Saturday Afternoon, September 18, 1937
Heatherwick
My mission successful, I searched next for Simon, expecting to find him in his room. When he wasn’t there, I checked the rest of the house and finally found him in the study, sitting with a snifter of brandy before the fire. He was staring into the flames looking lost.
“I thought you were in your room,” I said as I came up beside him and stood next to his chair. “Mrs. Devlin mentioned you had a headache.”
He looked up at me, his eyes red. “I was in my room, and I still have a headache. A right bloody throbbing one. Aspirin didn’t seem to help, so I came down here for something stronger. That hasn’t done much good either, though.”
“Early in the day for a brandy, isn’t it?” I said. “It’s not even noon.”
He looked over to the mantel clock. “Five minutes of, close enough. Did you want something?”
“Yes, I wanted to talk to you.”
“I wanted to talk to you, too. Remember when you asked about the playroom yesterday?”
“Yes?” I said cautiously. Did he suspect I’d been in there? Did he know?
“I went up there today, thought I heard footsteps. Turns out it was Mrs. Devlin looking for a mouse. God knows there are often plenty of them about this time of year.”
“Oh, I suppose so.” So much for him not wanting his guests to know about the mice.
“I hadn’t been there since the night Charlotte died. It brought back so many memories going up there again. I can’t stand it, Heath, I just can’t. I told her to box everything up and get rid of it, once and for all.”
“That may be wise. Speaking of that, Simon, I have something for you. But before I give it to you, I’d like to ask you something, and I’d like you to tell me the truth.”
He looked at me in surprise, setting his glass down. “What’s this about? You seem so serious.”
I took a deep breath. “I am serious. I want you to tell me what really happened the night your father died, and who really killed him. And I want you to tell me the truth, the whole truth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He picked up his glass again and took a drink.
“I think you do, and I think you’ll be interested in what I have for you when you tell me.”
“What do you have for me?”
“First, tell me who really killed your father.”
He finished the drink, set the empty glass down, and slowly rose to his feet, holding on to the mantel to steady himself. I wondered how many brandies he’d had already. “What do you mean, Barrington? What are you getting at? It was a burglar. We’ve been over this.”
“That’s not what really happened, though, is it?”
“It’s all in writing in the official report, if you care to read it. I’m sure it’s in a file down at the police station, not that it’s any of your business.”
I looked at him straight on. “You told me yourself there was tension between your father and Wigglesworth going back several years, but that it got worse after he fired Clara, Wigglesworth’s niece.”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Why the tension? I asked myself. And why was it so hard to keep the undermaids? You told me yesterday Agatha and Bonnie have only been here a little over two years, hired just before your father died. But the other staff members have been here thirty plus years. Why?”
“Young girls come and go. They don’t have the work ethic the older ones do.”
“Or is it because your father drove them off? He wanted more from them than just dusting and cleaning. Sexual favors, if you will.”
Simon scowled. “That is rude and presumptuous. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Wigglesworth slipped a sleeping draught into your father’s peppermint tea. It’d be easy enough to do. Sir Lionel hadn’t asked for the tea but drank it anyway when Wigglesworth brought it to him. Your father then went upstairs to take a bromide. Only he quickly became drowsy and passed out on his bed. Enter Wigglesworth, on the excuse that he was checking on Sir Lionel after he served the mulled wine in the drawing room. Wigglesworth stabs him through the heart, then he takes the watch and wallet, empties it of cash, which he later gives to Clara in an envelope in the kitchen yard, and then drops the empty wallet and the watch out the window.”
“Ridiculous, utter nonsense.”
“Mrs. Devlin saw him give Clara an envelope a few days later. You know it’s true.”
“So what? She’s his niece.”
“Yes, but in that particular envelope was payment taken from your father’s wallet for a doctor because she was in the family way, and your father was the man responsible. But let’s get back to the night of the murder. After killing your father, Wigglesworth took out a handkerchief of yours that he’d stolen, wiped up some of the blood, maybe cleaned off the murder weapon, which he pocketed to discard later, and then intentionally dropped your handkerchief on the floor of Sir Lionel’s bedroom. He went back downstairs and announced your father had been murdered. He may have been planning on killing him after answering Miss Charlotte’s call button, but he ran into Mrs. Devlin in the hall, delaying him.”
“So the butler did it? That’s absurd, Heath. Stop playing amateur sleuth. Wigglesworth would never kill my father.”
“He chose that night because the house was full of suspects. Maybe he thought they’d pin it on Mr. Wittenham, or you obviously, because of the handkerchief. It would have been easy for him to obtain one from your room.”
“You’re crazy. There’s no proof.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But if I present my theory to the new constable, they’ll at least question Wigglesworth. Maybe he’ll ask Clara what was in that envelope her uncle gave her and she’ll have to explain. The local paper would run a story, open the investigation again—”
“That would destroy and humiliate him and Clara. You can’t do that. Wigglesworth didn’t kill my father, I swear to you.”
“I know that,” I said softly, watching him. “At least I do now.”
“What? What do you mean? What are you on about?”
“The fact that you know Wigglesworth didn’t kill your father means you know who did.”
“So that was a ruse? A game?”
“Call it what you will. Wigglesworth was a plausible suspect, but your reaction tells me he’s innocent.”
“All right. We both like games, so I’ll play. Who do you think really killed the old man?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Oh, no. This is your game. Please continue. I’m absolutely fascinated, but let me get another drink first.” He picked up the empty glass and walked somewhat unsteadily toward the sideboard, returning shortly with it three-quarters full. “Now then, pray tell, who do you think did the deed that dark night? Extra points if you say Wittenham.”
I shook my head slowly. “No, sorry. Not your cousin, though I almost wish it had been. I’m sorry to say it, Simon, but you took your father’s wallet and watch and threw the wallet out the window after you’d emptied it so it would look like a burglary. A few days later, you gave the cash to Wigglesworth to give to his niece, though you most likely didn’t tell him where it came from. It was probably only fifty or perhaps a hundred pounds, but it made up in some small part for how she was treated by your father, and helped with her doctor bills.”
He laughed now, spilling some of his drink. “Are you saying I killed him? Damn you, read the report. It was a burglar.”
“No, Simon, it wasn’t,” I said softly. “I’m sorry, but you know it wasn’t. You concocted that story, and your friend the constable probably went along with it out of loyalty to you and the family. I really wish you had trusted me enough to confide in me fully.”
He looked angry and confused. He clenched his fists and stepped closer to me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. We stared at each other intently and I wondered if he was going to strike me. I reached out slowly, gently, and touched his cheek with the back of my hand. He flinched and then suddenly relaxed. His expression softened, his eyes became moist and even more red.
“You can trust me, Simon. Will you tell me the rest of what happened, please?” I said. “It’s time to confess. Keeping it in is killing you.”
He took a large gulp of brandy. “All right, bloody hell, all right! Fine, I did take his wallet and watch. And the money. You were close, it was sixty-three pounds and some odd change.”
“And you gave it to Wigglesworth to give to Clara to pay her medical bills.”
“Yes. My father never admitted it, but I knew he was responsible for Clara being with child and so did Wigglesworth. And when the bastard found out she was expecting, he fired her and threw her out in the street without even a letter of reference.”
“Harsh.”
“Yes, so I had no problem taking the watch and wallet off his cold, dead body. I tossed them both out the window hoping to make it look like a burglary. It wasn’t well thought out, but I didn’t have much time to think. It wasn’t premeditated.”
“No, it wasn’t. You had only moments to figure out what to do.”
“That’s right, but I didn’t kill my father, Heath.”
“I know you didn’t.”
He looked surprised and shocked. “For God’s sake, why are you doing this to me? I thought we were friends.”
“We are friends, Simon. That’s why I’m trying to help you. It was Charlotte. Your sister killed your father, didn’t she? She was tormented. Her disfigured dolls, her slashed portrait. Everyone thought she killed herself because she was heartbroken over your father’s death, but she wasn’t, was she? He did things to her, awful things no father should ever do. People said she was daddy’s little girl, the apple of his eye, but they didn’t know the dark, awful truth, did they?”
Simon shook his head slowly, tears welling up in his eyes. “No, they didn’t. I didn’t either, for quite some time,” he said, so quietly now I had to almost put my ear to his mouth in order to hear.
“I think I know what happened,” I said. “He followed her up to her room on the pretense of getting the bromide. He went into her room, as he had done so many times before, but she refused him that night. He got angry and attacked her, tearing and ripping her favorite dress, the green silk one with the pink ribbon. She grabbed the letter opener off her desk and thrust it into him in self-defense. And that’s where you came in, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, though how could you have known?” Tears were running down his cheeks now.
“You mentioned to me last night Sir Lionel was stabbed with a letter opener, but no murder weapon was ever found, so how could you have known that’s what was used? Then I remembered Mrs. Devlin telling me how practically everything in Charlotte’s room was monogrammed, including that letter opener. Certainly you couldn’t let anyone find it, so you wiped it clean of blood and prints and put it back on her desk.”
“Charlotte loved monograms,” Simon said. “She gave me all those monogrammed handkerchiefs. I got a box of them for nearly every birthday.”
“Tell me in your own words, please, what happened that night. The complete truth this time.”
He slumped back down into the wing chair as he wiped away his tears with one of his monogramed handkerchiefs. I sat on the floor at his feet, my hand on his knee. After a couple more swallows of his drink, he spoke, looking down at me tenderly. “I went to my room that night to get a phonograph record I thought everyone might enjoy hearing, only it wasn’t where I left it. I searched around before recalling Charlotte had borrowed it earlier. Her room is next door to mine, so I went out in the hall and knocked. There was no answer, so I opened the door and went in.
“Father was standing there, and as he turned to me I could see blood pouring out of a wound in his chest. His eyes were crazed. He tried to speak but no words came out. I noticed his trousers were undone and sagging. He staggered to the servant call button and pressed it before I could stop him. ‘Call the doctor, call the constable,’ he finally managed to say, as he coughed up blood, looking at me imploringly. I glanced at Charlotte. She was trembling in fear and shock. Her dress was torn and bloodstained, her face frozen in terror. In her hand she clutched the bloody letter opener, snatched up from the nearby desk. I looked back at my father and realized what had happened. Suddenly it all made sense. Everything did. I punched him hard in the face and he collapsed and died.”
“I would have done the same, Simon. What happened next?”
“I pried the letter opener from Charlotte’s hand and wiped it clean with my handkerchief, which I stupidly thrust into my pocket. I put the opener back on the desk, grabbed a clean dress from her wardrobe, and gave it to her, instructing her to go in the bathroom and change quickly. While she was doing that, I lit a fire in the fireplace and got it to a fairly good blaze. When Charlotte had changed, I snatched up her bloody, torn dress and threw it into the flames. When Wigglesworth knocked on the door, I told Charlotte to go back into the bathroom and take a sedative. I told Wigglesworth I had pressed the call button by mistake and he wasn’t needed. I wasn’t very believable, but I was making it up as I went along.
“When he was gone and the coast was clear, I dragged Father’s body across the hall to his own room, put him in bed, opened the windows, emptied his wallet, and threw out the wallet and his watch. Then I left, my heart pounding. My handkerchief must have fallen out of my pocket as I was dragging him into his bed. I went back to Charlotte’s room, grabbed the record, and the two of us went down to the drawing room as casually as we could. The sedative Charlotte took had calmed her considerably and she was groggy, but we tried to behave normally. I knew no one must find out she killed him. They’d have locked her away in an asylum, you see? I couldn’t have that. It would have killed her, and me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Thank you. But I ask you again, how did you know? The letter opener notwithstanding.”
“I didn’t, at first. I started putting the clues together, though. I saw her disfigured dolls in the playroom—”
“The playroom? I told you I didn’t want you to go there.”
“I know, I’m sorry. But it wasn’t just the dolls. I also saw her portrait in the hall that had been slashed across the face. And then I remembered something a psychologist at our dinner table on the ship had said, a Dr. Feldmeyer. He said people who have been sexually abused often exhibit self-doubt, self-loathing, and anger, and often blame themselves for the abuse, sometimes to the point of hurting themselves, or in extreme cases even suicide. Charlotte blamed herself for her father’s abuse. She hated herself, hated being pretty, hated attention. She disfigured her dolls, cut her own hair, stopped wearing makeup, and slashed her own portrait across her face, didn’t she?”
He finished his brandy and set the glass down, slowly, deliberately, and then looked at me again, touching the top of my head with his hand, stroking my hair. “Yes, though I didn’t understand why at the time. Everyone thought I had mutilated those dolls and slashed her painting.”
“Understandable, I suppose. Then there was Charlotte’s dress that night. Mrs. Devlin mentioned upon my seeing the portrait in the hall that the dress Charlotte wore in it was her favorite, a green silk with a pink ribbon about the waist, and she was wearing it the night her father was killed. But Wigglesworth said Charlotte was wearing a yellow dress with daisies when he saw you and Charlotte in the drawing room before discovering your father’s body. Why would she change out of her favorite dress so close to bedtime? Because her favorite dress was ripped, torn, and bloodstained, that’s why. Wigglesworth mentioned seeing a roaring fire in the fireplace when he went to her room that night, even though it was a warm evening, and he reported an odd burning odor. The only thing I could think of was that you wanted to destroy something, though I wasn’t sure what until he mentioned Charlotte was wearing a different dress moments later, and I recalled Mrs. Devlin saying the green silk dress wasn’t amongst her things when she packed them up for storage after Charlotte’s death.”
“I did burn it, and it did give off a foul odor. Charlotte didn’t want me to destroy it, but there was nothing else to be done. It couldn’t have been cleaned or repaired without arousing suspicion.”
“I suppose not.”
“I never dreamed they’d try to finger me, but Mrs. Devlin found my bloody handkerchief on the floor of father’s room the next day. I never noticed it when I went back in with Wigglesworth to wait for the constable. So people think I killed him and Charlotte was covering for me. People think she was so heartbroken over the whole affair, she killed herself. Or worse, that I killed her because she knew. I’ve had to live with that. So many regrets. Mostly I regret not realizing sooner what my father was doing to Charlotte. After she killed him, I figured out at least some of the things she had been going through. I tried to protect her, to make up for lost time, but it was too little, too late. So, I guess in some ways people are right about that. I suppose I did kill her.”
“You didn’t, Simon.”
“In some ways I did. I should have known. I should have done something. Charlotte told me it started when I was twenty-two and away at university. She was just sixteen.”
“A long time ago.”
“Yes, I suppose so. As I said, I wasn’t home much then. I came back for summers and holidays, but I honestly had no idea what was going on. When I was home, I could see Charlotte was acting differently, that she’d changed, but I didn’t know why. I was actually jealous of her relationship with the old man, how he doted on her, bought her pretty dresses and things, talked about her all the time. I felt neglected. But after she killed him, she told me everything. Apparently, he used to take her to the trunk room in the attic, but after the fire up there, which I believe she started, he began coming to her room late at night. She told me she’d lie awake in the dark, staring at that doorknob, waiting for it to slowly turn, and for him to come in, wearing only his robe. It sickens me that I could have been so blind to it, so naïve. She was only a child, and his daughter!”
“It doesn’t matter to people like that, Simon. Your father also molested, or tried to, most of the undermaids, didn’t he? It’s why they never stayed long. Wigglesworth may never have known or wanted to believe the whole truth about Sir Lionel, but certainly after his niece Clara ended up with child and was discharged, at that point he began to suspect, and his attitude toward your father changed even more.”
“He suspected more than I did. But I don’t think Wigglesworth knew exactly what was going on with Charlotte. He wouldn’t have stood for it. He adored her, we all did. I think he thought it was just the undermaids the bastard was molesting, which is bad enough, but at least they were adults.”
“You can’t blame yourself. You were young and away much of the time, as you said.”
He laughed bitterly, withdrawing his hand from my head and getting to his feet. “Father wanted me away as much as possible. One summer he even sent me to Canada for a holiday, all expenses paid. I was grateful. Grateful! Once the old man was dead and I realized all that had transpired, I tried to make things right. I tried to help her, but it was too late. I couldn’t reach her, I couldn’t help her, I was as helpless as she was. And then she killed herself, a year later, which caused me to be racked with even more guilt, wondering if covering up her deed had been the right choice.” He filled his glass once more and sat back down.
“After she was gone, why didn’t you come clean, tell the truth about everything?”
“Who’d believe me? I had no proof. Besides, it would implicate me in the murder, covering up and destroying evidence. And I couldn’t have Charlotte’s name dragged through the mud, her memory sullied. It would have made things worse, not better.”
“Charlotte had nothing to be ashamed of. She did nothing wrong. Nothing. But Charlotte is dead. Protecting her now is only hurting you. You had no way of knowing what your father was doing to her. You can’t blame yourself.”
“Oh, but I can blame myself, and I do a bloody good job of it nearly every day. I should have known. Charlotte became more and more withdrawn as time went by, but I couldn’t figure out why. I blame myself for not being closer to her, for not being able to protect her from him. And I blame myself for not being able to help her after his death. Once more I didn’t know how to help, and I’ve had to live with that every second of every day since. I feel like she blamed me for not knowing, not stopping him. I was her big brother…”
“Maybe this will help,” I said. I reached into my suit coat pocket and extracted the envelope I’d found. I stood then, and held it out for him.
He stared at it over the top of his glass. “What is that?”
“I found Charlotte’s letter, Simon, the one you’ve been searching for.”
His eyes grew large. “What? Where? How? I don’t believe it. I’ve searched and searched for it, tearing the house apart, going through drawers, books, albums. Where could you have found it?”
“She didn’t hide it in Heatherwick per se, Simon, but in the little mailbox of the playhouse. It’s been there all this time. That’s the house she meant. The playhouse. Her refuge.”
He looked at me in disbelief, and then reached out a trembling hand for the envelope, dropping his glass to the floor, where it shattered.
“I…I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true. Read it,” I said.
He opened the envelope and withdrew the letter.
Dear Simon,
Don’t blame yourself, please, and know that I don’t blame you, I never could, I never would. You didn’t know what Father had done to me. I kept it from you, and so did he. I can’t go on feeling as I do and having to keep that secret. I killed him because I couldn’t stand him touching me anymore, doing those awful things to me, and I couldn’t stand myself, which is why I’m taking this poison. Death, I fear, is the only escape for me. What comes before death? What is death’s prelude? Is it life? Is it end of life? Is it despair? I don’t know, my love, but I never was very good at figuring things like that out. I do know that what comes after death is peace, and that is something that has eluded me for a very long time. Don’t hate me and please don’t forget me.
Love,
Charlotte
He shuddered then, and began weeping openly, sobbing almost uncontrollably, gulping for air, his chest heaving in and out. I reached down and lifted him up, taking him into my arms, comforting him as best I could. I felt awful that I’d brought this on, but maybe I helped somehow. We stood like that for some time, his head on my shoulder, arms wrapped tightly about my waist.
After a while he spoke, softly. “She didn’t blame me, then.”
“No, Simon, she didn’t. She loved you. She knew you were trying to help.”
“But it was too late.”
“It was, then, but it’s not now. It’s not too late to help yourself,” I said. “It’s time to forgive yourself, to vindicate yourself, and to believe you are worthy of happiness.”
He lifted his head and looked at me, wiping away tears. “I’m not so sure.”
“I am.”
He unwrapped his arms from my waist, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
“You’ve always been sure of me. You never doubted me, did you, Heath?”
“No, not really.”
“Why? You’re the only one.”
“Call it instinct, maybe. I don’t know. When you care about someone, you have to believe.”
“Thanks for that, truly.” He looked about, and then back at me. “So much has changed. You’ve changed.”
“Me? Really?”
“You’ve grown up a lot since that first day I met you on the deck of the Queen Mary. You’re more confident, self-assured. Strong, mature, and not naïve anymore.”
“In some ways I feel the same as I always did, but in other ways I feel like I’ve aged a hundred years.”
“Well, you’re a pretty handsome hundred-year-old,” he said with a soft smile in his eyes. “You know, perhaps I need to change, too. Maybe I can find it in my heart to forgive myself now.”
“It’s what she would have wanted. A good start would be to give Charlotte’s letter to the new inspector constable. Explain what happened. You can leave out certain details if you want, to protect yourself. It’s the proof you need.”
“But Charlotte’s memory, her reputation…”
“Charlotte was an innocent. She did nothing wrong, Simon. Your father was the real culprit, and the world needs to know that.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right, the world needs to know, so that perhaps others will speak out against their attackers as well.”
“Exactly. To know they’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Make the call to the constable, Simon, then you can move on with your life.”
“My life, yes. I suppose I should get on with it, I’m over thirty, you know.”
“And quite a catch, I must say. Do you mean to marry that woman?”
“Ruth? Maybe. I don’t know yet. I know you don’t understand, but it’s not just producing an heir or living up to expectations.”
“What else is there?”
“Money, if I may be frank. I don’t think I can sustain Heatherwick without an influx of it, and Ruth St. James has it in abundance.”
“You could sell. Maybe we could be confirmed bachelors together in a little flat in London.”
He looked at me, just the hint of a smile on his lips, his eyes still red and puffy. “That would be nice. Nice for me, not so nice for you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t belong in England, not long term. Trouble is coming, big trouble. It’s brewing and bubbling like mad right now, and it’s only a matter of time until it boils over. I’d like it if you were far away from it all and safe, back in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”
“Then why don’t you come to America, too?”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “England is my home, Heatherwick is my home. I must stay and do what I can to defend her, to help her, to aid in any small way I can.”
“Oh. So that’s it, then.”
“I’m afraid so, yes. That’s how it must be.”
“It wouldn’t do any good to say I don’t agree.”
“No. Please try to understand.”
I stared at him, fighting back tears of my own. “Okay.”
“You can write to me. I’d be chuffed to bits, truly.”
“I…I will, of course. And you write to me. And come visit.”
“Perhaps. You know, you’ll make a good policeman, and I have no doubt you’ll make inspector someday.”
“Detective.”
“Oh, right. You’ll make a jolly good detective one day, Heath Barrington. And you may end up meeting somebody closer to home.”
“Not likely, Simon. Not anyone like you.”
“No, not like me, at least I hope not! But a nice chap, someone you can be a confirmed bachelor with. As for me, well, time will tell. Who knows? I can’t think of these things now.”
“Promise me you’ll at least forget about that bloody curse now,” I said.
He laughed for the first time in what seemed a long time. “I just realized something. There is no more curse, you broke it. Don’t you see? It’s bloody amazing!”
“I broke it? How? What do you mean?” I looked at him, puzzled.
He strode purposefully to the book behind the desk and extracted the old parchment paper, reading aloud from it.
A curse upon the Quimby clan,
every woman, child, and man
Misfortune and mayhem to them befell
while they live beneath this spell.
The curse will stand and not be broken
until the truest words are spoken
by one whose heart is pure and strong,
who proves his worth and rights the wrong.
Consigned by the Queen to victory
to solve the hidden mystery.
“Yes, yes, I remember what it said, but what does it have to do with me?” I said, walking over to him.
“Don’t you see? You spoke the truest words, and your heart is pure and strong. You believed in me, you told me you loved me. And you solved the hidden mystery.”
“Well, gee, I don’t know about all that. I mean, I figured a few things out—”
“You did more than that. And you were sent by the Queen, the RMS Queen Mary, just like the curse said.”
“Now, that’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” I said.
“I don’t,” he said firmly. “You were consigned by the Queen to victory, and you proved your worth and then some. I think you were brought here for a purpose, and you’ve been my salvation in more ways than one. I can’t thank you enough, Heath Barrington. You changed my life. You saved my life.”
“Well, gee, you changed my life, too, you know, forever and always. I…I do love you, I really do.”
He came close to me once more and touched my cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re sweet, but this isn’t Wuthering Heights. No pining away for me, no tragedy, all right? I’m just your first love. There will be at least one other, I predict. It’s the way of the world. For me, too, perhaps.”
“All right. But first loves are important, and ones you never forget, at least I hope not.”
“Never,” he said. “You, Heathcliff, are unforgettable.”