Sick of Shadows (24 page)

They went into the dining room, where Amanda and Captain Grandfather, already seated, were talking together in low voices. Elizabeth made her way to the other end of the table, where Charles and Dr. Shepherd were sitting. Geoffrey started to follow her, but then he seemed to remember something and hurried back out into the hall.

A moment later he was back, waving a blue and white envelope. “I nearly forgot, Elizabeth! This Mail-gram came for you today. Perhaps an offer from one of those supermarket newspapers to tell your side of the crime!”

He handed her the envelope, and everyone stopped and looked at her while she opened it. Elizabeth read
the message twice, and slid the paper back into the envelope.

“From Margaret?” asked Amanda.

“No,” murmured Elizabeth. “From Bill.”

“No doubt he is informing you of when they will be down for the funeral.”

“Well … they’re not sure yet.”

Alban appeared at the door. “At dinner already! Oh dear. Shall I go away?”

The question was addressed to Amanda, but Captain Grandfather answered it. “You might as well stay, Alban. I just had a call from Wesley Rountree and he’s coming back out to talk to us this evening. Tommy Simmons has asked for a conference with us, and Wes will be sitting in on that as well.”

“Stay to dinner?” asked Dr. Chandler.

“If it’s no trouble. Shall I call Mother and let her know about the meeting?” He sauntered toward Elizabeth’s end of the table.

“Yes, please, Alban,” said Amanda. “I spoke to her about the Simmons meeting earlier today, but she may need to be reminded. She said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“No. She’s hardly been out of her room today.”

“Perhaps I’d better step across and see her,” said Captain Grandfather quietly.

Amanda’s jaw tightened. “Of course, if anyone ought to be taking this in seclusion, it is I. None of you can possibly understand the strain that all this has been …”

“Can’t we have just this one meal in peace?” snapped her husband.

“Robert, I
will
express my grief! And my concern that my daughter’s murderer be—”

“Do you want him caught?” thundered Captain Grandfather. “Damned if
I
do!”

The bickering leveled out to a series of strident tones, which washed over Michael Satisky, leaving no meaning to soak into his consciousness. He was trying to think about Eileen. There should be grief somewhere in his mind. He was sure that if he could burrow through the tension of the enforced stay as a houseguest, and his terror that the police might obligingly arrest “everybody’s
favorite suspect,” he would feel some sorrow for Eileen herself. Each time he tried to find her in his mind, he encountered a wave of relief that he was freed from an awkward relationship. The temptation of so much money had finally been removed, so that he could go back to being the sincere and unworldly person he was sure he was. Poverty dragons were much easier to slay than the monsters Eileen had presented him with. He was glad to be released from the commitment, but it bothered him that he could not grieve for the sad little princess he had loved. He was sure that beneath his personal anxieties he was devastated. Of course he was! A person of his perception and sensitivity might take years to get over such a tragedy. A slim book of verse perhaps … “The Lady of the Lake and Other Poems” by Michael Satisky … His thoughts drifted lazily toward similes and imagery.

“Hello, Elizabeth, I haven’t seen much of you lately,” said Alban, taking a seat beside her.

“Well, Carlsen and I went to church yesterday, and then we visited a museum.” She was surprised to feel herself blushing.

“I see,” said Alban quietly. Without another word he began to eat his salad.

Elizabeth looked down at her plate and tried to think of something to say. Her mind was not blank—that was just the problem. It abounded with possible topics of conversation. “Are you jealous that I was out with Dr. Shepherd?” “When is the inquest?” “Do we have to attend?” “Do you think one of us is a murderer?” Since none of those subjects seemed likely to produce peaceful dinner conversation, she was trying to clear her mind of them and find something more neutral to talk about. She was worried about Geoffrey. Despite his breezy repartee in the hall, he had been unusually quiet since they sat down to dinner. This might be a sign of tactfulness—perhaps he had foresworn a natural urge to torment certain of his table partners—but she thought the odds were against Geoffrey doing anything from altruistic motives. At the moment, his face was a courteous
blank; she wished she knew the state of the mind behind it.

Charles looked up suddenly from his squash and rice casserole and remarked to no one in particular, “Actually, I find it comforting to think of death as the great benefactor of mankind. Death has made possible natural selection, which allowed for genetic improvement. Reproduction by mitosis merely duplicates the existing organism.”

Geoffrey sent his fork clattering into the center of his plate and ran from the room.

“Don’t go after him!” said Shepherd, as Elizabeth rose from her chair. “He works so hard at that brittle façade of his. He won’t thank you for seeing him without it.”

“He’s been so quiet. I wondered what he was thinking.”

“I think he feels it very much,” Shepherd told her. “Just from casual observation, I’d say that like most defensively witty people, Geoffrey is awed by real—how shall I put it—innocence. He seemed very protective of his sister.”

“Did she ever say anything about him?” asked Elizabeth.

Shepherd smiled. “You really mustn’t ask.”

“He’s right, though,” said Alban. “Geoffrey was always quite human with Eileen.”

“Which is more than he is with anyone else,” snapped Satisky.

“He shows his feelings, yes,” offered Shepherd. “I find it commendable that he has any to show.”

Satisky smiled maliciously. “Or else he finds it necessary to put on a show—for other reasons!”

Alban set down his coffee cup with a clatter. “Enough! Just stop all this talk about the murder! If you just let it alone, time will fix it—”

“Time—is—relative!” chanted Charles, pointing a fork at Alban.

Alban seemed about to roar back across the table, but suddenly he checked himself. “I’m very sorry,” he mumbled. “All of this is getting on my nerves, I’m afraid.
I don’t like scenes, you know. Never have. I think people ought to be well-bred about things. I hate it when people go raking things up.”

Elizabeth stared. Raking things up? So Alban’s attitude about Eileen’s death had come down to “least said, soonest mended.” She wondered if he would be so forgiving if one of his precious antiques had been smashed—but then Eileen hadn’t been worth much, had she? Just a colorless young woman, not even pretty enough to interest the crime magazines.

Setting her napkin beside her plate, Elizabeth stood up. “Excuse me, please.”

It took her half an hour to find Geoffrey. She had checked his room, Eileen’s room, and the fields near the house before she thought of the attic that used to serve as a playroom when they were children. She remembered it as she was walking back to the house from the apple orchard, when she caught sight of the round window beneath the eaves. They used to pretend it was the porthole of the
Nautilus
. The other end of the attic had been converted into a kitchen-sized laboratory for Charles, although he rarely used it anymore, but the part of the attic that had been the
Nautilus
(and Richmond and Valhalla) had not been changed. She wondered if Geoffrey had thought of it.

Elizabeth hurried up the narrow stairs which led to the eaves. The door was unlocked. Afternoon light filtering in through the circular windows enabled her to see the dressing-up trunks and cast-off toys which furnished the attic. When her eyes grew more accustomed to the dimness, she saw Geoffrey, hunched up against the far wall with his arm clasping his knees. He did not look up.

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment. Comforting did not come easily to her, particularly when it was a grief whose magnitude she could not share. At such times there was an awkwardness to her conversation, and she could make no move without consciously planning it. I may be worse than nothing, she thought. Somehow, though, it was better here than in the dining room.
Geoffrey’s grief made her uneasy, but the attitude of the others had disgusted her. If there had been anyone else to comfort Geoffrey, she would have left them to it, but there was not.

Brushing aside an old bride doll, she sat down on the floor beside him. “I thought you might come to Valhalla,” she murmured.

“I was Frey and you were Brunhilda, the Valkyrie. Did we get that from Alban, do you suppose? We should have played Greek gods, Elizabeth. There was no death on Olympus.”

“I’m sorry about what they said downstairs. I left, too.”

“Well, you won’t find me very good company this evening. My supply of wit to fling in the face of adversity is depleted. I should be back in form soon, never fear, but … not … just … now.” His voice had a brittle lightness, and Elizabeth was terrified that he would cry.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked finally.

Geoffrey sighed. “Nothing. Everything at once. I find it helps to think of a lot of different things at the same time, so as not to dwell on any one long enough to feel it.” He fingered the yellow bride doll lying facedown on the floor. “That was Princess Grace. Eileen used to play royal wedding by the hour. Once she caught Hans, the old tomcat, and dressed him up in doll clothes to be the prince. He escaped, of course. We chased him all around the house, but we never caught him. I wonder if Eileen was afraid that her prince would escape.”

“I think so,” said Elizabeth, wondering if she should say more.

“I think so, too. And I think she blamed us for it.”

“You? Why?”

“Oh, because … It wasn’t until he came here that he began to have doubts about it, I guess, and—”

“You weren’t very kind to him, you know.”

“I’m not very kind to anybody. But he alternately cringed and fawned. Eileen wanted St. Michael the Archangel to slay her dragon, and he was afraid of his own shadow. St. Michael, indeed!”

“Do you think he killed her? Oh, I guess you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No to both. It isn’t murder I’m trying to come to terms with yet. It’s death. And the fact that nobody seems to mind.”

“Your mother …”

“Mother! Yes! She’s giving a convincing portrayal of a bereaved mother, isn’t she? Actually, I think Mother is relieved. After all these years, she finally has a good reason for being unhappy. A legitimate sorrow to drown. And everyone else is being correctly solemn.”

“Perhaps they don’t show their feelings.
You
don’t show yours.”

He laughed bitterly. “Don’t I?”

“You were very close to Eileen, weren’t you?” Elizabeth struggled to understand this new side of Geoffrey. How would she feel if Bill had died? Angry … She couldn’t get past that to see what would come after it.

Geoffrey was looking beyond her at the scattered toys. “Yes. I was close to her. Eileen was kind. She was the one really kind person I have ever known. It wasn’t just an act to make people like her. I suppose it surprises you that I would value that, since people who like me are attracted by my viciousness. I get by on being clever. But I was always a little awed by my sister’s kindness. She always seemed to know what to say to people. I haven’t the foggiest myself. If they don’t care for repartee, I manage to be civil until they go away. Eileen knew more about the damned maid than I know about Charles!”

Elizabeth realized that she was trying to sort out the difference between gentleness and unintellectual naïveté, but she pushed the ungracious thought away. Kindness, she thought. Well, whatever it is, I haven’t got it either.

“I keep thinking about her dying. It should have been me. You realize that, don’t you? One day I should have uttered one quip too many and been bashed over the head by an inarticulate bridge club member! Damn it! She’s dead, and all I can do is analyze it!”

“You have to feel it in your own way,” said Elizabeth gently.

“I wish I could be sure that I
was
feeling it! Part of me is standing off a little way watching me grieve and checking my utterances for clichés! Eileen wasn’t like that. If I were dead, she would cry for me!”

“It won’t help to feel guilty about it.”

“Not now, it won’t. It’s ironic that Alban should trot out that
Macbeth
line: ‘She should have died hereafter.’ I can’t even say that. I don’t think she was ever going to be happy. I just wish she’d had a better time while she was alive. I could have been more understanding. I could have stopped bringing out the worst in that sniveling beast she brought home.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

Geoffrey looked at her. “If I tell you, you won’t understand. Even she didn’t understand.”

“Tell me anyway,” prompted Elizabeth.

“Because he was wasteful! Oh, that’s the wrong word, but it’s as close as I can come. Just—there are so few good,
real
people in the world, that they should be cherished for the miracle they are. And he couldn’t see how special she was. He thought she was a shy crazed girl that he was doing a favor by marrying! A favor! She built him a soul. Eileen saw a wonderful prince charming in a piece of shit!”

Elizabeth thought about this for a moment. She agreed that Eileen’s vision of Michael did not appear to tally with reality, but she wondered why that misconception bothered Geoffrey so much.

“Maybe he only saw a reflection of himself,” Eileen said slowly. “Or what he wanted to see. He wanted to think he was doing her a favor …”

Geoffrey nodded. “And I wanted to see someone who would love me even when I wasn’t being clever. Tell me, Elizabeth—how did
you
see Eileen?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t think I saw her at all.”

Tommy Simmons, somberly attired in his charcoal gray wool, felt that he presented the proper attitude of
dignified efficiency. Black would have been overstating the case. He modulated his voice to hushed reverence and endeavored to convey an air of “money is not important at a time like this, but the formalities must be observed.” A professor of his had once said that all attorneys were actors manqué. Fortunately this was not difficult, since his audience was intent upon maintaining the same façade. He ruffled his papers, glancing up at the Chandlers who were sitting pale and erect, waiting for him to begin. He had been forced to delay the meeting for a few minutes until Geoffrey and the scatty cousin had arrived. His audience was now complete and properly attentive, and he decided that it would be appropriate to begin. He hoped things went smoothly; Tommy’s fondness for acting did not extend to melodrama.