The Walker in Shadows (11 page)

" 'Eccentric' is hardly the word for Hiram," Josef said drily. "Did that stop the manifestations?"

"I guess so. He said he never had no more trouble-"

"Mark, your grammar," Pat said.

"I'm quoting," Mark said blandly. "But Dad said it was an interesting story. He believed it, not because old Hiram wasn't peculiar, but because his peculiarities wouldn't take that form."

He looked at the others as if hoping they would understand what he meant. Surprisingly, it was Friedrichs who nodded.

"Yes, I see. Old Hiram might have delusions of persecution from Russians or Martians or vicious small boys, but not from poltergeists. Nor would he have mentioned the subject to your father, who was only a casual acquaintance, unless-"

"Yeah, that was it. He didn't want us hanging around anyway; he hated everybody, especially kids. But he told Dad he was afraid we'd start the ghost up again. Things were nice and quiet, he said, and he liked them that way."

"He wasn't so crazy," Josef muttered. "All right, Mark, I'll accept your first point. The-er-trouble did not originate with us. Are you suggesting I stand in the hall and shout reassurances, as he did, to our racketing spirit?"

"No, look-you don't get what I'm driving at. It isn't just a random effect. It woke up, like, when Hiram moved in. But he wasn't… what it wanted."

"Ugh," Kathy said violently. "I don't like that idea."

"Neither do I," Pat said. "Stop beating around the bush, Mark. You insinuated that you and-and your father had looked into the ghost theory. What are you driving at?"

"It sounds so unconvincing when you just state it flat out, without explaining-"

"State it flat out," Pat said firmly.

"Okay, okay. I think there is a ghost… spirit… whatever you want to call it. I think it dates from the period just after these houses were built. Now wait -do any of you know anything about the history of these two houses?"

He knew they didn't. Pat glowered at him, and Josef froze him with a cold legal stare; but Mark was basking in the warmth of Kathy's admiration and ignored the adult disdain.

"They are twin houses, as you know," he said, addressing all of them, though he continued to look at Kathy. "They were built in 1843, by a Mr. Peters, for his twin daughters…"

If the midwife hadn't sworn to the fact, people would not have believed that Lavinia and Louisa Peters were sisters, much less twins. They were both fair-haired and blue-eyed, but with that the resemblance ceased. Lavinia was a fairy child, fragile and exquisite; Louisa was chubby and stolid, regarding the world with cool detachment from behind the thumb that was usually in her mouth. As they grew to young ladyhood, Louisa lost her baby fat, but she was never as slim as her sister, whose waist attained the fabulous seventeen-inch span so desired by Southern belles. Her blue eyes kept their look of calm appraisal, while Lavinia's danced coquettishly, flirting long lashes at her dozens of beaux.

("I've seen old photographs of the two," Mark said. "They didn't even look alike. They were older when the pictures were taken, but one was still the professional Southern lady; the other had a placid, motherly sort of face.")

They were devoted to one another, and that was odd; for although the term "sibling rivalry" had not yet been coined, the reality had existed for centuries, and many sisters have a healthy detestation for one another. Not Louisa and Lavinia. It was not surprising that they should fall in love and marry at the same age, for they did every thing together. Nor was it really surprising, considering how different they were, that their husbands should be such opposites.

Albert Tumbull was a widower, almost twenty years older than Lavinia, but every other factor was in his favor. He was a neighbor, a planter, an aristocrat; his estate, adjoining the Peters' tobacco plantation, included fifty slaves and four hundred acres.

("And he was a good-looking guy," Mark said. "I mean, if you like the type-mustache, high cheekbones, the deliberate aristocratic sneer. I don't know why he and Lavinia didn't move into his house. Maybe she refused to live with the relics of his first wife, or maybe the ancestral mansion was falling apart…")

Whatever the reason, Turnbull moved into the handsome new house built as a wedding gift by his father-in-law. The name he gave it, Halcyon House, was not especially original, but it indicated an optimistic hope for happiness with his new bride. He may not have been so pleased about his new brother-in-law.

His name was Bates-John Bates. It was a flat, thumping, monosyllabic name, and the pictures of him that have survived show a face that suits the name-expressionless, dour, dark. A New Englander by birth and a school-teacher by trade, he had somehow found his way to Maryland and the headmastership of one of the new private schools in the area.

("I don't know how Louisa met him," Mark admitted. "Schoolteachers weren't gentry, not exactly… But they weren't lower-class types either, so I guess she could have run into him at some social function. It must have been a genuine love match. To a girl of her background, Bates had nothing in particular to recommend him. He looked like a sour-faced, sanctimonious old-")

He wasn't old, though; he was only twenty-six when he married the eighteen-year-old Louisa, more than ten years younger than his brother-in-law, Turnbull. Peters, one of the wealthier landowners of Maryland, endowed his adored daughters with wide acres, and built them each a house. It seems reasonable to suppose that the mutual affection of the sisters dictated the relative proximity of the houses, for western Maryland in those days had plenty of empty space-and the odd fact that they were duplicates. One might have expected the placid Louisa and her stolid New England husband to prefer a more classic style. But old Mr. Peters was providing the money, and perhaps it was he who demanded the very latest mode in architecture-the bizarre mixture of Tudor and castellated medieval styles known as American Gothic revival.

Some students of local architecture suspect that the twin houses were designed by the same man who built Tudor Hall, the boyhood home of the Booth brothers-Edwin the actor, John Wilkes, the assassin. The red brick walls boasted mullioned windows and diamond-pane casements. The great bay windows in the drawing rooms had Gothic tracery. Wooden curlicues and curls hung like icicles from the porches, roofs, and gables.

("Most of the wooden wedding-cake trim is gone now," Mark said. "It was too expensive to paint and repair. The houses aren't exact duplicates anymore because over the years people added things like bathrooms and kitchens. But the floor plans are the same.")

The name the Turnbulls gave their home was typically pretentious, but names were not pure affectation, they were a convenient form of identification before street names and route numbers. The Bateses also named their house.

("It's funny," Mark said. "Most of the old names are remembered. Not that one. It's mentioned in one old book, and nowhere else. Freedom Hall. You could reasonably assume a New England schoolteacher would be an abolitionist. The name he gave his house makes it certain.")

The slave owner and the antislavery schoolteacher might not have been the best of friends, but the two families lived side by side in apparent amity for almost fifteen years. Turnbull had one daughter from his previous marriage. Lavinia presented him with another child, a son, born in 1844. Louisa was more prolific than her sister, but not much more fortunate. Her first child was also born in 1844, but it did not survive infancy. She became pregnant again almost at once, producing twins in 1845-a boy and a girl. She had other children, but only one of them lived as long as eight years. By 1860 the pattern of duplication still prevailed, with two members of the younger generation in each of the twin houses. Lavinia's stepdaughter, Mary Jane, was twenty-six. Her son Peter was sixteen. The Bates cousins, Edward and Susan, were a year younger than Peter. In that year the war clouds were gathering, hanging low and dark over divided border states such as Maryland.

They had agreed not to interrupt Mark. No one did, but Pat was amused at the effort it cost Josef Friedrichs to keep his mouth shut. Every now and then a particularly questionable statement or undefended assumption would produce a visible contortion in the older man's face, his cheek muscles twitching as he struggled not to speak. When Mark ended with his dramatic metaphor Josef could contain himself no longer.

"You'd be a great trial lawyer," he said caustically. "Eloquent, florid, and full of hot air. How much of that is factual?"

"There's a genealogy," Mark said. "Deeds, architect's plans-"

"I assumed you had those. Where did you get all that about Bates's abolitionist beliefs?"

"But, Dad, it's obvious," Kathy exclaimed. "Can't you see the conflict building between the two families? Maryland was a border state. It almost seceded. It probably would have if the federal government hadn't occupied Baltimore and thrown a lot of Southern sympathizers in jail. There were Maryland regiments in both the Confederate and Union armies-"

"I'm glad you're learning a little history in that expensive school," Josef said. "Oddly enough, my dear, I knew all that. But you haven't proved that the two families who lived in these houses were divided in their sentiments, or that, if they were, there is any connection whatever with the presumed apparition that-"

"I'll prove it," Mark said. His lips set in a stubborn line, his dark brows drew together. "I've just started to look. But, damn it, I know I'm right. I'll do it myself if I have to, but it would go a lot faster if I could get some help from you guys."

"I'll help," Kathy said.

Josef looked at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time that morning. His eyes widened.

"Where did you get that-that garment?"

"It belongs to Mrs. Robbins." Kathy contemplated a splash of coffee with some dismay. "Gosh, Mrs. Robbins, I'm sorry. I guess I'm getting it dirty. I'll wash it-"

"The time is midafternoon and you are sitting around in a bathrobe," Josef said indignantly. "Get dressed immediately."

Kathy made a mutinous face, but obeyed. She had barely left the room when the front-door bell rang.

"It's probably one of your friends," Pat said to Mark. "Tell him to come back later. I don't think we want the whole town to know Kathy spent the night here."

"Okay, okay." Mark went out.

Josef rose. His face had fallen back into its rigid lines.

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Pat. I did not intend-"

"Oh, stop being so pompous," Pat said. "We can't go back to the old formality, can we? I don't know what to say about Mark's crazy theory, but one thing is certain: you two can't sleep in that house until we figure out what went on there."

Before Josef could answer, the swinging door to the kitchen burst open and Mark entered.

"It's Mrs. Groft," he hissed, like a stage villain. "She says you were supposed to go antiquing with her. She's in the living room, but you know her, she's got the biggest mouth in town, and she'll be coming out here any minute…"

"Darn, I forgot," Pat exclaimed. "Of all the people we don't want to know about this-"

Josef's eyes opened wide. Through terror, distress, and even unconsciousness he had maintained a certain dignity; this threat reduced him to quivering, unconcealed cowardice.

"I know that woman. She's been driving me crazy ever since I moved in. For God's sake, Pat, head her off. Mark, keep Kathy out of sight. If she sees-"

Nancy 's not so dulcet voice reverberated, even through a closed door and a long stretch of hall. "Pa-a-at! Aren't you ready?"

Josef made a brief, vulgar comment and bolted, leaving the back door ajar. Mark fled in the other direction, up the back stairs. Pat leaned against the sink and laughed.

She caught Nancy before that inquisitive lady reached the kitchen. The piled-up dishes would have been a dead giveaway. She could imagine Nancy 's delighted innuendos: "My, my, what class-brunch at one p.m., and with whom, my dear? Not, by any chance…" Fortunately Pat was already dressed to go out; she had only to snatch up her purse and propel her friend from the house. Upstairs Mark was thundering around like a herd of demented moose, presumably in order to cover any sounds Kathy might make.

The antique show was in Gaithersburg, a fast half hour's drive away. Fortunately it was a good show, and Nancy, who collected everything from old silver to antique duck decoys, was sufficiently absorbed to leave Pat alone. Nancy was known to, and hated by, most of the dealers, since her method of bargaining consisted of making derogatory remarks about the merchandise. Pat wandered off, leaving Nancy arguing with a gray-haired woman who was selling old glass.

In the cold light of day she found it harder and harder to believe what had happened the previous night. Surely- surely!-there must be some sensible explanation. Mark was young and given to strange enthusiasms… but he was just plain nuts if he really believed this ghost theory. Kathy was also young, and so infatuated with Mark she would believe the sun set in the east if he told her it did.

Pat couldn't dismiss Josef's experience so easily. She tried, though; and as her eyes moved unseeingly over displays of medicine bottles, postcards, Victorian chamber sets, and other dubious treasures, she finally came up with a hypothesis-not a wholly satisfactory hypothesis, but one that was easier to accept than Mark's ghost. The Chinese vase was tall and top-heavy, tapering down from swelling sides to a relatively narrow base. If Josef, running to his daughter's aid, had tripped and started to fall, his outflung arm, or even the vibration of his footsteps, might have toppled the vase. In his overwrought state, he might fancy the object had moved of its own accord. The whole thing was self-hypnotism, autosuggestion… And that same convenient diagnosis would explain her own sensations as she stood in horrified suspense under Kathy's window.