own thoughts in a bitter reviling of Brandon. “She was so sure she could win him, once she had him for a husband. And with any man who was human she might have done so. But he never touched her after they were married. He was off chasing other women within the week. Oh, he was gallant enough to his wife in public. He overdid his ardent attention and laughed in her face when they were alone. I know. She told me many times the truth about their marriage.” Her voice rose, shrill now with fury. “But he’ll pay for all the wicked things he’s done. Now he will pay.”

  There was no reason left in me, but only unreasoning fear and a determination to help Brandon, whatever the cost.

  “He didn’t do this thing,” I repeated mindlessly. “He didn’t, he didn’t!”

  Miss Garth ignored me and returned to the room where Leslie lay.

  “Don’t, Megan,” Andrew said gently. “Get yourself in hand and start using your mind. You needn’t believe everything Garth says. She was in love with him too. She has always identified herself with Leslie, and, as her mistress began to hate him, she did as well. But she’s wrong about there being another reason why he married Leslie.”

  I cared about none of this. “It’s not what happened in the past that matters now. You were always just, Andrew, even though you didn’t like him. You can’t turn against him like this.”

  Andrew put the heel of his hand against his forehead as if there were a throbbing there. When he spoke, his voice had turned to a monotone, devoid of emotion.

  “What’s past breeds the present. Who else do you think has done this thing, Megan?”

  The frightening thought was in me that there was no one else, no other choice, and I could not answer him.

  He pressed me in the same toneless voice. “Do you think it was Garth then? After all her years of devotion?”

  I wished I could believe the governess guilty of this. But I could not. She might have killed Brandon, who had scorned and hurt her mistress, but I did not think she would have raised a violent hand toward Leslie. It would have been like
injuring herself.

  “Was it you, perhaps?” Andrew said. “Or me? Do you think I killed her, Megan? Do you think I could have?”

  Again I did not think so. Andrew was capable of strong purpose, perhaps of deep love. But there was nothing of violence in him. In my mind I could see Brandon raising that candlestick in fury to crush out something that maddened him, but not Andrew. My skin grew clammy with terror, and my throat closed as though I were the victim of nightmare.

  Andrew went on in the same dull tone. “I’ve loved her for a long time. I loved her as she was. I asked of her only what she wanted to give. Her games and pretenses never fooled me. I knew I was no more than someone to whom she could turn for solace. I loved her anyway.”

  Through the nightmare that held me in its grip I stared at him, and he must have seen my look.

  “Forgive me a little, if you can, Megan. I’ve been fonder of you perhaps than I was of her. What I felt for Leslie was something different. How many times I’ve thought how much simpler life would be if you and I had met each other before we knew Leslie and Brandon Reid.”

  Who was I to condemn him? There had been times when I’d turned to Andrew Beach in the same way, wishing I could love where my heart was not truly given. But none of this mattered now.

  “Where are the children?” Andrew asked.

  For the first time I remembered them, upstairs in the nursery, undoubtedly frightened by Kate’s screaming.

  “I’ll go to them,” I said. “Andrew, you’ll stay in the house, won’t you? Until—”

  “I’ll stay,” he said grimly. “I want to see him caught as much as Garth does. Besides, I’m the one who found her. They’ll want me here for questioning.”

  I turned from the tragic recollection in his eyes and ran upstairs to the nursery. When I opened the door, I found a scene surprisingly peaceful. Selina lay on the red carpet before the fire, listening to the story of the Toad Prince that Jeremy was reading aloud. He paused as I came into the room and gave me the grave look of one adult questioning another. An adult who has taken on the responsibility of distracting a child in a time of trouble.