The Sundial (11 page)

“No one ever knew, though. She got off, and she came back here to the house where she was born, and she lives there now. Goes out for walks at night, they say, although me,
I
wouldn’t like to meet her—can’t tell what might happen if she come to take a dislike to you. Funny thing, though, Straus—he’s the butcher—says they never order meat, though they used to. A vegetarian, Harriet Stuart.

“Come around the side and I’ll show you the shed the hammer come from, and then we’ll look through the fence and maybe get a look at Auntie and anyway see those other windows. He was a carpenter, Stuart—built most of this place himself, though Harriet had the fence put up, of course, after she come home. Used to be kids throwing rocks through the windows, sometimes, or yelling things from the road. Seems to me people could bring up their kids better, somehow, teach them to respect other people and other people’s property.”

_____

Harriet Stuart died quietly in her sleep some ten or twelve years after Mr. Halloran had built the big house, her aunt removed to another town and was known to have changed her name, and the Stuart house stayed empty. No one was willing to live in it because of its lack of sanitary accommodations, and the villagers kept it in repair because tourists came to look at it. The fence was taken down, and it was not thought in doubtful taste to tack neatly lettered little signs upon the doors to the significant rooms, and set a small metal standard beside the bush where the hammer was found. The villagers tried valiantly to pretend that the house was haunted, and occasionally Mr. Straus, who had re-taken possession of the property when the Stuart mortgage lapsed, received letters from scholarly folk who wanted to visit the house in order to write gently humorous, cynical articles proving that Harriet Stuart was innocent, or that she was guilty. One such article referred to the village as “a quiet place, untouched by time or progress.”

The present Mr. Straus, who owned the butcher shop, was the son of the original Mr. Straus who owned the butcher shop and had gone with Mr. Parker and old Watkins to the Stuart house; the present Mr. Straus had heard the Harriet Stuart story so often from his father that he could repeat it, now, without hesitation, when people came by the shop and asked him; he knew perfectly where the blood had been spilled and how Mrs. Stuart had made it halfway to the door before the hammer caught up with her, and he could re-create, with telling effect, the look in the dead eyes of Mr. Stuart, gazing with horror upon his murderer; his pathetic recital of how the two young boys were found in one another’s arms was very apt to move his hearers to tears. The Stuart house was listed in local guide books as a spot of some grisly interest. Mr. Peabody, when he took over the Carriage Stop Inn, had actually debated for some time the wisdom of renaming the Inn the Harriet Stuart Lodge, but had been dissuaded by the sterner heads in town, and particularly the Misses Inverness, who ran the gift shop next to the Inn, and who regarded the entire Harriet Stuart affair as uncouth, and criminally unfilial. No curios or mementos of the Stuart family were to be found in the gift shop run by the Misses Inverness, although several books discussing the murder were in the Inn library, and a rude pamphlet, purporting to be the work of one of the party who visited the house that night, was on sale in several shops in the village; it gave a vivid and gory description of the house, and had sketches of Harriet Stuart, her unfortunate family, and a map of the probable route she had taken from arising that morning to her eventual arrival at Parker’s Bakery.

Harriet Stuart lured a small regular stream of tourists to the village; two busses a day stopped in front of the Carriage Stop Inn, and there was time between them for a visit to the Harriet Stuart house, and a country-style dinner at the Inn, with a few minutes for browsing with the Misses Inverness, and a walk down the one street of the village to purchase homemade jelly and preserves in Mrs. Martin’s little shop, regard the site of Parker’s Bakery, now, with Parker, defunct; look at antiques in the big barn back of the Basses’ house, and inspect, with shudders, the Stuart family memorial in the cemetery, which gave no more than the names of the murdered family and, horribly, their one common date of death. Most of the villagers managed to sell a little something to tourists, and keep their own small businesses besides. Miss Bass, sister to the Mr. Bass who kept antiques in his barn, gave lessons in piano and voice. Mrs. Otis, whom people believed to be a divorced woman living upon alimony, gave dancing lessons and did hair. The village children went to a one-room school, taught for the past seventeen years by a Miss Comstock; her salary was paid, as had been that of her predecessor, by the Halloran family. The first Mr. Halloran had been responsible for the further education, in college, in medical school, in law school, or in art school, of those village children who showed promise; the present Mrs. Halloran had continued this policy, but teachable children were getting fewer every year; those young people sent away to college had, of course, never come back, and the village grew smaller and older, although the Harriet Stuart stories were handed down as faithfully as the several small annuities from the Halloran family. Mr. Halloran had once made an offer to buy the Stuart house and land, but Mr. Straus had firmly refused, and as a result—the first Mr. Halloran disliking not being able to buy something he wanted—the Stuart legends were not discussed by the Hallorans, and naturally tourists were never admitted inside the walls of the big house. The Hallorans made a particular point of bringing as much of their trade as possible to the village; they bought their meat from Mr. Straus, in spite of the coolness which had arisen over the Stuart holding, and had much of their dressmaking and simple sewing done by old Mrs. Martin, who also made the homemade jellies and jams and an occasional pie upon order. Although the Halloran house received regular deliveries from the big stores in the city, nine miles away, they placed a standing order for groceries from Mr. Hawthorne, borrowed their books from the lending library in the gift shop run by the Misses Inverness, sent down for the mail from Mr. Armstrong, the postmaster, took their petty hardware from Atkins Hardware, and bought, as far as possible, fresh eggs and chickens and vegetables and fruit from the farmers who were legitimately part of the village. On one point, however, the first Mr. Halloran had made an unbreakable law: the servants in the big house came, without exception, from the city. Villagers, Mr. Halloran maintained, belonged in the village, and not within the walls of the big house.

_____

Julia parked the car at the main corner of the village, where the Carriage Stop Inn faced the hardware store. “Any place in particular?” she asked. “The nearest subway station, maybe?”

“I plan to visit every shop in the village,” Aunt Fanny said stiffly. “Aside from certain preparations which must be made, I feel it incumbent upon me to make one or two last purchases from each shop; a gesture of some importance, as I see it. The villagers must see that we do not break faith with them, even now.”

“What about Miss Ogilvie here?” Julia asked. “You don’t mean her to come with
me
, I suppose?”

“I will accompany Aunt Fanny,” Miss Ogilvie said. “Perhaps I shall drop in at the lending library and browse.”

“And you, Julia?” Aunt Fanny asked. “Can you amuse yourself for an hour at least, perhaps even an hour and a half? I hesitate to propose the lending library.”

“I’ll find something to do,” Julia said vaguely. “Don’t worry about me. Just getting out of that house is enough.”

“Those two young men you are looking at in that field are the Watkins brothers,” Aunt Fanny said tartly. “Good for nothing, both of them. They may look as though they are lying in the shade under a tree, but they will tell you that they are actually out shooting rabbit, or picking apples, or some such nonsense. The Halloran family arranged for the older one to drive one of the dairy trucks from the city, but at the end of a month or so he left them, although they could never actually prove that he had made off with the collection money.”

“I wouldn’t dream of going near them,” Julia said. “I’ll meet you right here in an hour and a half.”

“Perhaps,” Miss Ogilvie suggested timidly, “Julia would be interested in seeing—I know
I
have always wanted to—in seeing the Harriet—”

“Miss Ogilvie,” Aunt Fanny said, “I would not suppose that even Julia would be guilty of such self-indulgence. Julia, I would recommend the cemetery. There are several old markers, the oldest in this part of the country. The Halloran family vault is particularly well-carved; my father and mother rest there.”

“The cemetery,” Julia said. “Naturally. Will I have trouble finding it?”

“I hardly think so,” Aunt Fanny said. “The last building on your right is the church. The cemetery is just beyond it.”

“If I get lost,” Julia said, “I will ask a policeman.”

She drove off, going slowly, and Aunt Fanny and Miss Ogilvie stood for a minute, looking after her. Then Aunt Fanny settled herself briskly and said, “Miss Ogilvie, as I told you, I have really a good deal to do. I must not lose time. I have already sent off a great many orders to stores in the city, and today I must complete my shopping; small purchases I cannot overlook.”

“Why?” said Miss Ogilvie. “I mean—” she blushed “—why do you have to buy things
now
, when . . . when . . .”

“
Dear
Miss Ogilvie. There are
so
many things one is reluctant to leave behind. Even you must perceive that we do not know, yet, what we shall wish, afterward, that we had brought with us, and there will be no coming back, afterward, to collect items we have forgotten.”

“Food,” said Miss Ogilvie, nodding. “I understand.”

“I have absolute faith in my father. But we must try to think of
everything
.”

“Perhaps I can help, then,” Miss Ogilvie said. “At least, I can help you carry your packages.”

“Carry packages? I?”

“Small things . . .” Miss Ogilvie made a helpless gesture.

“Miss Ogilvie, please do try to be more sensible. I cannot stand here in public, in what is after all the very center of the village, trying to teach you the habits of a lady. I have really no time at all to spend reasoning with you.” Purposefully, Aunt Fanny crossed the street and went into the hardware store, Miss Ogilvie following wretchedly.

_____

After the hardware store, Aunt Fanny visited the grocery and then the little shop where Mrs. Martin sold her jams and jellies and yard goods and an occasional pie upon order. When they left old Mrs. Martin, Miss Ogilvie hesitated and glanced wistfully across the street. “The lending library,” she said apologetically. “Something to pass the time, you know. I don’t suppose,” she added with a flash at Aunt Fanny, “that I need worry about
returning
it.”

“As a matter of fact,” Aunt Fanny said, “I believe I also need a book.”

The lending library was tucked into one corner of the gift shop run by the Misses Inverness, and relied for trade rather heavily upon the transient souvenir-hunter rendered into a stupor by the home-fried chicken and pecan pie of the Carriage Stop Inn next door. Miss Inverness kept the library and Miss Deborah Inverness sold gifts; some inner integrity had preserved their shop from being a shoppe, but when the Misses Inverness had first decided to go into trade Miss Inverness had taken some of the stigma away from the shop by hiring Mr. Ossian, the carpenter, to put Elizabethan half-timbering across the front, and to set in an inglenook around the fireplace. The gifts were almost without exception made of china, delicately colored, and involving numberless small deer and kittens and scottie dogs. Miss Deborah did the dusting herself, naturally, and her sister kept the books. Miss Inverness wore purple crepe with her mother’s garnet brooch, and tended to be brusque, although she knew—none better—that her heart was really of gold; Miss Deborah wore a little locket around her faded neck and had once been in love with a music teacher.

There had been a little tiff between them three summers ago over ashtrays, since the late Mrs. Inverness had not permitted smoking indoors, and the late Mr. Inverness had been accustomed to take his cigar in the lobby of the Carriage Stop Inn. Miss Deborah had insisted with unusual spirit that even proper ladies—Mrs. Halloran up at the big house, for one—used ashtrays nowadays and had as much as accused her sister of not keeping up with the times. Miss Inverness had capitulated, asking her sister irritably how long Mrs. Halloran at the big house had been setting the standards for the Inverness family? and the gift shop now stocked tiny porcelain shell ashtrays. Miss Inverness read a chapter from Henry James aloud every evening, and they drank their tea from fragile, gold-rimmed cups which had been a legacy to their mother from the first, mortal, Mrs. Halloran.

When Aunt Fanny opened the door a little bell rang musically, and Miss Inverness rose from her seat in the inglenook; Miss Deborah, cornered among the china, could only smile most cordially.

“Caroline,” Aunt Fanny said; she and Miss Inverness had played together as children. “How nice to see you.”

“Miss Halloran,” said Miss Inverness, “Deborah, Miss Halloran is here. And Miss Ogilvie,” she said. “How nice.”

“How nice,” said Miss Deborah, coming with caution between the tables. “Miss Halloran. Miss Ogilvie. How very nice.”

“How nice,” Miss Ogilvie said to Miss Inverness, and to Miss Deborah, “How nice to see you again.”

“How well you look,” Miss Inverness said. “And Mr. Halloran—is he well?”

“Not well at all,” Aunt Fanny said, and Miss Ogilvie nodded sadly. “I am sorry to say that he does not keep well,” Aunt Fanny said. “My nephew’s death . . .”

“Such a terrible blow,” Miss Inverness said, and Miss Deborah murmured, “Tragic.”

“It is a very sad thing to lose an only son,” Miss Ogilvie confirmed.

“And dear little Fancy?” Miss Inverness turned to her sister with a brightening face. “Dear little Fancy?” she said.

“Such a sweet child,” Miss Deborah said. “She was in here with her mother not long ago. Of course, it was before . . .” her voice trailed off, and she moved a hand eloquently.