“Her clothing?”
“You said her clothes were heaped—”
“Oh. Yes, on the floor. No. No blood.”
“She’d removed her clothing before she tried to slash her wrists, is that correct?”
“Yes. She must have. There was no blood on her clothing.”
“What did you do with the clothing?”
“Put it in the laundry, I’m sure.”
“By the laundry—”
“The hamper, I suppose. I’m not certain. Everything was so confused, so—”
“I’m sure it was. And your daughter was out of the house, was she, before any of the servants returned?”
“Yes, of course. The police officer arrived shortly before midnight. None of the help returned until the next day.”
“That would have been the twenty-eighth.”
“Yes.”
“By which time Sarah was already at Good Samaritan.”
“Yes. In the Dingley Wing.”
I hesitated a moment.
Then I said, “Mrs. Whittaker, Sarah insists that none of this happened. She did not attempt suicide, she was not examined by Dr. Helsinger, he simply arrived at the house with a signed certificate and—”
“You mustn’t fall into Sarah’s trap,” Mrs. Whittaker said.
“What trap is that, ma’am?”
“You mustn’t believe that she knows what happened that night. Because she doesn’t, you see.”
“She seems to recall everything about it.”
“Everything she chooses to recall. I know the trap well, Mr. Hope, I almost fell into it myself. That night, after she’d taken the Valium, as she was beginning to drowse, she began rambling — talking not to me, actually, but almost to herself. And listening to her, I started believing that she actually had gone searching for someone that morning and afternoon, someone she believed was her father’s lover. Listening to her, I became almost convinced. I fell into the same trap that has now ensnared you. Because, you see, Mr. Hope, Sarah was quite mad that night. She’s much better now, I see considerable improvement, and I wish with all my heart that she can soon come home from that dreadful place. But not until she’s entirely well — and I’m not yet sure that she is. You must be very careful, Mr. Hope. Sarah can be most persuasive. I wouldn’t want you to effect her release, only to have her make another attempt at harming herself.”
“I assure you I won’t make any precipitous moves.”
“I would appreciate that enormously.”
We fell silent. There was a question I wanted to ask, a question that needed to be asked, and yet I was hesitant. Mrs. Whittaker’s pain seemed as genuine as the pain she’d described on Sarah’s face that night so long ago, and I had no desire to add to it. But the question had to be asked. I wished — but only for an instant — that I was Detective Morris Bloom, to whom such questions came routinely and easily.
“Mrs. Whittaker,” I said, “you told me a moment ago that you were almost convinced by what Sarah was telling you that night. When she was beginning to drowse. When the Valium was taking hold.”
“Yes?”
“That she had gone searching for your husband’s supposed lover—”
“Yes, that’s what she said.”
“Mrs. Whittaker, did you have any reason to believe — do you now have any reason to believe — that Sarah’s allegation might possibly be true?”
“That Horace had a lover, do you mean?”
“Yes. Forgive me. I need to know.”
“Horace was a faithful, decent, loving man.”
“You never had reason to suspect—”
“Never. I trusted him completely.”
“Then... although Sarah told you she’d been out searching for this other woman—”
“Yes?”
“You now believe this to be part of her delusion as well, is that correct? She did not actually get into her car—”
“She got into her car. I believe she got into her car.”
“You do?”
“Yes. And went searching for another woman.”
I looked at her, puzzled.
“And found this other woman,” Mrs. Whittaker said. “Found her father’s lover.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You just told me—”
“Found herself, Mr. Hope. Recognized herself as the phantom lover she had created. And could not bear the horror of it. And tried to kill herself.”
I nodded.
“The car she was driving that day,” I said. “Where—”
“I sold it,” Mrs. Whittaker said.
“When?”
“Immediately.”
“Why?”
“I could not bear to look at it again. It was a constant reminder of what Sarah used to be and what she had become. Her father gave her that car on her twenty-first birthday, you see. A happier time for all of us.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“A Ferrari — a Boxer 512. It cost eighty-five thousand dollars.” She paused. “A generous man, my Horace. The car he drove was a battered 1978 Chevrolet. I kept asking him to get a better car, a more expensive car. But no, that’s what he drove. And he drove it himself. Toward the end there, when he knew his heart wasn’t quite right — we’d had several scares before, you know — I suggested that he really should hire a chauffeur. He said he’d feel silly, someone driving him around town.”
“Would you remember who bought the car from you? Sarah’s car. The Ferrari.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. I’m sure I have the bill of sale here someplace, if you’d like to see it. But, frankly, I don’t see what Sarah’s car has to do with your attempt to have her released from Knott’s. Mr. Hope, I caution you again. Tread carefully. If you’re successful in getting her out of that place, and if she later harms herself, you will have made an enemy for life. And I can be a most formidable foe.”
She lifted her teacup.
“The tea seems to have grown cold,” she said.
I took this as a signal that our interview was over.
“Thank you for your time,” I said. “I appreciate all You’ve told me.”
“It was my pleasure,” she said. “Patricia will show you out.”
I left her sitting by the bay, looking out over the water. I went in through the French doors. Patricia was just coming down into the living room from the staircase that led upstairs.
“Were you leaving, Mr. Hope?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful.”
We were crossing the room together toward the front door. She opened the door for me and stood aside. Just before I stepped out into the sunlight again, I said, “Patricia — was something wrong with the door?”
“Sir?” she said.
“The French door. Something seemed to be troubling you...”
“The French... oh. No, no, sir, nothing wrong with it at all. I thought I saw a smudge on one of the panes, I was simply moving the door to get a bit more light on it. The pane. Sometimes sunlight can show dirt if you angle the glass a bit.”
“I see,” I said. “And was there a smudge? Was there any dirt, Patricia?”
“It was spotless, sir,” she said.
My partner Frank is an expert on women. He is also an expert on marriage and divorce. Frank tells me that many married men — himself excluded, of course — fantasize about other women while they are making love to their wives. Frank says he has known some men to fantasize about three, four, sometimes even five other women during the ten minutes they are making love to their wives. He got on this conversation because I asked him to look over the settlement agreement Susan and I had signed. I asked him to do that as soon as I got back from the Whittaker house that afternoon.