Must the Maiden Die (12 page)

But how, and from where, did Vanessa conjure
all those trees?

Birnam Woods come to Dunsinane.

Glynis sank to the edge of her bed, the
previous night leaping to mind and delight in the morning draining
away. She glanced at her clock again, and now noticed a coffee cup
and saucer on the bedside table. When she picked them up, the
coffee pale with cream the way she liked it, she found a note
underneath.

Aunt Glyn—

So where were
you
last night? Out
carousing somewhere, and with the handsome constable too, I wager!
Have some errands to run, but I'll see you later, here or at the
library.

Love, B.

Just where would Bronwen think one could
carouse in Seneca Falls? Other, that was, than the taverns along
the canal, in which a woman who valued her reputation would never
set foot. Neva Cardoza-Levy had done it once, in an effort to close
down Serenity Hathaway's establishment, but Neva was by nature more
dauntless than most.

Since carousing was a far cry from what
Glynis had actually been doing until one in the morning, she sighed
and took a swallow of cold coffee. Then went to her wardrobe
cabinet and, her spirits raising slightly, eyed the dove gray,
French muslin gown Emma had made for her during the past winter. At
last a day had arrived that would be warm enough to wear it.

Emma had said that, although she didn't
approve, a full crinoline would be acceptable, as Glynis shared
with Bronwen a refusal to wear hoops. Before gathering up her hair
with a set of tortoiseshell combs, she brushed out its nighttime
braid, noticing that while it was many shades darker than
Bronwen's hair, the vinegar rinse Emma had insisted she use had
brightened the reddish-brown considerably. She glanced into her
mirror and pulled down a few strands of hair to soften her
cheekbones, deciding she was becoming a tad vain in her advancing
years. Then told herself it was Emma's influence:
Aunt Glyn, you
must heed the fact that, whether you want to be or not, you're a
walking advertisement for my shop.

Glynis made a face at herself, wondering if
next she would be required to wear, chained round her neck, a sign
blazoned emma's. Then she pulled several more strands of hair
around her face and applied a whisper of rouge. It was, after all,
at last spring.

When she reached the downstairs kitchen, her
landlady Harriet Peartree was watering pots of herbs on the sunny
windowsill, and turned to give her an appraising glance. "You look
lovely, particularly after what I would call a late night."

"A very late night," Glynis agreed while she
poured herself another cup of coffee. "And now it's a late morning,
so I can't go into much detail, but—"

"Don't need to," Harriet broke in, her
chin-length hair swinging about her face like silver fringe. "The
whole town's in an uproar. And I don't mean about what's going on
out there," she added, tossing her head in the direction of the
noisy street. "Everybody knows by now that Roland Brant's been
murdered."

"How did the news get out so quickly?"

"Glynis, you know how word travels in this
town. Like lightning, especially something like this! It's in the
Courier,
too
—
an extra edition. The newspaper hadn't
arrived yet, though, when your redhead shot out of here at the
crack of dawn."

"Bronwen? Why, what time did she leave?"

"Which time? She's been back twice since
then. First time I heard her banging around down here, it was
before six.

"Where could she have gone that early? And
she must not have stayed with Emma, so when did she come back here
last night?"

Her landlady's brows lifted as she said, "I
don't know exactly when, but it was certainly long before you
did."

"Harriet, you're looking at me as if you
think I was...out carousing!"

Finally, with that, came Harriet's
good-natured laugh. Followed by a more sober, "As a matter of fact,
after I heard what happened at the Brants', I guessed you were
probably with Cullen Stuart."

Glynis nodded, while she spread apple butter
on a muffin. "For reasons known only to Cullen, he insisted I go
out to the Brant house."

"I should think so."

"Why do you say that?"

"Cullen Stuart's a smart man, but he's
not... what's the name of that detective in those Poe stories you
made me read?"

Glynis smiled around the muffin. "I didn't
make you read them, Harriet, I just suggested them. And the name's
Auguste Dupin. But if Cullen's no Dupin, I'm not either. So what
did the newspaper say?"

"That Roland Brant had been stabbed. In his
own house. Is that true?"

"You can always believe what you read in the
paper." When Harriet chuckled, Glynis added, "As it happens, this
time the
Courier
got it right. That part, at least. What
else did it say?"

"Not much. Constable says there are no
suspects yet. But he wants anyone with information about the
Brants' kitchen maid to come forward. Seems as if the girl's gone
missing, so she sounds like a good suspect to me. But you probably
already know that."

"Did the paper give a description of
her?"

"Only a general one. Could fit any number of
girls in this town. Age sixteen or seventeen, the paper said—blonde
hair, blue eyes, and comely. That right?"

"That's what we were told last night. Did
the
Courier
mention anything else about her?" Glynis
wondered if it had reported that the girl was mute.

"Just her name. Said it was Tamar. Tamar
Jager."

Jager
! Glynis said nothing, but
reminded herself how little stock she put in coincidence.

***

When Glynis reached the corner of Fall Street, she
noticed townsfolk standing in small, restless knots along the road,
some of them gesturing toward the stark stone factories and
warehouses on the south side of the canal. She assumed, from their
anxious, inquisitive expressions, that they were discussing Roland
Brant's murder. And were likely thinking that if it could happen to
him, with his castle dwelling and his solid stone buildings and his
substantial wealth, it could happen to anyone.

While she waited for several wagons and
buggies to pass before she could cross the road, she saw Bronwen
just emerging from the telegraph office.

Her niece stopped on the plank sidewalk,
obviously reading a wire, and then looked up at the sky with a
rapt gaze. When Glynis waved at her, Bronwen quickly stuffed the
rectangle of yellow paper into her pocket; the pocket of a leaf
green dress, buttoned from neckline to hem, and notably lacking
hoop, ruffles or flounces. It was what Emma called the new,
princess style, and clearly she had taken some pains to accommodate
her cousin's dislike of frills. But while the young woman in the
dress resembled nothing so much as an elegant wood sprite, Glynis
found herself less interested in Bronwen's looks than in her
continued, strangely furtive behavior.

A loud rattle of wheels made Bronwen scurry
to stand at the edge of the road beside Glynis, and together they
watched a dray wagon turn down Cayuga Street, this one loaded with
what looked to Glynis like shrubs of pink blossomed mountain
laurel. She couldn't be sure, but she didn't think laurels were
indigenous to Seneca Falls.

"Just look at those bushes!" said Bronwen.
"I'll wager they came from the greenhouses at Mount Hope
Nurseries."

Since Bronwen had grown up next door to
those Rochester nurseries, her father being a horticulturist there,
Glynis took her word for it.

"They must have come by rail," Bronwen went
on, "which has to be costing The Lady Vanessa a fortune!"

"I expect so. But when Vanessa decides to do
something, she usually spares no expense."

Glynis thought that Bronwen was a little
too enthusiastic about the shrubs, and wondered if the purpose was
to distract. "Well, Bronwen, what have you been doing this
morning?"

"Oh, nothing much." Her niece at first did
not meet her eyes, but then went on more openly, "Though I did have
breakfast with Professor Lowe at Carr's Hotel. I was coming to
Peartree's to find you, because your assistant Jonathan Quant said
you hadn't been to the library yet. Cullen Stuart wants you at his
office. As soon as you can get there."

"I hope he put it as less of a command than
that," Glynis said.

"A little less," Bronwen grinned. "But he
did say to tell you he'd tried to see the woman you mentioned to
him last night. The one who's staying at Carr's Hotel, too. A
popular place!"

"Mrs. Jager?"

"Yes, she's supposed to be at Cullen's
office in—" Bronwen paused, presumably looking for the time, and
glanced in a window of Partridge's Bank"—in about half an
hour."

"In that case, I'd better tell
Jonathan."

"I already told him. There weren't too many
patrons there and he was just dandy, Aunt Glyn, sitting
cross-legged on the floor unpacking crates of books."

"What books were those?" Glynis asked, with
red-caped villains and nubile innocents leaping to mind.

"He said they'd just come from London."

"Ah, those finally arrived. Well, then,
Jonathan might keep his mind on what he's doing, because there are
no dime novels or melodramas in that shipment. At least I hope the
British have not succumbed to them." She also hoped that
Silas
Marner,
George Eliot's new novel, was among those in the
shipment. Although the stacks of books to be read on her library
desk and her bedside table were reaching perilous heights.

"I'll walk with you to Cullen's office,"
Bronwen said. "There's something I need to tell you."

At last some answers, Glynis thought as they
started up Fall Street. "What is it?"

"Just that Vanessa Usher, and everybody
else, might be going to a lot of trouble for nothing. Because I
don't think there'll be a wedding."

"
What?
Why do you say that?" Turning
to stare at her niece, Glynis nearly stumbled into the crates of
asparagus stacked in front of Monroe Groceries.

"I thought you should know," said Bronwen. "Not that
I care about Vanessa, but people are coming from out of town for
this. I asked Emma weeks ago to send an invitation to Tristan
Marshall in Pennsylvania. I don't know if he's coming, and neither
does she. I doubt he's too concerned with things like RSVPs. You
remember Marsh, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember him," Glynis answered. "But
what is this about there being no wedding?"

"And besides my family in Rochester, aren't
Uncle Robin and Emma's brothers traveling from Illinois?" She was
referring to Glynis's brother and nephews.

"Yes, of course they are, but for heaven's
sake
,
Bronwen, just what are you basing this prediction on?
No, wait, don’t answer that yet. Let's go down there." She pointed
to a bench in a small grassy patch on the shallow slope to the
canal. "There's no need to air this for the whole town."

"I don't think the whole town would be
interested," Bronwen remarked as they walked down the slope. "The
only thing anybody's talking about is that murder. I can't
remember—when I used to spend summers here, did I ever meet Mr.
Brant?"

"You might have. His son Erich usually
competed in the horse race at the fair, and he probably was there
the summer a few years ago when you won it. I'm sure you recall
that race."

"How could I forget? Being disqualified just
because I was a girl!" Bronwen threw herself down on the
wood-slatted bench, the memory plainly still galling.

Glynis sat down beside her and glanced
around them before she said, "Now, why do you think Emma's wedding
may be called off?"

"It's what I overheard in her shop. I didn't
mean to eavesdrop, but I could hardly help myself, they were
talking so loudly."

"Emma and Adam?"

"You already know about it?"

"Bronwen!"

"Oh, I guess not."

"Will you please not draw this out, and just
tell me?"

"O.K. When I left the shop last night, I
forgot to take the hair thingamabob that Emma's insisting we wear.
For the wedding—that looks like it's not going to happen."

"My patience, Bronwen, is wearing thin."

"Sorry. This morning I went to the shop and
I used that back delivery door. And I heard Emma talking in the
front room. I thought she was with a customer, so I went upstairs
to fetch the hair thing. But then I heard Adam MacAlistair's voice,
too. And they both sounded aggravated. Well, at that stage I was
more or less trapped upstairs, and I couldn't think what to do. Not
without embarrassing all of us. Besides, I didn't know it would
get worse."

"They were having a disagreement?"

"I'd say it was more like a fight."

"About Emma's shop?"

"So you
do
know!"

"Bronwen, just tell me what happened."

"Do you want a blow-by-blow version, or
should I just summarize?"

"Dear Lord, give me strength!"

"I'll summarize. Emma told Adam that she
wanted an agreement drawn up before the wedding. Something that
says after they're married, the shop still belongs to her. So she
can do with it as she chooses."

"Yes, and...?"

"Adam said he was disturbed that Emma would
insist he sign something, because he'd given his word to her about
it. Anyway, he said, the new law about married women's property
makes her shop...I think he used the word 'secure.'"

"To which Emma said?" Glynis prodded.

"That she didn't trust the law. That the law
in the past hadn't done women much good, so why should she rely on
it now? And besides, she said, she didn't want to involve the law.
She only wanted Adam to sign a piece of paper."

Bronwen paused and frowned at the canal.
"When you think about that, Aunt Glyn, it doesn't make much sense.
Emma wants his signature, but doesn't want the law? I mean, a
signed document does tend to make you sit up and think: legal!"