Coventry bounded up the stairs. I had lightened his spirits. When he reached the landing, he turned around and propped a hand on a marble upright. His eyes were glowing. "Did she tell you about her background?"
"She said a lot about her father."
Coventry restrained himself to keep pace with me. He wanted to take the stairs three at a time. "He had a tremendous influence on her,tremendous."
On the second floor, he snapped on the fluorescent lights over a counter in front of two cluttered desks and rows of filing cabinets. “I confess I still haven't turned up Mrs. Rutledge's photographs, but I promise you, they will be found." He went behind the counter. "What properties were you interested in?"
"The first one is a tract of land near the woods on New Providence Road."
Coventry disappeared into the rows of cabinets and came back with a thick file.
In 1883, Sylvan Dunstan had purchased from Joseph Johnson tenthousand acresthat included Johnson's Woods. Howard Dunstan had inherited the property, and in 1936 Carpenter Hatch bought it from his daughters for a surprising sum. I thought that my aunts must have invested the money and lived on it ever since.
"What else?"
"Have you heard the term 'the Shunned House'? Someone mentioned it today, and I can't figure out why it sounds familiar."
“Isn't that from H. P. Lovecraft? I read a lot of Lovecraft when I was a kid. I think he based the Shunned House on a building in Providence. He spent most of his life there."
Lovecraft was the writer of whom Edward Rinehart's stories had reminded me.
"Weren't you interested in some other properties?"
"Yes," I said. "One was a little street in College Park. I can't remember the name, damn it."
“It'll come to you in a second. Fascinating area,College Park. Do you know it was the site of the old Hatch Brothers Fairground?"
"The Hatches owned the fairground?"
Hugh Coventry's smile contained more than a hint of complicity. "You'd never guess, would you? Mr. Hatch doesn't want you to, either. He made it clear that we were to underplay his family's earlier endeavors, but the fairground was a money-spinner for years. That was how they were able to buy up the area that came to be known as Hatchtown."
"What happened?" I asked. "Did they sell it to Albertus?"
"An unbelievable bit of luck. The Hatches moved up in the world, and by the 1890s they were just leasing the land. It was pretty seedy. Strippers and freak shows, bootleggers and prostitutes thrown in. The houses for the fairground workers were put up higgledy-piggledy. There were a couple of shady doctors, too. A Dr. Hightower peddled drugs to his patients, and the other one, Dr. Drears, was, I'm afraid, the archetypal backstreet abortionist. Infected or killed half of his patients."
"So Hatch wants to sweep this part of the family history under the rug?"
“I can't blame him," Coventry said. "After all, they just owned the property. By the mid-twenties, it was nothing but vacant land and empty houses. Then the Albertus people came along and bought the whole shebang. Before long, enrollment went up, merchants moved in, and the area took off. What street did you want to check?"
"Buxton Place," I said, naming Edward Rinehart's old address as if I had remembered it from the start.
Coventry disappeared into the files again and returned with a hound journal about two feet high and a yard wide. "This is a curiosity." He thumped the journal onto the counter, turned it sideways so that we could both see the pages, and opened it. A hand-drawn map of four or five streets divided along property lines took up the right-hand page. The page on the left recorded the sales of the buildings and lots, with a numbered key referring to the map. "What a gorgeous artifact," Coventry said. "You hate to replace a thing like this with entries in a data base."
I asked him how to find Buxton Place in the gorgeous artifact.
"With luck, there'll be an index." He turned to the last pages. "Oh, these people were great. So, Buxton Place ..." He ran his finger down a handwritten column and flipped back through the pages. "Here we are." Coventry squinted down and tapped his finger on a tiny lane. “It's a cul-de-sac. What was on it? What used to be stables, mostly. And two houses, probably for the grooms and stable hands. Let's see the ownership records for lots 60448 and 60449."
We went down the list of numbers on the facing page.
"Here, 60448," Coventry said. "Owned originally by Hatch Brothers Fairground, as of 1882, anyhow. What do you know?" He started to laugh. “In 1902, sold to Prosper Hightower, M.D."
I looked at him.
"Hightower. The drug doctor, remember? Then what? Acquired byEdgerton Township, 1922. Sold to Charles Dexter Ward, 1950. So what about its next-door neighbor?Lot60449. Hatch Brothers Fairground. Purchased in 1903, Coleman Drears, M.D. Incredible! Here is our abortionist. They lived next door to each other! And I bet I know why—Buxton Place was more a back alley than a street. No neighbors watching their patients come and go. What happened when Drears took off? Acquired by the township in 1924, sold to a Wilbur Whately in 1950." His head jerked up. "Weren't we just talking about H. P. Lovecraft?"
I nodded.
Coventry giggled and shook his head in a transport of disbelief.
"What?"
"Lovecraft wrote a novel calledThe Case of Charles Dexter Ward, and Wilbur Whately is a character in 'The Dunwich Horror,' one of his stories. I am truly happy. I'll have to mark the day on my calendar. Never before have I come across a literary allusion in City Hall."
"Would you mind looking up one more?"
"After that? Of course not."
I gave him the address of the rooming house on Chester Street. In less than a minute Coventry was back at the counter with a manila folder. "How far do you want to go with this one?"
"Who's the present owner?"
Coventry took the last page from the folder and slid it toward me. Helen Janette's building had been purchased by a company on Lanyard Street in August of 1967. "T.K. Holding Company. Does that tell you what you want to know?"
“It tells me something I should have known," I said.
Toby had bought the rooming house one month before Hazel Jansky was due for release. By present standards, $27,000 wasn't much of a down payment, but after twenty-six years it still represented an impressive gift.
The great door closed behind me. I went down the long steps and looked across Grace Street to the square. An old woman was scattering bread crumbs before lots of bustling pigeons. The golden-haired derelict I had seen before rocked back and forth over his guitar. Beyond the fountain, a graceful male figure was leaning against the trunk of a maple. The arm dropping in a straight line between the tree and the angle of his body ended in the rectangular outline of a briefcase.
The breath stopped in my throat. The man across the square was Robert. Although the shadow of the maple hid his face, I knew he was smiling at me. Robert pushed himself off the tree and walked into the sunlight, the case swinging lightly at his side.
•72
•I trotted down the steps, across the sidewalk, and into the street, only barely registering the traffic. Horns blared, brakes squealed. I got to the median unscathed and dodged through the southbound traffic, then jumped onto the pavement and ran up the long path to the fountain. Pigeons feuding over bread crumbs scattered at my footsteps. The golden-haired trump on the other side of the path hunched over his guitar. I looked past an elderly couple at the opposite end of the square and glimpsed Robert's head and shoulders in a group waiting for the light to change at the end of the next block.