Your servant, Fekete Marika.
"He wrote back, of course," Selena said. "Here is his letter in English, and I suppose the same person who translated the first letter wrote back for him in Hungarian. That's why we have the English letter, not signed, you see. June 15, 1901, it was."
Madame—I thank you for your kindness in writing to me regarding my sister Selena's death. She was, as you say, a very fine lady. As to your question about her belongings, may I suggest that you keep for yourself what you would like, and distribute the rest to the poor of your city. It is, I'm sure, what my sister would wish. I have enclosed a bank draft payable to you which I hope will cover any outstanding expenses my sister might have incurred, and to cover the cost of the burial. With gratitude for your kindness once again, I remain, faithfully yours, etc.
"I don't know where this Molnar Peak is, do you?" Selena said.
"It's in the Biikk Mountains in Northern Hungary, near a little town called Lillafiired," I said, thinking what a perverse little cosmic joke that name was.
"What would she be doing there, do you suppose?"
"Your aunt Selena was a woman way ahead of her time, an amazing person. She was interested in science, particularly in finding evidence of ancient man. She explored the limestone caves in the Biikk Mountains, and she did, in fact, find a skeleton that dates back twenty-five thousand years."
"Nooo!" Selena Mary said.
"Yes. She also found an ivory carving just as old."
"Nooo!" she said again.
"You mean hunner, don't ye?" Nigel said.
"Thousand," I said. "Twenty-five thousand years old."
"That would be Neanderthals?"
"Not Neanderthals, Homo sapiens, ancestors of ours who lived in caves."
"I think this calls for a wee goldie, hen," Nigel said. "You're looking piqued." He hoisted himself up and hopped over to side table, returning with a bottle of Scotch and three glasses. He poured one and handed it to Selena, then at my nod, poured one for me, and for himself.
"How do you know these things?" Nigel said, suspiciously.
"I have her diaries," I said. "And I am going to give you a copy, Ms. Morison."
"Call me Selena, hen," she said. I'd decided by now that hen meant something like dear. "I'll have another, Nigel," she added, holding out her glass. It made me think of Lily Larrington, what seemed so long ago, passing out birdbath-sized glasses of sherry. I reached out for a wee bit more myself, seeing as I was no longer concerned about my drinking habits.
"I am going to leave you with this book," I said, taking The Traveler and the Cave out of my bag. "I have to warn you, though, that someone else took credit for finding the skeleton, a fellow by the name of Cyril Piper." Both of them looked at me as if I was a creature from outer space.
"She's away with the fairies, isn't she?" Selena said, turning to Nigel.
"Sorry," I said. "I know that this sounds implausible."
"It does," Nigel agreed. "Why should Selena here believe ^ou?"
"I don't suppose you'd have something in her handwriting, would you?" I asked.
"I think I would," Selena said. "Here, further on in the book. A letter to my father on his birthday. He was younger than she was."
Dear Robert, the letter said. "I hope this letter reaches you in time for your nineteenth birthday, so that you know you are much in my thoughts on the day. You will have to think of marriage soon enough. Choose a girl with a pleasant disposition above all, and virtuous too. If she is comely and has a dowry of some value that would also be well. As always you are in my heart. Your loving sister, Selena
P.S. Thank our uncle for me for sending the draft for my little inheritance so promptly. I will put it to good use. S
"He loved her very much, didn't he?" Selena said. "And she, her brother. You can tell from the words, can't you, the love that comes off the pen?"
"Yes, you can," I said. "Have a look at this letter. I had it copied at a museum in London. Does the writing look similar to yours to you?" I had, with some difficulty persuaded Hilary to let me copy just one. I chose the letter Selena sent asking for a job, perhaps because it rankled the most and I wanted to stay mad.
Both Selena and Nigel peered at the two letters. "I would say yes," Selena said at last. "And you, Nigel? You see better than I do."
"Looks like," Nigel said.
"Look, I know this is very presumptuous of me," I said. "But I would very much like to have a copy of your letter. I must have one. If you will permit me, and can direct me to a copy shop, I promise to bring it back in a few minutes. You see, the original diaries are now in Toronto. They are handwritten. I could arrange to have the handwriting on both compared. I am certain they will match, and I hope it will prove to you that what I say is true."
"You say my aunt found something important?" Selena said.
"Very important," I said.
"Nigel?" she said. "Your advice, please."
"Take my key, hen," Nigel said, handing a key chain to Selena. "You know where my fax machine is. It'll make you a copy, too."
Selena was a little breathless by the time we'd negotiated our way to the second floor of Nigel's place, but she was a determined little woman. She couldn't operate the fax, and neither could I, but between us we figured it out. In a few minutes I had the writing sample I needed, and we went back for another wee goldie.
"I know this next question is the worst yet," I said. "I'm going to ask it anyway. Was there an indication, anything you remember, about mental illness in your family?"
Nigel looked rather bothered.
"I'm asking because the diaries make reference—well, I'll read it to you. There are two: madness does not always pass from generation to generation, is the first. The second isI must believe that madness is not an inevitable result of procreation of those who are stricken by it. Perhaps I should say there are three references. The last written words say something to the effect that she fears the cold, dark cloud descending, and she may not survive it this time. I really don't think she wasn't referring to the weather, but rather to acute depression. Could I be right about this?"
"You don't have to answer that, hen," Nigel said.
"I don't mind," she said. "My father told me that his mother, my grandmother, suffered greatly from depression, and his sister did as well. He told me once that he feared his sister might not be in heaven because she had taken her own life, that it wasn't a fall, you understand. There was no way to bring the body back. The family she had been staying with had seen to it that she was buried properly, a Christian burial. But there was that reference that you've seen, about not worrying on that score. I think my father always wondered if they knew she had jumped, and not fallen. You go to the Bad Fire for that.
"He said many times when I was young that he was going to look for her grave, but he never did. He would have to have gone right away, wouldn't he? A few years after that, and there was a war, and then another. He lost two sons in the Second, and never really recovered. Perhaps he suffered from the curse of depression, too. I used to worry about that. Happily it seems to have passed me by. If I were going to lose my mind I would have when Mick and my brothers died."
"You're the sanest person I know," Nigel said. "Although perhaps a wee bit plootered by now."
"You're a bad boy, Nigel, for making mention of it. Nigel's from Glasgow," she said. "He has these quaint expressions."