Instruments of Night (5 page)

Graves considered the long comradeship he’d forged with Slovak, aging him book by book, adding bulk to his frame, aches to his joints, wrinkling his face, blurring his vision. In book six he was still recovering from a head wound suffered in book five, and he’d never lost the limp he’d gotten in a fall in volume nine. Worst of all, two decades of pursuing Kessler through fog and rain, searching for him in dank cellars and through the teeming wards of charity hospitals and workhouses, had at last produced a harsh, racking cough. But time had inflicted a greater injury still. In book twelve Slovak’s wife had died after an illness that had spanned the two previous volumes. Her death left him with an aching grief as well as a strange, inchoate need for revenge. In the thirteenth volume a
spiritual malaise had begun to settle in, slowly draining away the raw vitality that had sustained him for so long. By book fourteen, the latest one to have been published, this dispiritedness had deepened, leaving Slovak glum and sleepless, a spectral figure who spent his evenings slouched in the dimly lighted corners of after-hours bars. By volume fifteen, the one to which Graves had finally come to the end just the previous day, and which had taken him the longest to write, Slovak’s inner life had begun to spiral downward at an ever-accelerating rate. Plagued by hideous visions of past crimes, his mind echoing with the screams of Kessler’s long-dead victims, Slovak’s view of life had turned so intensely grim that his character seemed poised on the brink of an absolute despair.

“You’re like Slovak in many ways, I think.” Miss Davies watched him silently, and Graves wondered if some aspect of Slovak’s decline, the deep loneliness that gnawed at him continually, had suddenly swum into his own face. “I’ve asked you here to solve a mystery, Mr. Graves,” she said finally. “A murder mystery. You see, years ago a young girl was murdered here at Riverwood. Her name was Faye. Faye Harrison. She was my best friend.” She smiled the sort of fleeting, rueful smile Graves put on the lips of the burned-out, melancholy women he wrote about now, the ones Slovak met in smoky bars and drew beneath his arm, though with no other motive than to ease and comfort them, all desire extinguished, departed with his wife.

“She was murdered here during an otherwise perfect summer.” Some element of that happier time appeared briefly in Miss Davies’ face, then no less quickly vanished. “Riverwood was wonderful in those days. We all lived together. My whole family. Faye’s father worked as a groundskeeper. She was eight years old when he died. After that, Mrs. Harrison and Faye stayed on here at
Riverwood. Mrs. Harrison continued to work as a teacher in a local school.” Miss Davies glanced over Graves’ shoulder, fixed her attention briefly on something in the distance, then returned to him. “Faye was the closest friend I ever had, Mr. Graves. She was part of our family. Beloved. And that summer, the last one we spent together, was the best one of my life.”

For an instant, Graves thought of his own favorite summer. He could remember how beautiful Gwen had looked when she brushed her hair in the evening and the way she’d always checked in on him before going to bed each night.
Are you all right, Paul?
He had never felt more safe, more loved, more at home on earth than when he’d answered her.
Yes, I’m fine.

“Faye had just turned sixteen when she was murdered,” Miss Davies went on. “That was on August 27, 1946. The summer after the war.”

The scene spontaneously materialized in Graves’ mind, a stage set of brilliant summer days, placid lakes, bright flags flying in the small villages of upstate New York, a few young men still in uniform, all America buoyant and full of celebration, relishing the last lingering pleasure of its recent military triumph. He heard the lilting refrain of “Sentimental Journey,” saw crowded troop ships returning from Europe and the Pacific, soldiers running down wide gangplanks into the arms of relatives, friends, lovers.

“Things were so relaxed that summer,” Miss Davies said. “My brother Edward was home from college. He often went sailing. I remember my father sitting quietly, at the end of the pier. So peaceful. My mother had nothing to do but sit for her portrait.” Something caught in her mind. “Actually, it was the portrait artist who found Faye’s body. Andre Grossman. He found it about two miles from here. A place called Manitou Cave.”

Graves instantly envisioned it as a dank and murky place, with dripping walls and a soggy earthen floor. Bats hung from the ceiling in ceaselessly agitated clusters, their leathery wings flapping in the dark air. In one of its cold, unlighted hollows he saw a slender girl lying facedown, naked. Leaves and dirt were flung over her, crusted in her mouth and open eyes. The dried-out bones of long-devoured animals lay scattered in the soil around her, all that was left of some much earlier prey.

Miss Davies’ pale face tightened. “It was terrible, what Mr. Grossman saw. I don’t think he ever quite got over it.” She shuddered, as if touched by a sudden chill. “There are pictures, of course. You can get the … details. I’d rather not go into them.”

Graves recognized that the moment of truth had arrived. “I suppose it’s time for me to ask what you actually
do
want me to go into, Miss Davies.”

“The past,” she answered without hesitation. “That summer fifty years ago.” She drew a piece of paper from the pocket of her trousers, white with blue lines, clearly torn from a spiral notebook. “A few weeks ago I received a letter from Faye’s mother. It was quite nostalgic. She recalled how Faye and I had been so close, how wonderful that last summer had been. The way we used to sneak off to Indian Rock. That was our secret place. Faye’s and mine. We went there to be alone. Anyway, Mrs. Harrison’s letter brought back memories. It was good to hear from her again. Nothing really disturbed me until I got to the end of the letter, the last few lines.” She lifted the paper toward Graves. “You can read them for yourself.”

Graves took it, went directly to its last paragraph, and read it silently:

I’ve never understood it, Allison. What happened to Faye? I think and think, but I can’t find an answer. I see her face the way she
was. I ask the same question over and over. Why, Faye? I’ve prayed for an answer, but no answer has come. That’s my punishment. I know it is. To be tormented by the mystery of my daughter’s death.

Graves offered the letter to Miss Davies; she didn’t take it.

“I’d like you to hold on to it awhile, Mr. Graves. As a reminder of how tormented Mrs. Harrison is. As you’ve no doubt guessed, Faye’s murder was never solved. At least not formally.”

Graves folded the letter and put it in his pocket. “What do you mean, not formally?”

“Well, a man was accused of the murder. A local man. His name was Jake Mosley. It’s always been quite obvious that Mosley killed Faye. But clearly, Mrs. Harrison doesn’t believe Jake did it. Because of that—what she wrote, particularly in that last line—about not knowing who killed Faye, I decided to contact you.”

Graves said nothing.

“Mrs. Harrison is quite old now, as you might imagine, Mr. Graves. And I don’t want her to die still wondering what happened to her daughter. It’s all I can do for her now. To give her the peace she needs. And only an answer can do that. A solution to Faye’s murder.” She looked at him piercingly. “It would be cruel for her to die without that, don’t you think?”

In his mind, Graves heard Sheriff Sloane’s soft, imploring voice:
Please, son, don’t make me die without knowing who killed your sister.

“That’s why I’ve asked you here to Riverwood,” Miss Davies continued when he did not speak. “To find an answer to Faye’s death.” Before Graves could respond, she added, “I know you’re not a detective, Mr. Graves. At least, not a real one. But it’s not a real detective I need. Just the opposite, in fact. I need someone who can go
beyond the facts of the case. I need someone who can
imagine
what happened to Faye, and why.”

The flaw in such reasoning was instantly obvious, and Graves dutifully exposed it. “To imagine things, that’s not the same as finding the truth,” he told her.

“No, of course not,” Miss Davies admitted. “But I already know the truth. Jake Mosley murdered Faye. As you’ll learn quite quickly once you’ve looked into the facts of the case. Unfortunately, Mrs. Harrison isn’t satisfied with that solution.” Her eyes softened. “She needs a different story, Mr. Graves. That’s why I’ve asked you here to Riverwood. To write a story that will give Mrs. Harrison the peace she deserves.”

“A story?” Graves asked.

“Yes, a story,” Miss Davies answered firmly. “It doesn’t have to be true. As a matter of fact, it can’t be true. But it does have to meet two conditions. The first is that the ‘killer’ has to be someone from Riverwood, someone Mrs. Harrison knew. Not a stranger, someone who just happened to come upon Faye in the woods, killed her, and then disappeared forever.”

Graves saw the old car rumble away in the bright morning light, a single arm waving good-bye from an open window, leaving a farmhouse that had been stumbled upon by accident, then left in unspeakable ruin. “But that sometimes happens,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” Miss Davies replied. “But it can’t have happened in this case. Not in your story, I mean. Because if you were to write that a stranger murdered Faye, there would be no resolution in Mrs. Harrison’s mind. So it must be someone from Riverwood who did it. Someone who had what the police call ‘opportunity.’”

Graves waited for the second condition.

“Motive,” Miss Davies said. “Your story has to provide a motive for Faye’s murder that Mrs. Harrison will believe.
That’s the job I’m offering you, Mr. Graves.” Before Graves could either accept or refuse it, she added, “Please don’t give me your answer right away. There are some photographs I’d like you to look at first. They might help you in your decision. I’ve had them sent to your apartment in New York. They’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

“Pictures of what?” Graves asked.

“Of innocence,” Miss Davies answered baldly. “Of an ideal summer in an ideal place.” A wave of long-submerged pain and anger suddenly swept into her face. “It wasn’t just Faye who was killed, you see. Riverwood was murdered too. Its beauty and its innocence. That’s what died with Faye that summer. Her murder darkened everything at Riverwood. Particularly my father. He’d worked hard to make life perfect here. He believed in that, you see. Perfection. That life could be made perfect. Even mankind. But Faye’s murder destroyed all that. It broke my father’s zeal for perfection. He died only a year later. All I ask is that you look at the pictures I’ve sent you. If you want the job, you can come back here and work. I’ve already gathered the relevant police reports. You’ll have complete access to everything.” She rose. “Of course, if you decide against it, I’d like the photographs returned.” She glanced about the placid landscape that surrounded them, the deep green forest, the dark green pond. Her eyes finally settled on a narrow trail that coiled like a dark vein up the far slope. “That’s where Faye was seen for the last time at Riverwood,” she told Graves. “She was standing just at the mouth of that trail.” A smile briefly shadowed her lips, then vanished. “She was wearing a light blue summer dress. One of her favorites. ‘My piece of sky,’ she always called that dress.”

Graves looked toward where Allison Davies had indicated and saw, without in the least willing it, a young girl
Standing at the edge of the forest. The girl stared at him mutely, her face blank and unsmiling. Then she turned away gracefully, her eyes quiet, mournful, as if she’d already glimpsed a fate she had no choice but to accept, a slender figure disappearing into the deep, enfolding woods like a piece of sky into an open grave.

L
unch arrived at Graves’ cottage promptly at noon, this time brought by Frank Saunders.

“Miss Davies told me that you’ll be returning to New York tomorrow morning,” he said as he deposited the tray on the kitchen table. “When is your bus?”

“It leaves at ten.”

Saunders nodded. “Good enough, then. I’ll have the car here at nine-thirty.”

He turned to leave, and Graves had every intention of letting him go. Because of that, his question surprised him, like something leaping from his mouth of its own accord. “How long have you worked here at Riverwood, Mr. Saunders?”

Saunders shifted around to face him again, and Graves caught a sudden edginess. “I was just a young boy when I came here. More or less an orphan. Mr. Davies took me in. Gave me a home. I’ve been here ever since.”

“So you were here the summer after the war?”

Saunders looked at Graves as if a question had just been
answered. “The summer after the war,” he repeated. “So that’s why you’re here. To look into what happened that summer. To Faye Harrison, I mean.” He appeared vaguely irritated. “I knew something was going on. All those papers Miss Davies has gathered together in the office behind the library. The way she’s been going through them. All about Faye. If you ask me, she should just let it go.”

During all the years that had passed since Gwen’s death, Graves had never considered such a letting-go, had never told himself that he should forget what had happened, the horrors that had crowded into the cramped space of his boyhood home, the long, silent year. Those horrors hung in him like hooks. He could not imagine himself free of them. Now he wondered if it was the same with Miss Davies. He recalled her words—
Riverwood was murdered too
—and wondered if the crime committed against Faye Harrison worked in her the way Gwen’s murder worked in him, formed the grim foundation of her life, her origins.

“Sometimes it’s the
thing
that won’t let
you
go,” Graves said. A voice sounded in his mind.
What’s your name, boy?
“Some things change the way you see life.”

Saunders glanced toward the main house. “Anyway, there’s a whole room up at the house, packed full of papers and reports.” He turned back toward Graves. “But the fact is, everybody knows who killed Faye Harrison.”

“Jake Mosley.”

Saunders looked surprised by Graves’ mention of the name. “I see Miss Davies already told you about him.”