Alias Grace (10 page)

He makes his way stealthily down the front stairs, but not stealthily enough: his landlady has taken to waylaying him on some trivial matter or another, and she glides out from the parlour now, in her faded black silk and lace collar, clutching her customary handkerchief in one thin hand, as if tears are never far off. She was obviously a beauty not so long ago, and could still be one if she would take the trouble to be so, and if the centre parting in her fair hair were not quite so severe. Her face is heart-shaped, her skin milky, her eyes large and compelling; but although her waist is slender, there is something metallic about it, as if she is using a short length of stove-pipe instead of stays. Today she wears her habitual expression of strained anxiety; she smells of violets, and also of camphor – she is doubtless prone to headaches – and of something else he can’t quite place. A hot dry smell. A white linen sheet being ironed?

As a rule, Simon avoids her type of attenuated and quietly distraught female, although doctors attract such women like magnets.
Still, there’s a severe and unadorned elegance about her – like a Quaker meeting house – which has its appeal; an appeal which, for him, is aesthetic only. One does not make love to a minor religious edifice.

“Dr. Jordan,” she says. “I wanted to ask you …” She hesitates. Simon smiles, prompting her to get on with it. “Your egg this morning – was it satisfactory? This time I cooked it myself.”

Simon lies. To do otherwise would be unpardonably rude. “Delicious, thank you,” he says. In reality the egg had the consistency of the excised tumour a fellow medical student once slipped into his pocket for a joke – both hard and spongy at the same time. It takes a perverse talent to maltreat an egg so completely.

“I am so glad,” she says. “It is so difficult to get good help. You are going out?”

The fact is so obvious that Simon merely inclines his head.

“There is another letter for you,” she says. “The servant mislaid it, but I have found it again. I have placed it on the hall table.” She says this tremulously, as if any letter for Simon must be tragic in content. Her lips are full, but fragile, like a rose on the verge of collapse.

Simon thanks her, says goodbye, picks up his letter – it’s from his mother – and leaves. He doesn’t wish to encourage long conversations with Mrs. Humphrey. She’s lonely – as well she might be, married to the sodden and straying Major – and loneliness in a woman is like hunger in a dog. He has no wish to be the recipient of dolorous afternoon confidences, behind drawn curtains, in the parlour.

Nonetheless she’s an interesting study. Her idea of herself, for instance, is much more exalted than her present circumstances warrant. Surely there was a governess in her childhood: the set of her shoulders proclaims it. So fastidious and stern was she when he was arranging for the rooms, that he’d found it embarrassing to ask whether washing was included. Her manner had implied that she
was not in the habit of discussing the state of men’s personal items with them, such painful matters being best left to the servants.

She’d made it clear, although indirectly, that it was much against her will that she’d been forced to let lodgings. This was the first time she’d done so; it was due to an encumbrance which would surely prove temporary. Moreover, she was very particular –
A gentleman of quiet habits, if willing to take meals elsewhere
, her notice had read. When, after an inspection of the rooms, Simon had said he wished to take them, she’d hesitated, and then asked for two months’ rent in advance.

Simon had seen the other lodgings on offer, which were either too expensive for him or much dirtier, so he’d agreed. He’d had the sum with him in ready cash. He’d noted with interest the blend of reluctance and eagerness she’d displayed, and the nervous flush this conflict had brought to her cheeks. The subject was distasteful to her, almost indecent; she hadn’t wanted to touch his money in a naked state, and would have preferred it to be enclosed in an envelope; yet she’d had to restrain herself from snatching at it.

It was much the same attitude – the coyness about fiscal exchange, the pretence that it hadn’t really taken place, the underlying avidity – that characterized the better class of French whore, although the whores were less gauche about it. Simon doesn’t consider himself an authority in this area, but he would have failed in his duty to his vocation if he’d refused to profit by the opportunities Europe afforded – opportunities which were by no means so available, nor so various, in New England. To heal humanity one must know it, and one cannot know it from a distance; one must rub elbows with it, so to speak. He considers it the duty of those in his profession to probe life’s uttermost depths, and although he has not probed very many of them as yet, he has at least made a beginning. He’d taken, of course, all proper precautions against disease.

Outside the house he encounters the Major, who stares at him as if through a dense fog. His eyes are pink, his stock is askew, and he is missing a glove. Simon tries to imagine what sort of debauch he’s been on, and how long it has lasted. There must be a certain freedom in not having a good name to lose. He nods, and lifts his hat. The Major looks affronted.

Simon sets out to walk to Reverend Verringer’s residence, which is on Sydenham Street. He hasn’t hired a carriage or even a horse; the expense would not be not justified, as Kingston is not a large place. The streets are muddy and cluttered with horse dung, but he has good boots.

The door of Reverend Verringer’s impressive manse is opened by an elderly female with a face like a pine plank; the Reverend is unmarried, and has need of an irreproachable housekeeper. Simon is ushered into the library. It is so self-consciously the right sort of library that he has an urge to set fire to it.

Reverend Verringer rises from a leather-covered wing chair, and offers him a hand to shake. Although his hair and his skin are equally thin and pallid, his handshake is surprisingly firm; and despite his unfortunately small and pouting mouth – like a tadpole’s, thinks Simon – his Roman nose indicates a strong character, his high-domed forehead a developed intellect, and his somewhat bulging eyes are bright and keen. He cannot be over thirty-five; he must be well connected, thinks Simon, to have risen so fast in the Methodist establishment, and to have procured such an affluent congregation. Considering the books, he must have money of his own. Simon’s father used to have books like that.

“I am glad you could come, Dr. Jordan,” he says; his voice is less affected than Simon has feared. “It is kind of you to oblige us. Your time must be valuable indeed.” They sit, and coffee appears,
brought in by the slab-faced housekeeper on a tray which is plain in design, but nonetheless of silver. A Methodist tray: not flamboyant, but quietly affirmative of its own worth.

“It is a matter of great professional interest to me,” says Simon. “It is not often that such a case presents itself, with so many intriguing features.” He speaks as if he personally has treated hundreds of cases. The thing is to look interested, but not too eager, as if the favour is being conferred by him. He hopes he’s not blushing.

“A report from you would be a considerable help to our Committee,” says Reverend Verringer, “should such a report favour the theory of innocence. We would attach it to our Petition; Government authorities are much more inclined nowadays to take expert opinion into consideration. Of course,” he adds, with a shrewd glance, “you will be paid the sum agreed on, no matter what your conclusions.”

“I fully understand,” says Simon with what he hopes is an urbane smile. “You studied in England, I think?”

“I began the pursuit of my vocation as a member of the Established Church,” says Reverend Verringer, “but then had a crisis of conscience. Surely the light of God’s word and grace is available to those outside the Church of England, and through more direct means than the Liturgy.”

“I would certainly hope so,” says Simon politely.

“The eminent Reverend Egerton Ryerson, of Toronto, followed much the same course. He is a leader in the crusade for free schooling, and for the abolition of alcoholic beverages. You have heard of him, naturally.”

Simon has not; he emits an ambiguous h’m, which he hopes will pass for agreement.

“You yourself are …?”

Simon dodges. “My father’s family was Quaker,” he says. “For many years. My mother is a Unitarian.”

“Ah yes,” says Reverend Verringer. “Of course, everything is so different in the United States.” There is a pause, while they both consider this. “But you do believe in the immortality of the soul?”

This is the trick question; this is the trap that might put paid to his chances. “Oh yes, of course,” says Simon. “It is not to be doubted.”

Verringer seems relieved. “So many scientific men are casting doubts. Leave the body to the doctors, I say, and the soul to God. Render unto Caesar, you might say.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Dr. Binswanger spoke very highly of you. I had the pleasure of meeting him while travelling on the Continent – Switzerland is of great interest to me, for historical reasons – and I talked with him of his work; and therefore it was natural for me to consult him, when seeking an authority on this side of the Atlantic. An authority” – he hesitates – “who would be within our means. He said you are well up on cerebral diseases and nervous afflictions, and that in matters concerning amnesia you are on your way to becoming a leading expert. He claims you are one of the up-and-coming men.”

“It is kind of him to say so,” Simon murmurs. “It is a baffling area. But I have published two or three little papers.”

“Let us hope that, at the conclusion of your investigations, you will be able to add to their number, and to shed light on a puzzling obscurity; for which society will give you due recognition, I am sure. Especially in such a famous case.”

Simon notes to himself that, although tadpole-mouthed, Reverend Verringer is no fool. Certainly he has a sharp nose for other men’s ambitions. Could it be that his switch from the Church of England to the Methodists had coincided with the falling political star of the former in this country, and the rising one of the latter?

“You have read the accounts I sent you?”

Simon nods. “I can see your dilemma,” he says. “It is difficult to know what to believe. Grace appears to have told one story at the
inquest, another one at the trial, and, after her death sentence had been commuted, yet a third. In all three, however, she denied ever having laid a finger on Nancy Montgomery. But then, some years later, we have Mrs. Moodie’s account, which amounts to a confession by Grace, of having actually done the deed; and this story is in accordance with James McDermott’s dying words, just before he was hanged. Since her return from the Asylum, however, you say she denies it.”

Reverend Verringer sips at his coffee. “She denies the
memory
of it,” he says.

“Ah yes. The memory of it,” says Simon. “A proper distinction.”

“She could well have been convinced by others that she had done something of which she is innocent,” says Reverend Verringer. “It has happened before. The so-called confession in the Penitentiary, of which Mrs. Moodie has given such a colourful description, took place after several years of incarceration, and during the long regime of Warden Smith. The man was notoriously corrupt, and most unfit for his position. He was accused of behaviour of the most shocking and brutal kind; his son, for instance, was permitted to use the convicts for target practice, and on one occasion actually put out an eye. There was talk of his abusing the female prisoners also, in ways you may well imagine, and I am afraid there is no doubt about it; a full enquiry was held. It is to Grace Marks’ mistreatment at his hands that I attribute her interlude of insanity.”

“There are some who deny that she was in fact insane,” says Simon.

Reverend Verringer smiles. “You have heard from Dr. Bannerling, I suppose. He has been against her from the beginning. We on the Committee have appealed to him – a favourable report from him would have been invaluable to our cause – but he is intransigent. A Tory, of course, of the deepest dye – he would have all the poor lunatics chained up in straw, if he had his way; and all hanged who
look sideways. I am sorry to say that I consider him to have been a part of the same corrupt system that was responsible for the appointment of a coarse and profane man such as Warden Smith. I understand that there were irregularities at the Asylum as well – so much so that Grace Marks, upon her return from it, was suspected of being in a delicate condition. Happily these rumours were unfounded; but how craven – how callous! – to attempt to take advantage of those who are not in control of themselves! I have spent much time in prayer with Grace Marks, attempting to heal the wounds caused to her by these unfaithful and blameworthy betrayers of the public trust.”

“Deplorable,” says Simon. It might be considered prurient to ask for more details.

A sudden and illuminating thought strikes him – Reverend Verringer is in love with Grace Marks! Hence his indignation, his fervour, his assiduousness, his laborious petitions and committees; and above all, his desire to believe her innocent. Does he wish to winkle her out of jail, vindicated as a spotless innocent, and then marry her himself? She’s still a good-looking woman, and would no doubt be touchingly grateful to her rescuer. Abjectly grateful; abject gratitude in a wife being, no doubt, a prime commodity on Verringer’s spiritual exchange.

“Fortunately there was a change of government,” says Reverend Verringer. “But even so, we do not wish to proceed with our present Petition, until we know ourselves to be on absolutely firm ground; which is why we have taken the step of calling upon you. I must tell you frankly that not all the members of our Committee were in favour of it, but I succeeded in convincing them of the need for an informed and objective viewpoint. A diagnosis of latent insanity at the time of the murders, for instance – however, the utmost caution and rectitude must be observed. There is still a widespread feeling against Grace Marks; and this is a most partisan country. The Tories
appear to have confused Grace with the Irish Question, although she is a Protestant; and to consider the murder of a single Tory gentleman – however worthy the gentleman, and however regrettable the murder – to be the same thing as the insurrection of an entire race.”