Instruments of Night (19 page)

Graves saw Portman drag the rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and mop the sweat from his brow. There was doubt in his face, more questions in his eyes. Did he have the sense that Slovak had known all his life, that he was flailing helplessly in a web of lies?

It was a line Portman had included verbatim in his notes, and according to those same notes, it had been the last thing he’d said to Allison Davies before leaving her alone to ponder it. Because of that, Graves imagined the old detective returning the handkerchief to his pocket after saying it, closing his notebook, and turning back toward the house, lumbering like a great beast down the wooden pier, a vision of that moment that came to him so full and real and richly detailed, for an instant he felt not the slightest doubt that it had happened just that way.

B
ut that had not been the end of Detective Portman’s first day at Riverwood. For after leaving Allison on the pier, he’d returned to the main house, where he’d talked to Pearl O’Brian, the downstairs maid, Flossie Tighe, the cook, and Jesse Walters, the estate’s general handyman.

Their testimony confirmed what others present on the Davies estate on August 27 had already stated to Sheriff Gerard two days before. Flossie Tighe had seen Frank Saunders in the flower garden and Allison Davies in the dining room. Pearl O’Brian confirmed that Edward Davies and Mona Flagg had lounged on the side porch until 8:20, when Mona had returned to her room upstairs. She’d come back downstairs approximately ten minutes later, now wearing a red polka-dot dress, as Pearl described it, and carrying a “frilly” white umbrella. Jesse Walters told Portman that Mrs. Davies and Andre Grossman had spent the day in the library, that Allison Davies had “popped up” here and there all through the day, and that Mr.
Davies had spent most of the morning in his upstairs office. He’d called for his car at 11:30, Walters said, then driven to Britanny Falls.

Portman had completed his interviews at 4:35 in the afternoon. By that time he’d spent the entire day at Riverwood. Graves imagined him tired and frustrated, swabbing his neck and forehead as he stared out over the silent grounds. Everyone at Riverwood had no doubt expected him to leave, perhaps return the next morning. But as his final notes made clear, Portman hadn’t done that. He remained at the estate, lumbering slowly across the lush green lawn like an old bull, head down, wet with sweat, yet coming on relentlessly, a force driven by an even greater force, as Graves imagined it, the need to know what really happened.

It was Edward Davies and Mona whom Portman had stayed to question that afternoon. The pair had driven to Kingston that morning and did not return until past six in the evening. Slouched on the steps of the’ mansion, Portman had no doubt watched as the expensive car came to a halt before him, Edward at the wheel, Mona snuggled up beside him.

It was not hard for Graves to reconstruct the dialogue that followed.

Portman had followed Edward and Mona to the library, where Mrs. Davies’ still-unfinished portrait rested on an
easel by the window. Had Portman gazed at the portrait as Slovak would have? Leeching character from posture, clothing, the shape of the mouth, the glint of the eye? If he had, he’d left no record of his impressions, but had gone directly to the interrogation.

In reply, Edward told Portman exactly what he’d told Sheriff Gerard in an earlier interview. He’d risen early, had breakfast with Mona, sat for a time on the side porch, then accompanied Mona into the foyer. After she’d gone upstairs, Mr. Davies had approached him. They’d had a discussion about “family matters.” Then Mona had come down a few minutes later and they’d gone downstairs, then through the corridor to the boathouse. They’d sailed the entire day, Edward said, even going so far as to mention other boats they’d met on the river at various points during that long afternoon. The pair had returned at around seven to find everything completely normal, Mrs. Davies clipping roses in the flower garden, Allison just finishing an early evening swim, Mr. Davies watching his daughter from the edge of the pier, helping her from the water when she swam alongside.

Portman’s questions had been more or less routine as long as he’d talked to Edward. But when he turned to Mona, their nature changed slightly, as Graves noticed, concentrating on Mona herself rather than on anything she might have witnessed at Riverwood or known about Faye.

From there, Portman had gone on to question Mona Flagg about her activities on August 27. Her answers added little to what Edward had already said. She’d joined Edward for breakfast at 7:30
A.M
., she said. After breakfast, she’d later returned briefly to her room, dressed for a sail, and headed for the basement, arriving there at approximately 8:25. From there she’d walked through the connecting corridor to the boathouse, where Edward was preparing the boat. As to the sailing trip that had immediately followed, Mona gave few additional details, save that they’d picnicked on the bank of the river, and that on the return trip they’d helped a fisherman untangle his line.

Graves heard Portman’s voice as abrupt and almost combative, the kind of response Slovak made when he wanted to make the point that he was not a fool. But would Portman actually have replied in that way? Graves considered it a moment, then decided that he would have. For it had been a long day, and he’d uncovered little useful information. Even more significant, Graves felt sure that Portman had begun to suspect that his way was being blocked, though he did not yet know why.

Having reached another dead end, Portman shifted to a different area of inquiry. Not what either Edward or Mona might or might not have known about Faye’s life, but their physical whereabouts when it had abruptly ended.

Portman worked to eke out a few more details, once again tracing the route the two had taken upriver, this time almost inch by inch. But he’d finally given up and shifted his focus to the trip back to Riverwood.

Once back at Riverwood, Edward and Mona had each returned to their respective rooms, where they’d remained until dinner. At the end of the meal, the whole family, along with Andre Grossman, had gathered on the side porch, as Edward said, “to take in the night air.”

Had Portman ever taken the time to imagine that particular evening at Riverwood, Graves wondered. Imagine it, as Graves himself now did. Edward’s small boat drifting up the channel. Mona seated at its starboard end, the frilly umbrella she’d earlier used to block the morning sun now folded in and tucked beneath her seat. The whole family later gathered around a long dining table, then assembled on the porch to enjoy the scented warmth of a summer
night. In his mind Graves saw Warren Davies light a cigar. Its tip glowed brightly in the darkness. As for the others, he imagined Edward and Mona in the swing, Mrs. Davies on the wicker settee, Andre Grossman in the rocker beside her, Allison curled up in a chair a few feet away, still lost in her book. From the evidence he’d so far reviewed, Graves could only assume that none of them had yet learned that Faye had not returned home that night, nor had any idea that at that very moment her body lay sprawled across the ever-darkening floor of Manitou Cave. Instead, they’d felt only the peace of the night, heard only the lulling waters of the nearby channel. Perhaps Mr. Davies had commented upon his earlier meeting with the local mayor. Or perhaps the conversation had moved toward art, Grossman speaking learnedly of the great portraitists he admired.

Regardless of the nature of their conversation, it had been abruptly broken off, as Portman’s final questions made clear.

Suffered so much.
Portman had written those very words in his notebook, then underlined them, as if he were drawn to suffering the way Slovak was, saw it etched in every face, its ravages unavoidable and inherent, “the Unmoved Mover in the life of man.”

If that were so, Graves thought, then Portman would have sought out Greta Klein immediately.

He turned the page in the detective’s notebook, and saw that he had done precisely that.

In the end, however, the meeting had come to very little. Portman had found Greta in her tiny upstairs room, questioned her extensively. But the interview had proven no more useful than any of the others Portman had conducted that day. In general, Greta had confirmed what Portman had already been told by others on the estate. Certainly she had not moved Portman’s investigation further in any significant way.

Greta had added a single, curious detail, however, one that must have edged Portman’s inquiry toward a new direction, sent new questions whirling through the old detective’s mind:
Why, on the day of her death, had Faye Harrison secretly entered the basement of the Davies house? What, in that gray light, had she been looking for?

As Portman’s notes made clear, Greta Klein had not been able to answer any of these questions fifty years before. Graves wondered if she might be able to do so now.

I
t was the same middle-aged woman he’d so often encountered before who directed Graves to Greta Klein’s room.

“It’s time you learned my name,” the woman said as Graves approached her. “Mrs. Alice Powers.” She smiled. “I hear you’re working on a history of Riverwood.”

“Well, not exactly a history,” Graves said. “A murder.”

Her features stiffened. “You mean of that girl? Back in the forties?”

Graves nodded. “Greta Klein was here then.”

Mrs. Powers’ features remained taut. “And Mr. Saunders. They sometimes sit together and talk about the old days.”