"All right. I can see why Howard thought he had to kill Ernie. But what about Alice? Why Alice, Homer, why, why?"
"Because she knew, that's why. In the first place she knew the same 'secret' about Elizabeth Goss that he did, because she was an old and intimate friend of Elizabeth's. But she was too sane and sensible to believe it. And then Howard confided in her, too, this same secret, not knowing she already knew it. He told her, I suppose, because she was the closest thing to a fellow Thoreau scholar he had to talk to, and because as chief librarian she was guardian of all his precious sources. And of course Alice must have been appalled. Here was this good man dedicating his life to something she regarded as a false notion. Then along came Ernie with his cuckoo letters, and she must have seen as clearly as Howard did that they were a threat to Howard's theories. So then when Ernie was killed she couldn't help suspecting. I think she must have come right out with it, and accused Howard of it. That would have been like her."
"Yes, and I know when it was. It was that day in church, way last spring. That was the first time I saw her looking frightened. Howard was an usher that morning and I'll bet when he met her in the vestry she looked straight at him with that honest clear look of hers and said, 'Howard, it was you, wasn't it?'"
"Yes, and then he threatened her, no doubt, and made her swear to shut up about his book, or she'd get it, too. So she did shut up, until it became more and more clear to her that Charley Goss was going to lose his life if she didn't speak up. Poor old Howard. By the time he was so entangled in his own web that he had to kill Alice Herpitude, he was no longer defending his beloved manuscript, he was saving his own skin. Of course when Elizabeth Goss went out of her mind he must already have begun to lose hope that his theories about her glorious ancestry would ever hold water. And it must have become more and more evident to him that this very document would itself incriminate him by attaching to his name his own true and powerful motive for murder. He had killed for nothing, after all, and now he had to go on killing in order to keep from being suspected. Crime, they say, never pays. 'I am in so far in blood that sin will pluck on sin.' "
"Tell me one more thing," said Mary. "What in heaven's name was he doing on the island in the middle of the storm? Oh, I suppose he was afraid the water might rise and reach his manuscript and ruin it."
"I suppose so. And of course it was still very dear to him. I know I'd rush into a burning house to save the stuff I've written on Henry Thoreau. Some of it, anyhow. I'm going to have to throw out a lot of it, but the new stuff is pretty good..."
"You know, Homer, if I hadn't stumbled all over Howard's manuscript like a great clumsy ass he might still have gotten away with it. No wonder he thought he had to..."
"Oh, Mary—"
Rowena Goss was driving past again, on her way out along the winding drives of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Good heavens, Homer was still necking. It was disgraceful, right there in broad daylight and in a cemetery, too, right beside the grave of Louisa May Alcott. Rowena's beloved, peeking through the chinks in his bushel basket, agreed with her completely.
"I'd better get home and mind the children so Grandmaw can take a rest," said Mary.
In Monument Square the autumn color of the ravaged trees was at its height. The elm leaves that had not been torn off by the storm were a shopworn yellow, but the abandoned maples raged in red and orange fire. There was someone standing on the sidewalk in front of the Town Hall, looking around wildly.
"It's the D.A.," said Homer. "For Christ's sake, he must have seen a cow." He slowed down and waved his arm and shouted.
The District Attorney ran up to them, his face pale and perspiring. "Homer," he said, "help me. I can't find my car. Where's my car?"
"It's all right," said Homer. "There it is right over there." He got out and helped the D.A. into it, and slammed the door. "How's the campaign coming?"
The District Attorney mopped his face with his handkerchief and wound the window down two inches. "Fine, just fine. Didn't you hear? My opponent just got caught in a raid on a private club across the state line in the company of his gorgeous blonde secretary. I'm sitting pretty."
"Say, that's great. His secretary, well, well. You watch out for that Miss O'Toole of yours, now. These secretaries are murder."
*61*
Romans, countrymen and lovers by the banks of the Musketaquid... —Henry Thoreau
Mrs. Bewley was walking down Walden Street, swinging her pocketbook on its long chain strap. It was a big black patent-leather pocketbook that had once belonged to Isabelle Flower. She marched up to the door of the police station and walked in. Jimmy Flower was tapping away at a typewriter in the outer office.
"HELLO, THERE, MRS. BEWLEY," he bellowed, "COME IN AND SIT DOWN. WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?"
Mrs. Bewley pushed open the swinging gate and sat down beside the desk. She put her pocketbook in her lap. Jimmy recognized it instantly. Only Isabelle would buy a fright like that. It had been missing since Town Meeting. "WHY, MRS. BEWLEY, WHAT A GOOD-LOOKING BAG. SAY, THAT'S JUST THE KIND MY WIFE LIKES, THAT SHINY BLACK STUFF THERE."
"REALLY?" screamed Mrs. Bewley, highly flattered. She picked up the pocketbook by its long chain and thumped it on the desk. "TAKE IT, TAKE IT."
"OH, I COULDN'T."
But Mrs. Bewley's generosity soon overwhelmed Jimmy's modest scruples, and he gave her a paper bag to empty the contents into and put the pocketbook in the desk drawer. "NOW, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU, MRS. BEWLEY?"
It was Priscilla, that was the trouble. Her hen Priscilla was missing. "MY BEST LAYER, AND SUCH A DEAR GIRL. NAUGHTY? I HOPE TO TELL YOU. BUT NICE. NAUGHTY BUT NICE. THAT'S PRISCILLA."
"SURELY SHE'S JUST SITTING ON SOME EGGS OUTDOORS, MRS. BEWLEY? NO? WELL, EXCUSE ME A MINUTE. I'LL HAVE SERGEANT SHRUBSOLE FILL OUT A CARD."
Jimmy got up and went out. Mrs. Bewley smiled seraphically and sat quietly in her chair, looking vaguely around the room. Her gaze fell dreamily on something that was lying on Jimmy Flower's desk. Why, it was that Jesus-message with the pretty flower. Mrs. Bewley remembered it very well. She had known it was meant for her the first time she had seen it, there in that box in Mrs. Goss's bedroom. So she had tucked it in her apron pocket. But then (she was so generous) she had left it as a present for Mr. Goss in exchange for that sweet letter-opener on his desk. And then the next time she had dusted his room she had seen the message again, right there in his desk drawer, and she just hadn't been able to resist it. So pretty! (Mrs. Bewley loved flowers.)
Sergeant Shrubsole came in then and patiently filled out a file-card on Priscilla. He wrote down a description of her appearance and her habits, and at Mrs. Bewley's shrill insistence, a transcription of her very distinctive soprano cluck. Then Mrs. Bewley went home, where she found Priscilla roosting naughtily on the rubber plant. She shrieked with relief and proceeded to give Priscilla a severe screaming-to and a whole bowlful of crushed graham crackers. Then she took her in her lap and scratched Priscilla's pinfeathers affectionately. Naughty she was, Priscilla, but nice. Back at the police station, Jimmy Flower was entertaining Charley and Philip Goss. Released from captivity, Charley was as amiable as ever and he meant to show that he harbored no hard feelings. It was apparent that the brothers were enjoying one another's company. The revelation of the truth had freed them of a burden of mutual suspicion that had been heavier, even, than the fear of death. But Jimmy looked at them and wondered if things could ever be altogether the same. After all, Charley had jumped to take the blame, and Philip had not. But perhaps Philip's reluctance could be explained away—he must have known from his legal experience that lies on his part wouldn't help a guilty Charley, and that only a good trial lawyer could be of any use at all.