Miss Lizzie (8 page)

Without taking his eyes off Miss Lizzie, Da Silva flicked his head toward the entryway. “Get that, Medley.”

Miss Lizzie said, “This is
my
house.” She drew herself up as tall as her stocky body would allow, and I was reminded of photographs I had seen of the British queen, Victoria. “And
my
door. If anyone is to answer it, it will be I.”

Da Silva, his smile unchanged, made another small formal bow. “As you wish.”

No one spoke as she left.

Swiveled slightly on the sofa, I stared at the chief of police. He must have felt my scrutiny: his glance darted toward me, and he stared back. In his eyes, dark as obsidian, I could read neither fondness nor dislike, neither concern nor malice nor curiosity, no emotion at all.

Miss Lizzie returned, followed by two men.

One of them, I knew instantly, was the doctor. A short tubby man in a rumpled black suit, a few sparse white hairs lacquered over his gleaming pink scalp, he carried a battered squat leather satchel in his right hand. His eyes blinking rapidly behind thick horn-rimmed glasses, he was chattering away to Miss Lizzie: “… quite a coup for me, you know, half the town dying all summer for a peek inside this place, clucking away like hens, and here I am, eh? old Dr. Bowen, the lucky one …”

Miss Lizzie was expressionless still.

“… Ah,” exclaimed the doctor, spotting Da Silva and extending his hand toward him, “good to see you, Chief. How's the arm, eh? Still no problems?”

Da Silva released the doctor's hand. “None.”

“Good, good, glad to hear it, they can do first-rate work, those army surgeons. Not always, mind—butchers, some of them, pure and simple, lobbing off arms and legs and whatnot like pruning hedges, eh? H'lo there, Tom, keeping out of mischief, eh? Frank, you're looking a mite peaked, need more iron in your diet, blackstrap molasses be just the ticket. Well, to work, to work, eh? Where's the patient?”

“Miss Burton,” said Miss Lizzie. “On the sofa.”

This I barely heard; I was staring at the second man. He stood now with his arms folded across his chest, his shoulder canted casually against the jamb of the parlor door. He wore a suit of white linen that was spotless and, defying the heat, decidedly unrumpled. He sported too a pair of white patent leather shoes, a pale-blue shirt of some shiny material that could only be silk and whose white collar was clasped together with a gold collar pin, which helped hold in place a dark-blue regimental tie. In his late twenties, sharp featured, his black hair combed straight back from a broad, intelligent forehead, he was rakishly, elegantly, handsome—years later, when I read the line of Edward Arlington Robinson, “clean shaven and imperially slim,” I thought immediately of this man.

His mouth was formed into a lazy and ironic smile—at Dr. Bowen, at the situation, perhaps at life itself. His eyes were green, like those of Miss Lizzie's cat; but, beneath lids that were half shut, as though he might doze off at any moment, they glittered with shrewdness and a private amusement.

He nodded to the two officers. “Medley. O'Hara.” And, still smiling ironically, nodded to Da Silva. “Chief.”

Da Silva nodded back, no longer smiling himself. “I see that Miss Borden has spared no time, and no expense, obtaining counsel.”

The man raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “But surely that's her right, old man?”

Ignoring this, Da Silva said, “O'Hara?”

O'Hara snapped to attention. “Sir?”

“Get back next door and stand watch.”

O'Hara blanched. “Uh, beggin' your pardon, sir—”

A faint cold frown of impatience. “You don't have to go inside. Just wait there and keep the vultures away until Hardesty and Dr. Malone arrive. And Freeling, the photographer. No one else is to be admitted.”

“
Sir
,” said O'Hara; and, transparently relieved, he marched from the room.

Dr. Bowen, who sat beside me on the sofa, burrowing through the clutter of his bag, now at last produced a flat wooden tongue depressor. “All right, my girl,” he told me cheerfully, “open wide and say
ah
.”

“She is suffering from shock,” said Miss Lizzie, “not from laryngitis.”

“Ah, to be sure, to be sure,” said Dr. Bowen, blinking. He put his palm against my forehead, and I caught a whiff of Bay Rum. “Hmmm, definite clamminess, indeed, yes. Let's have your wrist, eh?” I gave him my arm and he tugged a gold watch on a gold chain from his pocket, sat blinking at its face as he held his fingers against my pulse. Finally he looked up and announced to the room at large, “Shock, yes, no doubt about it.” And then, to me: “Warm liquids, some chamomile would be just the ticket, eh? and lots of bed rest. And to help us sleep, eh? a teensy weensy sedative.”

Da Silva said, “We'll have to ask her some questions first.”

“Afraid not, old man.” This from the slender young man leaning against the door jamb.

Da Silva turned to him. “Slocum,” he said patiently, “there's been a murder committed next door, and so far this girl is the only witness we have, possibly the only witness we'll ever have. We need to question her.”

“And so you shall,” said Slocum with a small nod. “But at the proper time.”

“This
is
the proper time.”

“Oh, no, no,” Slocum said lightly, shaking his head. “I shouldn't think so, old man. You heard the good doctor. The girl's in shock.”

“That doesn't mean she can't answer a few questions.”

“Perhaps she could. But consider for a moment how it might appear in court. Consider how a jury might react when they learn that this poor girl, still in a state of trauma, was badgered—”

“I do not badger witnesses,” Da Silva said. No anger there, only a passionless certitude.

Slocum arched his eyebrows, a token of astonishment. “Of
course
you don't, old man.
I
know that. Most of the fair folk in town know that. I'm simply suggesting what some defense lawyer—one lacking any scruples, naturally—might imply to those twelve men sitting in the box. Surely you wouldn't wish to cast suspicion upon the verity of any testimony you've obtained?”

Da Silva's eyes were narrowed. “Just exactly who is it you're representing here, Slocum?”

“Why, Miss Borden and young Miss Burton, of course. But I've been remiss.” He eased himself from the door jamb and nodded pleasantly to Miss Lizzie. “Darryl Slocum, Miss Borden.” Then, moving with feline grace, he crossed to the sofa and held out his hand to me. “Darryl Slocum, Miss Burton. How do you do?”

I took the hand. “It's Amanda,” I said. “Very well, thank you.”

He smiled suddenly, a dazzling smile totally without irony. “Amanda,” he said. “Delighted.” And then he made, over my hand, a quick, supple, continental bow. I felt my face flush and my eyelids flutter. I hoped no one had noticed. But concurrent with my embarrassment came the immediate conviction that this was the man I would one day marry.

The funeral meats had not even been baked and already I was furnishing the marriage tables. I like to believe, from the forgiving vantage point of the present, that this was not simple callousness on my part, not simple indifference. I was in shock still. In the normal course of things, the human mind can accept only so much horror. Faced with more, it will divert itself or it will wink altogether out. Mr. Slocum's dazzle provided, momentarily, the diversion a stricken soul required.

“Look, Slocum,” said Da Silva, “you can't represent them both.”

“Of course I can,” said Mr. Slocum, releasing my hand (which hovered there, tingling, for a moment) and turning to the chief of police. “Unless I learn that so doing would constitute a conflict of interests.”

For a moment Da Silva only stared at him. Then he smiled his small tight frown. “Very well,” he said. “We'll question the girl later. Miss Borden—”

“Miss Borden,” interjected Mr. Slocum, “is naturally entitled to confer with counsel before answering any questions.”

“We can,” said Da Silva, “request that Miss Borden accompany us to the station and make a formal statement.”

“Certainly you can,” Mr. Slocum agreed amiably. “But as her lawyer, I should advise her against complying. A woman of Miss Borden's character and position need not, I suggest, suffer that indignity. And you can't force her compliance without putting her under arrest. For which, I need hardly add, you have no charge.”

“Slocum—” began Da Silva.

The lawyer turned to Miss Lizzie. “Miss Borden, have you any information whatever that might assist the police?”

Miss Lizzie raised her jaw slightly. “I have not.”

Mr. Slocum turned back to Da Silva and shrugged. “There you are, old man.”

A muscle rippled along Da Silva's cheek. “There's been a
murder
committed, Slocum. Someone has taken a human life. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

Beside me, Dr. Bowen shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

“Of course it does,” snapped Mr. Slocum, and the lightness was gone from his voice. “I'm an officer of the court, just as you are. And I understand your determination to locate the person responsible. But supposing,” he said in a tone of great reasonableness, “supposing we do this. We permit Miss Burton and Miss Borden—for I feel certain that Miss Borden, too, has undergone considerable distress—we permit them both their rest, their time to recover from all this. And let us all convene here tomorrow afternoon at, say, two o'clock. Both of them, I expect, would be happy to provide you with a statement then. Is that agreeable to you, Miss Borden?”

“It is,” said Miss Lizzie.

Mr. Slocum turned to me. “Amanda?”

I nodded.

“Chief Da Silva?” said Mr. Slocum.

Da Silva stood there. His glance flicked from Mr. Slocum to Miss Lizzie, back to Mr. Slocum. “A guard will be placed upon the house.” He smiled that small hard smile. “For the protection, of course, of Miss Borden and Miss Burton.”

Mr. Slocum nodded. “Agreed.”

“Neither of them to leave the town.”

“Without prior notification,” amended Mr. Slocum.

Da Silva considered this for a moment and then nodded. “Without prior notification.”

“Agreed,” said Mr. Slocum.

“No press,” said Da Silva. “No reporters.”

“Agreed.”

Da Silva nodded. “Two o'clock, then. Medley?”

“Sir?”

“Come along.”

As Officer Medley departed through the parlor door behind Da Silva, he looked back over his shoulder and favored me with a quick intrepid grin. I smiled back, but automatically, reflexively; my allegiance had shifted. Officer Medley's stalwart charm was no match, so it seemed to me then, for Mr. Slocum's flair. And, besides, Medley was on Their Side, Mr. Slocum was on Ours, mine and Miss Lizzie's.

Miss Lizzie turned to him. “I thank you,” she said rather stiffly, as though unused to being in another's debt.

Mr. Slocum waved a hand. “Nothing. When Felix telephoned from Boston and explained the lay of the land, I thought it best to trot on over.”

“I am grateful that you did. I know that I, alone with that man, should not have been so politic.” She bobbed her head daintily, almost shyly. The movement, too, seemed to be something to which she was unused; something that perhaps she had not done since she was a young girl. It had, at any rate, a tentative, girlish quality to it; and I remembered the sketch of the young Miss Lizzie, done before the murders had changed her. “You are most kind,” she said.

The ironic smile came back to Mr. Slocum's lips. “I suspect that Chief Da Silva would disagree with your assessment of my character.”

For the first time that day, Miss Lizzie smiled. “I suspect that Chief Da Silva would disagree with any of my assessments.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Slocum, left eyebrow rising. “You know him, do you?”

She nodded curtly. “From many years ago.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Slocum. “Of course. Fall River. I'd forgotten that Chief Da Silva hailed from there. You knew him at the time of your”—his brief hesitation took much less time than it takes to mention it—“trouble?”

“Yes,” she said, the word clipped and brusque. She turned to the doctor, as though she had suddenly recalled that he was there. He still sat beside me on the sofa, and he (like I) had been following this exchange with great interest. “And, of course, I am grateful to you as well, Dr. Bowen, for arriving so promptly.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” said the doctor, blinking happily. “Make me the most popular party at the bridge game, eh?”

Smiling, Mr. Slocum said, “I know I needn't remind you, Doctor, of the principle of confidentiality.”

“No, no, course not,” said Dr. Bowen, blinking. “Course not. Mum's the word, eh, my boy?”

“You said something,” said Miss Lizzie, “about a sedative for Miss Burton?”