She could climb in and go to sleep—or she could take the flashlight Julia had thoughtfully provided in case of a power failure and take a look around. She picked up the flashlight and sat down to wait until one o'clock. It was what she had intended ever since Leandra had led her up the stairs.
She almost fell asleep again, but kept herself awake by wondering what she was looking for. Of course Howard could have seen Leandra take something, yet Faith suspected this was one of those in-house secrets. All the residents probably knew about it and simply dropped in on Leandra for a cup of tea and to retrieve whatever knickknack they were missing. The big thing would be to keep it from the Auxiliary. It seemed even Hub- bard House had its internecine feuds just like the parish.
The grandfather clock outside Dr. Hubbard's office struck a single chime and Faith turned off all the lights in her room and crept out the door and down the stairs. Everyone was sure to be asleep by now. The moon was so bright, she didn't need the flashlight and slipped it into the pocket of the bathrobe.
If she remembered correctly from Sylvia's tour, the family apartments and residents' rooms were at the rear. She had already decided that she should start by having a closer look at the offices of both Dr. Hubbards.
Donald's was locked. If she was going to stay in this line of work, she'd have to get some rudimentary instruction in lock picking. You were supposed to be able to open anything with a credit card these days, but it might not be true for older locks. The problem was finding someone to show her how. Aleford adult education tended to run to courses in patchwork and chair caning.
She crossed back to the other side of the foyer. There didn't seem to be any light coming from under Dr. Hubbard's door, but just in case he was in there catching up on his paperwork, she'd have to have a plausible excuse for barging in. Sleepwalking? A bit farfetched. And she knew where the kitchen was, so she couldn't say she was feeling peckish. It would have to be the old headache routine. Desperately seeking aspirin.
Dr. Hubbard was not at his desk or anywhere else in his office. It too was lit by the moonlightstreaming through the long windows. She closed the door, stepped in, and turned on the flashlight. A glance at his desktop offered nothing more interesting than a stack of thank-you letters to contributors at the Holly Ball. The drawers were similarly unrevealing, except for the fact that the good doctor had a sweet tooth and keep a cache of Good & Plentys in the lower left side.
There were several wooden file cabinets against one wall, and Faith turned her attention to those. Two were locked and a third was filled with old medical journals. The fourth contained folders, and a glance at the first few indicated that they were resident records. If the cabinet wasn't locked, they couldn't be confidential, Faith reasoned with more than a twinge of guilt. She picked one at random. It belonged to a couple named Ross and contained nothing except a sheet with names to call in an emergency, the length of time they had been at Hubbard House, and a fee schedule. The others all seemed to be the same. The rest of the file drawers were empty. She was beginning to consider going back to bed.
Dr. Hubbard's diplomas hung in a line on one wall. There was a portrait—of his wife, Faith presumed—over the fireplace, and next to the door was a large photo of Hubbard House. She went over to take a closer look. A much younger Dr. Hubbard stood on the porch in front of the main entrance with his arm around his wife. She was tiny and looked quite frail. Several children were sitting on the top stair with urns of geraniums flanking them. Everyone was smiling. She took it down and brought it over to the window for a closer look. It was easy to recognize Muriel. She had the same hairdo and seemed not to have changed at all. It was harder to recognize Donald. He was pudgy and must have moved slightly when the camera clicked, so his face was out of focus. There was a third child, a boy, between them. She turned the picture over. Someone had inscribed it in a neat copperplate: "Hubbard House Opening Day May 15, 1964," then underneath, "Standing: Dr. Roland Whittemore Hubbard and wife, Mary Howell Hubbard. Sitting, L to R: Muriel Elizabeth Hubbard, age fifteen, James Howell Hubbard, age five, Donald Whittemore Hubbard, age eleven.”
James Howell Hubbard? Another child? Why hadn't anyone mentioned him, Faith wondered. Where was he now? He'd be around thirty, around her age in fact. Surely if he was a member of the family in good standing, he would either have been at the Holly Ball or have been mentioned. My beloved son. Unless he wasn't so beloved or unless he was dead. But if he had died, someone along the line would have mentioned it. Aleford was big on tragedy. Charley would have told her that first day in the Minuteman Café, speaking in hushed tones and talking about what a damned shame it was. No, Faith was convinced. James was someone people didn't talk about, and finding out why was the first solid lead she'd had since meeting Eddie Russell. Eddie Russell, who was about the same age as James.
She carefully put the picture back on the wall and looked around to see if there were any more revealing family portraits. She opened the one closet in the room. It was filled with folding chairs, stacks of books, and several musty old jackets and coats. Things seemed to have been shoved in with little regard for order. She was beginning to realize that much of New England was like that—tidy on the surface, but when the closet door opened and the contents came tumbling out, watch out.
But Faith was happy with her discovery. It almost made having to spend the night worthwhile. She turned out the flashlight and prepared to go to her well-deserved rest. As she opened the door, she heard a sound from the direction of the stairs and darted back. Someone else was up.
She ducked into the closet in case it was Dr. Hubbard and waited. Nothing happened. After what she judged to have been ten minutes—she'd left her watch next to the sink upstairs—she tried again. No noises this time, and she crept quietly to the bottom of the stairs. She had her headache story in case she ran into anybody there. It would have been harder to explain why she was coming out of Dr. Hubbard's office.
She heard more noises at the end of the hall upstairs and slipped into her room in relief. It looked like a busy night at Hubbard House. She took off her robe and decided not to turn on the light in case it shone beneath the door. She didn't want any insomniac visitors asking her why she was up too. She crawled up the stepladder, slid beneath the icy sheets, and reached over to the other side of the bed to pull the covers closer.
But instead of the quilted spread, her hand touched flesh. Wet flesh.
She screamed and turned on the light. Her hand was covered with blood, and lying beside her where he had no doubt dreamed of being was Eddie Russell.
Only Eddie wasn't going to get any action tonight or ever.
Eddie was dead.
Six
Faith screamed again. Eddie's wrists were bound to the bedpost behind his head with a black silk cord, and his ankles were tied together with more of the same. In between, his body was bare except for two knives sticking straight up one from his throat and one from his chest. The brass trim on the handles picked up the light and glittered menacingly. Blood had seeped out around each wound and dripped onto the spread.
She jumped out of the bed, nearly breaking an ankle in the precipitous descent, and raced for the door. She was down the stairs before she paused to think what to do first.