The Aviary (18 page)

Of everything George Glendoveer revealed, Clara was most surprised by the fact that he never knew whether or not his children’s souls inhabited the birds. If he intended to gather his family together again, he must have died a disappointed man.

And Mrs. Glendoveer? Clara could still see the shock on her face when she learned that the mynah had finally spoken. If she had lived just a bit longer, perhaps she could have heard Frances speak herself.

Her eyes returned to George Glendoveer’s poem—or was it an incantation? It was the same inscription Mrs. Glendoveer had included in her mourning picture. Clara figured that the frost and foam must refer to the chilly
waters of Lockhaven Bay, for that is where the children were drowned. But it was the final line that added to her understanding of the birds’ quest.

“None shall fly till all come home,” repeated Clara. “All of them, even Elliot, must come home.” But then what? Where would the birds fly, and what would become of Elliot?

Clara got out her own paper and began making a list of things in George Glendoveer’s notes that needed investigation.

Who on earth could read pictograms? Was there a chance that Miss Lentham, expert in Greek and Latin, might also know something about Egyptian texts?

She copied George Glendoveer’s tiny jottings as well as she could.

“I’m ready!” Clara stated. And she was in no mood to wait. She would find her way to the Lockhaven Historical Society and beg for Miss Lentham’s help.

Friday morning was a likely time for Harriet to go into town for provisions, so Clara was happy to find her mother singing to herself as she stood in front of the glass:

“To market, to market, to buy a fat hog …” She placed
her straw hat on her head and fastened it with a long pin before spotting Clara in the mirror behind her.

“Ah! There you are. Do you know what day it is?”

Clara considered. “I almost forgot! It’s Ruby’s birthday. Are you going to make a cake?”

“I thought that might be nice. And maybe some salmon and potato hash. We don’t often have it, and it’s her favorite.”

“Where’s Ruby?”

“She’s got her feet up in the kitchen. I told her not to stir today.”

“And that’s the way it should be,” Clara said.

“I’ll try to be back by twelve-thirty,” said her mother. “In the meantime, I trust you’ll treat her like a queen.”

Clara watched her mother leave and made a beeline to Ruby, who was feasting on strawberries and confectioners’ sugar. “Happy birthday, dear!” she said. “And what will you do today after you’ve enjoyed breakfast?”

“Don’t know,” she said. “I’m so seldom left to my own devices, I’m stymied.”

Clara slowly dusted the table with her hand. “Really? I’d supposed you’d be off to those moving pictures.”

Ruby lit up, then stopped herself. “Oh now, couldn’t do that. The lines are so long, I’d be gone half a day.”

But Clara could tell by the dreamy way Ruby licked stray sugar from her upper lip that she was entertaining the idea. All she needed was a little push.

“But it’s your birthday.… Why, it’s a once-a-year opportunity!”

Ruby pondered this last statement, then planted her feet on the floor. “Not even once a year. Did I go out on my last birthday, or the one before?”

“Never, that I recall.”

She threw down her napkin. “That settles it, then. I want to see
The Great Train Robbery
, and I can’t imagine it’ll harm anyone if I do.”

“I only wish I could go with you,” Clara said. “Please see it, come back, and tell me everything!”

Ruby jumped up and patted her temples. “Dear me. Must get some combs in my hair. And my coin purse. Ah, what time is it?”

It tickled Clara to see Ruby so full of excitement. If she had sent her out of the house, at least she had done so in the service of Ruby’s happy birthday.

Clara tried not to pay attention to the sudden trembling of her own hands as she wrapped a shawl around her head and shoulders. On her way out, she stopped by the aviary to speak with the birds, who greeted her with riotous whistling.

“Hello, all of you. Sorry I have to hurry. I’m off on a special mission for you.”

“Elliot!” said George.

“Frances,” Clara said, “I’m going to talk to your teacher Miss Lentham.”

The mynah studied her as if waiting for more.

“She knows so much about your family. And I have so many questions. I’m hoping she can help.”

“Go,” said Frances curtly.

Clara tried not to take Frances’s manner to heart, but she wondered what she would have to do to win her favor. “Goodbye to you all,” Clara said, waving. She felt a bit as though she were about to walk the plank, but she managed a smile anyway.

Stepping from the alley to the street wasn’t quite as forbidding as the last time Clara tried it. The weather had turned chilly and the clouds were misting, so not many people were about. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves and walked downhill, carefully counting the blocks.

The farther she went, wooden homes gave way to brick row houses. Each entrance had stone steps leading up to a different style of door. Some were painted dragon red or deep green. Others had little beveled windows or were elaborately carved. The one with the lacquered black door had a ship’s bell above the threshold and an engraved brass sign:

Clara knocked, but no one answered. She screwed up her nerve and turned the knob. Open!

“Hello?” she said, and stepped inside.

Clara recognized the soft smell of paper and old leather. In the front room, there was a cool marble floor and an unoccupied mahogany counter with chairs and green-shaded reading lamps. To her right was a glassed-in room with displays of old anchors, ships’ wheels, and knotted rope. Down the hall, she could see a stoop-shouldered lady in a plain gray dress pushing a cart. When the old woman drew near, Clara noticed that her glasses were so thick, they almost flattened her nose.

“May I help you?” the woman asked in a voice as dry as sand.

“Yes, please,” Clara answered. “I’m hoping you are Miss Lentham.”

The lady squinted and leaned in very close. “And who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Daphne Aspinal’s. Clara’s my name. I heard you have information on the Glendoveer family you might be willing to share.”

“A friend of the little girl?” Miss Lentham unhooked her cane from the cart and leaned upon it. “I wondered if anyone would come. Follow me.”

Behind Miss Lentham’s desk was a file box, which she indicated with her cane. “It’s all in there. You may look at it as long as you like, but put everything back
exactly
. These are my personal clippings, which I have lent to the society.”

Clara saw that Miss Lentham was not going anywhere, but stood close as she went through the newspaper clippings. Each item was dated and placed in order of publication. The headlines were in bold type:

“I’ve often wondered,” said Miss Lentham, “why the young people today don’t want to know more about the
Glendoveers. This is the only event of note our city has seen, and it was a global sensation.”

“Perhaps they don’t want the truth,” Clara said, echoing Ruby’s theory. “Maybe the stories they tell are more interesting.”

“I can’t see how that could be,” Miss Lentham said. “To think it shall someday fade from all memory. And what brings you here to investigate?”

“Daphne got me interested,” said Clara, pulling a clipping from the file. “She’s corresponded with Mr. Woodruff Booth, you know.”

Miss Lentham looked up to the heavens. “Mr. Booth! Such a gentleman. I had no doubt he’d reply to her.”

“He spoke of the children,” said Clara, “and gave descriptions of each one of them. But I thought you might be able to tell me more about Frances Glendoveer. I know she studied here often.”

“Frances was a brilliant child. I do believe she found in me a compatible intellect.”

“You spoke often with her, then?”

Miss Lentham’s cloudy eyes looked over her spectacles. “Not in a personal way.”

Clara believed Miss Lentham sensed her disappointment.

“Twice a week after school, I tutored her in her study of Greek and Roman literature—both of which are my specialties. She could read for hours. Not like the children today with the attention spans of houseflies.”

At once, Clara dug into her pocket and pulled out her notes. “Speaking of ancient civilizations, you’ve reminded me, Miss Lentham,” she said. “Have you by chance heard of something called … 
The Book of H
? It apparently has pictograms in it.”

“And the
H
stands for what? You’ll have to be more specific about the title.”

“I don’t know, I’m afraid,” said Clara. “Then how about the Paheri tomb? Have you heard of that?”

“Never. My word,” said Miss Lentham, “have we already tired of the Glendoveers?”

“Not at all,” said Clara. “It’s only that I’ve heard the tomb was of interest to Mr. Glendoveer. I don’t know where it is, but it has a poem written on it.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her paper. “Do you read pictographs?”

“You mean hieroglyphs?” Miss Lentham eyed her and, with sudden irritation, added, “Now,
why
would you bring me something like that? Am I an Egyptologist?”

Chastened, Clara stuffed the paper back in her pocket, hoping to recover her footing with the old woman. But as she did, Miss Lentham burst out with a frustrated sigh.

“Are you
not
going to show it to me now?” she asked.

“But you said you weren’t an Egyptologist.”

“And I am not. But after years of wide-ranging study in ancient civilizations,” she said, peering over her spectacles, “I do know a thing or two.”

“Of course,” Clara said. “I didn’t mean to—”

Miss Lentham took the note, fetched her heavy magnifying glass from her desk drawer, bent close, and squinted.

“Look here,” she said, stabbing the page with her finger.

Clara read over her shoulder. “Do you know what those wavy lines are?”

“Yes. As it happens, I do recognize a few of the symbols. This one is water. Oh! And here—this cup-shaped object? That’s a tomb. A tomb under the water, it seems.”

Clara held her breath as Miss Lentham continued.

“I do think that this figure here—the little man on his side? That’s a corpse.” She tapped the page. “And it appears that the corpse lives among the birds. Or is it that the corpse becomes a bird? Strange. I couldn’t tell you much more. That’s about all I can make out.”

“But it’s uncanny!”

Miss Lentham put down her glass. “In what way?”

“There’s so much of the Glendoveers in it,” Clara said.

“On the contrary, I see nothing of the Glendoveers in it.”

There was no way, Clara realized, that she could explain to Miss Lentham the significance of souls assuming the form of birds, or that this might be part of an incantation used by the Great Glendoveer himself. “I meant, well, the water and the tomb and the corpses,” she said.

Miss Lentham regarded her with distaste. “How perfectly morbid,” she said. “As much as I wish to impart historical information pertaining to the Glendoveer family, I do not approve of sensation seekers.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Lentham,” Clara said. “I’d be happy to go back to our conversation about Frances.”

“Frances,” said Miss Lentham, “would be a good example for you. In fact …” She returned to the Glendoveer files and retrieved a book. “I have something for you.”

Clara took the volume from her.
VIRGIL POEMS
was imprinted in gold on the spine.

“This old book’s backing is broken from use. It was a favorite of Frances Glendoveer’s. You might study it. Improve yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

Before Miss Lentham could start off, Clara grasped at one last opportunity to keep her talking. “I was so hoping to learn a bit more about Mr. Booth. Obviously, there is no one who would know him better than you, Miss Lentham.”

“Indeed, there is not,” she said. “Certainly not in Lockhaven.”

“He said in his letter that he came from a distinguished family.”

“Quite distinguished,” she said. “From one of the first families of Rhode Island.”

“He also said that they did not approve of his taking the stage. So perhaps you can tell me how he joined Mr. Glendoveer’s traveling show?”

A smile played at Miss Lentham’s lips. “Very well. It is an anecdote that I’m sure few know. As you can imagine, a man with Mr. Booth’s pedigree would be expected to go to university and then abroad, but he had an artist’s temperament.
A … sensitive nature. Do you know he published a book of poetry for distribution only among his friends, to avoid exposing himself to raw, public criticism? And he did almost complete his studies at Yale—that is, until he was overtaken by a series of ailments.”