After dinner Friday evening, October 6, 1950
The Rutherford house
The four of them returned to the yellow drawing room and took their places at a small table near the front windows while Mr. Rutherford extracted a deck of cards and a cribbage board from a drawer and lit up a cigarette.
“Henry, pour us some brandy, won’t you? It’s there on the sideboard. And some sherry for the sister. Bring over an ashtray, too. There’s one on the mantel.”
Henry got the ashtray and then poured three glasses of brandy and one of sherry. Mr. Rutherford dealt six cards to each person and then placed the deck off to the side, awaiting a cut. “Give me a good crib,” he said to each of them, taking a sip of brandy followed by a puff on his cigarette.
The first game went by quickly, with Skip and Henry winning easily. The second took a little longer, but Ambrose and the sister were eventually victorious. They decided a final game must be played to determine the victors of the night, so Skip dealt out the cards. When that game had ended and Skip and Henry were once more the winners, Mr. Rutherford leaned back in his chair and finished his third drink. “Well, I’m done in. That’s sixteen cents we owe you two. Remind me to pay my half of it to you tomorrow.”
“Where is Lillian?” a raspy voice called out abruptly from the doorway to the hall. All of them turned to look at Mrs. Rutherford, dressed once more in her blue flannel nightgown, but wearing black rubber galoshes upon her feet this time.
“Mother, what are you doing downstairs again?”
She took a few tentative steps toward the card table, the galoshes squeaking on the parquet floor, and looked at each of them in turn. She coughed, not covering her mouth, and put her right hand to her chest. She was apparently having trouble breathing. “I can’t sleep, not tired.”
Mr. Rutherford looked at Sister Barnabas, and then at his mother again. “It’s late, Mother.”
“Late?” she said, swaying from side to side. “Time waits for no one. Where is Arthur?”
Mr. Rutherford stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, put the cards and cribbage board away in the drawer from which they’d come, and stood up, Henry and Skip following suit.
“Arthur isn’t here anymore, you know that.” His words and tone were gentle, as if speaking to a child.
“Why not?” Mrs. Rutherford snapped. “I want Arthur, I miss my son.”
“I’m your son, too.”
“A sorry excuse for one.” She spat out the words, gasping for each breath, still clutching her chest.
The words must have pained Mr. Rutherford, but perhaps he’d heard them so often they no longer hurt that much. “You don’t look well, my dear. Let Sister Barnabas take you back up to bed.”
The sister cautiously took a few steps toward her, as if approaching a wild animal, but Mrs. Rutherford didn’t appear to be in the mood for a squabble anymore tonight.
“All right. I suppose that would be okay,” she said quietly.
“That’s right. We’ll all go up to bed,” Mr. Rutherford said.
“Yes, I’m rather tired, too,” Sister Barnabas said. “I’m going to put you to bed, Mrs. Rutherford, and in just a few minutes you’ll be in dreamland, sound asleep, all right?”
Mrs. Rutherford looked at the nun and held out her left hand, her right still clutching her chest. Sister Barnabas took the hand in hers and led her out the doorway and up the stairs. When they had gone, Mr. Rutherford looked back at Skip and Henry.
“I’m sorry about Mother.”
“No need to apologize. We understand,” Henry said.
“Thank you, truly. In some respects, I feel as if I’ve already lost her. Only every day I lose a little more.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult this all must be for you,” Skip said, still nursing his drink.
“No, I suppose you can’t. I think I’ll have another brandy. Henry?”
“Just a short one,” Henry said. “Your mother mentioned earlier you were a bit of a vodka connoisseur. I’m surprised you’re not having that.”
“I do like a good vodka, properly chilled, but I find it’s more of a summer drink. Now then, I have some cigars in the library, let’s sit in there for a bit.” Mr. Rutherford poured the drinks and the three of them moved into the library, where Mr. Rutherford extracted a Cuban cigar from a humidor on the desk. “Care for a smoke, gentlemen?”
“Uh, no thank you, sir,” Skip said.
“Not for me, either, Uncle, but thanks.”
“Suit yourselves,” he said, striking a match and lighting the tip of the cigar. “Please sit.” Mr. Rutherford made himself comfortable in the overstuffed chair, and Skip and Henry took chairs opposite him. “I like this time of night. Everything’s quiet, no one telephones or comes to call, dinner is finished, the servants have gone up, and Mother is usually asleep. Sometimes I sit here by myself, smoking and drinking, until I nearly nod off.”
Henry took a sip of his brandy. “Are you usually the last to go up?”
“Yes. I’m always the first to come down and the last to go up. I turn out the lights and lock the front door, then I go to bed.” Mr. Rutherford took a deep, long swallow and then set the glass down, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a nice respite from my mother.”
“I can understand that. Dealing with her on a daily basis must be trying,” Henry said.
“It has its challenges. As you’re aware, my aunt Lillian is coming here tomorrow to assist with transferring Mother to a nursing home this Monday, which, I must admit, will be helpful to us both.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Henry said. “I’m sure Sister Barnabas is capable, but she’ll have round-the-clock care.”
“Yes, of course, I can’t argue with that. By the way, Henry, I’m sorry again about the loan. It’s just not a good time.”
“Of course,” Henry said, downing the last of his drink perhaps a bit too fast. “I understand. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I’m rather tired.” He got to his feet, leaving his glass on the table between the chairs.
Skip looked at him, surprised. “You’re usually more of a night owl.”
He returned Skip’s gaze. “Yes, but I had a long day of driving, and I didn’t have time to nap after settling in as you did. I’ll see you all in the morning. Good night.”
“Good night,” Skip and Mr. Rutherford both said.
“Are you sure you don’t want another brandy, Mr. Valentine?” Mr. Rutherford said after Henry had gone.
“No thank you, I’m not much of a brandy drinker.”
“Oh? What’s your preferred poison?”
“Gee, I don’t know. I like wine, and a cranberry and soda is always good.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that you didn’t seem to have enjoyed your brandy. There’s still a swallow or two in your glass.”
“Oh, yes,” Skip said, polishing it off with a slight grimace. “Anyway, I should be going up soon, too. Henry and I want to do some exploring around the town tomorrow.”
“All right,” Mr. Rutherford said, getting up and turning out some of the lights in the library. “By the way, I understand you two met earlier this year?”
“That’s right, on a crosstown bus, believe it or not.”
“How unusual. No girlfriends?”
“Er, not at the moment, no. I’m only twenty-two and Henry’s twenty-five,” Skip said, getting to his feet.
“That’s not that young. Most young men your ages are married with families of their own.”
“Times are changing. Who knows? We may both decide to never marry and have children. Who needs that responsibility?”
“Ah, I see, modern men,” Mr. Rutherford said, turning out the rest of the lights in the room except for the one overhead, and placing Henry’s dirty glass on the sideboard for Jane to clear in the morning. He studied Skip. “You’re not funny, are you?”
Skip bristled. “Some people think I’m hilarious.”
“You know what I mean, Mr. Valentine, I’m sure. A handsome young man, fond of cranberry and soda, a snappy dresser, and no girlfriend, not married…”
“I certainly don’t believe marriage is required of everyone when they reach a certain age, nor should it be expected, sir.”
“I disagree. Marriage is an institution.”
“So is a psychiatric hospital, but I don’t want to spend any time in one.”
“Then you’d best be careful about your behavior.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just inferring. Perhaps I’m wrong, I hope I am.”
“You’re inferring I’m funny because I don’t have a girlfriend? Because I’m single and don’t fancy brandy straight up?”
“In part, yes.”
“What about Henry? Do you think he’s funny, too?”
Mr. Rutherford stared at him. “No, I don’t, but I think I shall have to discuss your friendship with him,” he said, lighting a fresh cigarette. “It’s my impression that he’s easily influenced, that he’s innocent and impressionable. I saw the way you looked at him during dinner and over cribbage, your hands almost touching at times, and how you hung on his every word and laughed at his jokes.”
“He’s my friend, why wouldn’t I laugh at his jokes?”
“Someone has to carry on the Rutherford name, you know. He needs to get married.”
Skip walked closer to him, annoyed and irritated. “His last name is Finch, not Rutherford.”
“That can be changed. And what’s important is the bloodline, anyway.”
“Why? What does it matter? And why do you care that Henry and I are friends, funny or not?”
“I’m not sure I like your defensive tone. You’re a guest in my house, remember.”
Skip paused, then dropped his voice. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been argumentative. Don’t take out your feelings for me on him. Henry’s honest, dependable, and hardworking. What he needs right now is money.”
“So he’s said. I wish I could help him.” He ground out his cigar and took out his cigarette pack, staring into it before shoving it back into his pocket. “Goodness, I’m almost out of smokes.”
“Isn’t there any way you could loan him something, Mr. Rutherford? Even if it’s just a little bit? He doesn’t need much, just enough to help him get back on his feet. He’s trying to support his mother and siblings, too, you know, and he wants to go back to school.”
Mr. Rutherford raised his eyebrows. “Ah, now I see. No wonder Henry went to bed early.”
“What are you implying?”
“He asked you to speak on his behalf, didn’t he?”
Skip felt his face flush, and anger quickly rose within him. “No, he most certainly did not. He’d be furious with me if he knew I’d mentioned it. Henry is far too proud.”
“Not too proud to ask for money from a relative he barely knows and only sees occasionally,” Mr. Rutherford said.
“He is the heir, your heir, as you pointed out, so it’s his money, too, in a way.”
Mr. Rutherford laughed. “I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, so I think he’d better find himself a job.”
“He has a job. And he’ll find another, better one soon. And he wasn’t asking for a handout, only a simple loan. I’m sorry I brought this whole thing up. Good night.” He turned and walked swiftly out into the hall. Mr. Rutherford followed suit as he switched off the overhead light.
“Good night, Mr. Valentine,” he said curtly, closing the door behind him.
Skip climbed up the stairs, fuming. He’d just reached his bedroom door when he heard a thunderous crash that sent a shiver through the very floorboards he was standing on and shook the whole house. He turned as quickly as he could and went back down the stairs to the front hall, which was much darker and eerily silent. Only the sconces along the wall now shone, barely illuminating the scene by the doors to the entrance hall, which was in shadow. Mr. Rutherford was lying prostrate on the floor, seemingly unconscious, an arm of the chandelier across his legs, surrounded by broken glass. The heavy fixture had apparently come crashing down upon him as he made his way toward the front door to lock it for the night.
The door from the blue drawing room opened and Sister Barnabas raced to Mr. Rutherford, checking for a pulse. She looked up at Skip, who had come closer. “He’s alive. Help me get this off him.”
Henry appeared, too, followed by Miss Grant in her robe and nightgown, and Jake, who was still fully dressed, down to the red bandanas protruding from his back pocket and around his neck. They all cleared away some of the debris, and then Henry helped Mr. Rutherford, who had regained consciousness but seemed stunned, to the sofa in the yellow drawing room.
“Get a cold washcloth, Jane,” the sister barked. “And Jake, clean up that mess in the hall. Mr. Finch, get him a brandy.” She knelt by Mr. Rutherford, who looked pale and shaken.
“What happened?” he said, his voice weak and cracking.
“The hall chandelier fell, came loose most likely, and struck you. You’re lucky it wasn’t a direct blow, or you would have been killed,” she said.
“How strange,” he said weakly.
“What were you doing in the blue drawing room, Sister? I thought you’d gone up,” Skip said.
The nun looked at him over the top of her glasses. “I did go up, but just to put Mrs. Rutherford to bed with a sleeping draught. Then I took some aspirin and came back down. Since you were still with Mr. Rutherford, I went across the hall.”
“You didn’t want to join us?”
“Your conversation appeared, shall we say, rather heated and private.”
Skip flushed again, remembering how angry he’d been and the things that had been said.
“I see.” He turned his attention back to Mr. Rutherford, who was lying now on the sofa, his head propped up with a pillow. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, sir. Can you stand on your own?” Skip said.
“Yes, I think so. I’m fine. Thankfully I don’t think there’s anything broken. I just feel a trifle woozy.” He took the brandy Henry brought him and lay back down as Jane entered with the wet washcloth, handing it to Sister Barnabas.
“Hold this cloth to your head, Mr. Rutherford. I think we should have a doctor examine you just in case. You may have a concussion,” the sister said.
Mr. Rutherford shook his head, causing the washcloth to slip, water from it dripping onto his shirt. “No, no need for a doctor, I’m fine. I just want to go to bed.” He managed to drink most of the brandy, spilling only a little down the side of his face onto the sofa.
“As you wish, sir,” Sister Barnabas said. “Jane, you may go for now. I think Mr. Finch and Mr. Valentine can get him upstairs to his bedroom.”
“All right,” Jane said. She looked doubtful and concerned but retreated and left nevertheless.
“Oh, I’m afraid I never did get the front door locked. Mr. Valentine, would you mind?” Mr. Rutherford said, now sitting up on the sofa again, holding the washcloth to his forehead rather sloppily. “Henry, another brandy, please, no ice this time.”
“Yes sir,” Henry said, going to the sideboard once more, his uncle’s empty glass in hand.
“I’ll be happy to,” Skip said, glad of an excuse to get away. He went back out in the hall to the entry, and then on to the front door, which he dutifully locked before examining the latch that held the chandelier chain in place. He was careful not to get in the way of Jake, who was sweeping up the broken glass, having moved most of the metal pieces out of the way already. Henry came out of the drawing room.
“I thought I’d come to check on you,” Henry said. “You okay?”
“A little shaken up, but not as much as your uncle. You?”
“Likewise. Get the front door locked?”
“Yes, all done. I also had a look at the chandelier latch here,” he said, pointing to the contraption on the wall, his voice low and quiet.
“Oh?”
“I don’t see how it could have accidentally come undone. If I’m looking at this right, and if I remember what your uncle told us, to lower it you have to insert the crank and then remove the safety pin, holding on to the crank. Only then can anyone wind it down.”
“That sounds right. So, what happened?”
“If you ask me, somebody inserted the crank, removed the safety pin, and then let go, letting it spin wildly down on top of Mr. Rutherford.”
“You mean on purpose?”
“That’s the way I see it, Henry. The crank is clearly in the gear hole, and remember he told us they keep it on top of the clock?”
“Maybe Miss Grant or Jake forgot to put it back the last time it was cleaned, and the safety pin slipped.”
“At exactly the moment Mr. Rutherford was nearly beneath it? I think we should call the police.”
“But why would anyone want to hurt him?”
Skip stared at him but didn’t reply right away, fighting something inside him. Finally, he took a deep breath. “I don’t know. By the way, I noticed you were already downstairs when it happened. I thought you’d gone up to bed.”
“I did. Or at least I was upstairs. I heard the crash and rushed down. You had your back to me, focusing on what had happened, so I guess you didn’t see me.”
“But you’re still fully dressed.”
“I was using the bathroom before going to my room, brushing my teeth and all. I’d just finished when the accident happened.”
“All right,” Skip said. “Let’s go talk to your uncle before he goes upstairs.”
Together they walked back to the yellow drawing room, where the sister and Mr. Rutherford were conversing. Briefly, Skip filled him in on what he had found, but his reaction was almost identical to Henry’s.
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Valentine, but it was simply an unfortunate accident. The police would come to the same conclusion.”
“But they could take fingerprints on the crank, question the suspects…”
“What suspects? The members of this household? Let’s not add insult to injury.”
“There is Jake…” Sister Barnabas said quietly.
“I don’t want to think about it,” Mr. Rutherford said. “Not now. I think right now we should all go to bed. I’m feeling much better.”
“But the boy has anger issues, he’s lashed out at you before.”
“I know. I’ve spoken to Jane about it, but let’s not talk of it tonight.” He turned to Skip and Henry. “Remember, breakfast is served in the dining room, à la carte, between seven and nine. Come down as you wish. I’m always the first one up, a morning bird, I am. I usually wake with the dawn. Sister likes to sleep in when she can, and Jane usually takes a breakfast tray up to Mother around seven thirty or eight.”
“Perhaps Mr. Finch or Mr. Valentine can assist you in getting up the stairs and into your room, Mr. Rutherford,” the sister said.
“Good grief, I’m fine. Leave me be. I can manage on my own. Go on now, go, all of you,” Mr. Rutherford said, a hint of irritation in his voice.
Skip opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he followed Henry out and they went upstairs to their rooms, Sister Barnabas staying behind just in case.
When Skip had brushed his teeth, undressed, and put on his pajamas, he knocked three times on the connecting door. Henry answered with two raps of his own. “What’s up?” Henry said in a low whisper.
“I can’t help feeling the chandelier falling wasn’t an accident.”
“But if anyone was standing at the lever, crank in hand, Mr. Rutherford would have easily seen them, Skip.”
“That’s true, but the lever is just outside the door to the blue drawing room. Someone could have reached out, inserted the crank, and let it go when they saw him coming. And I saw Sister Barnabas coming out of the blue drawing room.”
“I suppose that’s a possibility, but she has no motive. If anyone did it, and I don’t think that’s the case, my money would be on Jake. As Uncle Ambrose and Sister Barnabas said, he has anger issues. And did you notice he was fully dressed?” Henry said.
“Yes, I did, but so were you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I told you I was using the bathroom before going to my room to get ready for bed.”
“I know, sorry. But Jake couldn’t have been hiding in the blue drawing room, or the sister would have seen him.”
“He may have been in the hall, in the shadows, or in one of the deep doorways. And Jake knows how to operate the crank.”
“Yes, you’re right. Ugh, it’s all enough to make my head hurt.”
“Mine, too. But I still think it was just an unfortunate accident. Let’s try to get some sleep, okay? I’m exhausted.”
“Okay, Finch, night. Meet in the hall at seven?”
“Sure. Night, Valentine.”
Skip was asleep as soon as his head met the pillow, but he slept fitfully, tossing and turning. He had a dream where Miss Grant, Sister Barnabas, and Mrs. Rutherford were putting together a jigsaw puzzle with him, but none of the pieces fit. Mrs. Rutherford got angry and upset the table. And then he was in his bed, and Sister Barnabas was trying to put him to sleep, all the while talking softly and sweetly, but he couldn’t understand her because her mouth was full of marbles, which kept dropping out and hitting him in the face. And Jake kept banging and breaking things, but nobody but Skip seemed to notice. And the worst of it, Jake morphed into Henry, only he was naked except for a red bandanna, and he was laughing maniacally while pounding on Skip’s door as a mutt barked in the distance.
Abruptly Skip awoke, confused and sweating, but the noises continued. His mind went immediately to the ghosts of Bitters and his dog. He threw back the covers and swung his legs over, his feet landing on the soft area rug to the side of the bed. The room was dark, and the noises stopped as quickly as they had started—or did they? No, it was just Skip’s heart pounding loudly, his breathing heavy. He switched on the bedside lamp and stood, not sure what to do. Had he imagined it? Had he dreamt it? Needing validation, Skip walked over to the connecting door to Henry’s room and softly rapped three times upon it once more. Almost immediately two knocks came back in response.
“You heard it, too?” Henry said. “The pounding and the barking?”
“Yes, it woke me up. Where was it coming from?”
“I don’t know, but it sounded like it was inside the house, yet far away, distant, if that makes any sense.”
“Like ghosts,” Skip said.
“Maybe. I’m going to have a look in the hall.”
“Meet you there.”
Skip went out as quietly as he could. Henry was already there, wearing striped pajamas that almost glowed in the darkness. They stood there listening, staring at each other dimly, but the house was silent. The clock in the hall downstairs struck three, and they both jumped, then laughed nervously.
“Doesn’t seem like anyone else in the house appears to have heard the noises,” Skip said.
“They must all be sound sleepers. I’m surprised it didn’t rouse Mrs. Rutherford, though. She said she’d heard it before, remember?”
“Yes, but the sister said she’d given her a sleeping draught, so I suppose she slept through it.”
“True. Let’s try to get some more sleep. We can investigate in the morning.”
“I hate to break it to you, Finch, but it is morning,” Skip said, yawning.
“Ugh, you’re right. See you in a few hours.” Henry leaned over and kissed him in the dark, and Skip felt it go down to his bare toes.
“May I say you look pretty attractive in those pajamas, Mr. Finch?”
Henry wrapped his arms crisscrossed over his chest. “Thanks, but it’s so dark you can barely see me. And it feels weird wearing pajamas. At home, I sleep naked.”
“I know, same here.”
“Just the way I like it. Ugh, I’m cold. This house is awfully drafty.”
“Want me to keep you warm for a while?” Skip said, moving close and speaking low.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Henry whispered. He took Skip’s hand, and the two of them disappeared quietly into Henry’s room and shut the door.