Alias Grace (42 page)

As for me, I could have laughed with glee; for Jeremiah had done a conjuring trick, as surely as if he’d pulled a coin from my ear, or made believe to swallow a fork; and just as he used to do such tricks in full view, with everyone looking on but unable to detect him, he had done the same here, and made a pact with me under their very eyes, and they were none the wiser.

But then I recalled that he’d once travelled about as a Mesmerist, and done medical clairvoyance at fairs, and really did know the arts of such things, and might put me into a trance. And that brought me up short, and gave me pause to consider.

“I
t is not the question of your guilt or innocence that concerns me,” says Simon. “I am a doctor, not a judge. I simply wish to know what you yourself can actually remember.”

They have come at last to the murders. He’s reviewed all the documents at his disposal – the accounts of the trial, the opinions of the newspapers, the Confessions, even Mrs. Moodie’s overblown rendition. He is fully prepared, and also tense: how he conducts himself today will determine whether Grace will at last crack open, revealing her hoarded treasures, or whether she will instead take fright and hide, and shut herself up like a clam.

What he’s brought with him today is not a vegetable. Instead it’s a silver candlestick, supplied by Reverend Verringer, and similar – he hopes – to the type used in the Kinnear household, and purloined by James McDermott. He hasn’t yet produced it; it’s in a wicker basket – a shopping basket, actually, borrowed from Dora – which he has placed unobtrusively by the side of his chair. He isn’t entirely sure what he plans to do with it.

Grace continues her stitching. She does not look up. “Nobody has cared about that before, Sir,” she says. “They told me I must be lying; they kept wanting to know more. Except for Mr. Kenneth MacKenzie the lawyer. But I am sure that even he did not believe me.”

“I will believe you,” says Simon. It is, he realizes, a fairly large undertaking.

Grace tightens her mouth a little, frowns, says nothing. He plunges in. “Mr. Kinnear left for the city on the Thursday, did he not?”

“Yes, Sir,” says Grace.

“At three o’clock? On horseback?”

“That was the exact time, Sir. He was to be back on the Saturday. I was outside, sprinkling the linen handkerchiefs laid out in the sun to bleach. McDermott brought the horse round for him. Mr. Kinnear was riding Charley, as the wagon was down in the village getting a fresh coat of paint put on it.”

“Did he say anything to you at that time?”

“He said, ‘Here’s your favourite beau, Grace, come and kiss him goodbye.’ ”

“Meaning James McDermott? But McDermott was not going anywhere,” says Simon.

Grace looks up at him with a blank expression which verges on contempt. “He meant the horse, Sir. He knew I was very fond of Charley.”

“And what did you do?”

“I went over and stroked Charley, Sir, on the nose. But Nancy was watching from the winter kitchen door, and she’d heard what he said, and did not like it. Nor did McDermott. But there was no harm in it. Mr. Kinnear only enjoyed a tease.”

Simon takes a deep breath. “Had Mr. Kinnear ever made improper advances to you, Grace?”

She looks at him again; this time there’s a faint smile. “I don’t know what you mean by improper, Sir. He never used foul language to me.”

“Did he ever touch you? Did he take liberties?”

“Only what was usual, Sir.”

“Usual?” says Simon. He is baffled. He does not know how to say what he means, without being too explicit: Grace has a strong dash of prude in her.

“With a servant, Sir. He was a kind-enough master,” says Grace primly. “And liberal when he wished to be.”

Simon lets his impatience get the better of him. What does she mean? Is she saying she got paid for favours? “Did he put his hands inside your clothing?” he says. “Were you lying down?”

Grace stands up. “I have heard enough of that kind of talk,” she says. “I do not have to stay here. You are just like them at the Asylum, and the prison chaplains, and Dr. Bannerling and his filthy ideas!”

Simon finds himself apologizing to her, and no wiser into the bargain. “Please sit down,” he says, when she has been soothed. “Let us go back to the chain of events. Mr. Kinnear rode away at three o’clock on Thursday. Then what happened?”

“Nancy said we was both to leave after the next day, and she had the money to pay us. She said that Mr. Kinnear was in agreement with her.”

“Did you believe that?”

“As regards McDermott, I did. But not as regards myself.”

“Not yourself?” says Simon.

“She was afraid that Mr. Kinnear would come to like me better than her. As I’ve said, Sir, she was in the family way, and it often happens like that with a man; they’ll change from a woman in that condition to one who is not, and it’s the same with cows and horses; and if that happened, she’d be out on the road, her and her bastard. It was plain she wanted me out of the way, and gone before Mr. Kinnear came home. I don’t believe he knew a thing about it.”

“What did you do then, Grace?”

“I cried, Sir. In the kitchen. I did not want to leave, and I had no new situation to go to. It had been so sudden, I’d had no time to seek for one. And I was afraid she would not pay me after all, and send me off with no reference, and then what would I do? And McDermott feared the same.”

“And then?” says Simon, when she does not continue.

“It was at this time, Sir, that McDermott said he had a secret, and I promised not to tell; and you know, Sir, that once having promised such a thing, I was bound by it. Then he said he was going to kill Nancy with the axe, and strangle her as well, and shoot Mr. Kinnear when he came back, and take the valuables; and I was to help him, and go with him, if I knew what was good for me, as otherwise I would be blamed for all. If I hadn’t been so upset I would have laughed at him, but I did not; and to tell you the truth, we’d both had a glass or two of Mr. Kinnear’s whisky, which we saw no reason not to help ourselves, seeing as we were to be turned away in any case. Nancy was over to the Wrights’, and so we had a free hand.”

“Did you believe McDermott would do as he said?”

“Not altogether, Sir. On the one hand, I thought he was just bragging, about what a fine man he was and what he could do, which was a thing he was prone to when drunk; and my father was the same way. But at the same time he seemed in earnest, and I was afraid of him; and I had a strong feeling as if it was fated, and it couldn’t be avoided, no matter what I did.”

“You did not warn anyone? Nancy herself, when she came back from her visit?”

“Why would she have believed me, Sir?” says Grace. “It would have sounded too stupid, if I said it out loud. She would think I was getting back at her, because she told me to leave; or that it was a servants’ quarrel, and I was paying back McDermott. There was only my word for it, which he could easily deny, and say I was nothing but
a silly hysterical girl. At the same time, if McDermott really meant it he might have killed the both of us right there and then; and I did not want to be killed. The best I could do was to try to delay him until Mr. Kinnear got back. At first he said he was going to do it that very night, and I persuaded him not to.”

“How did you manage to do that?” says Simon.

“I said that if Nancy was killed on the Thursday, that would mean a whole day and a half of having to account for her whereabouts to anyone who might enquire. Whereas if he left it till later, there would be less suspicion aroused.”

“I see,” says Simon. “Very sensible.”

“Please don’t make fun of me, Sir,” says Grace with dignity. “It is very distressing to me, and doubly so considering what I am being asked to remember.”

Simon says he didn’t mean it that way. He seems to be spending a lot of time apologizing to her. “And what happened then?” he asks, trying to sound kind, and not too eager.

“Then Nancy came back from her visit, and was quite cheerful. It was always her way, after she’d been in a temper, to pretend as if nothing had happened and we were all the best of friends; at least when Mr. Kinnear was not present. So she acted as if she hadn’t told us to leave, or given us any hard words, and all went on as usual. We had supper together in the kitchen, cold ham, and potatoes made into a salad, with chives from the garden, the three of us; and she laughed and chattered. McDermott was sullen and silent, but that was no change; and then Nancy and I went to bed together, as was always the case when Mr. Kinnear was away, on account of her fear of burglars; and she suspected nothing. But I made very sure the bedchamber door was locked.”

“Why was that?”

“As I’ve said, I always lock the door when I sleep. But also, McDermott had some foolish notion of creeping about the house at
night with the axe. He wanted to kill Nancy while asleep. I said he should not do that, as he might hit me by mistake; but it was hard to convince him. He said he didn’t want her looking at him when he did it.”

“I can understand that,” says Simon drily. “And then what happened?”

“Oh, the Friday began right as rain, to the outward eye, Sir. Nancy was very gay and light-hearted, and did not scold at all, or not as much as usual; and even McDermott was less sullen, in the morning, as I told him if he went around with such a hangdog face then Nancy was sure to suspect he was up to no good.

“In the middle of the afternoon young Jamie Walsh came over with his flute, as Nancy had asked him to. She said that as Mr. Kinnear was away we would all have a party, to celebrate. What was to be celebrated I am not sure; but in her good mood Nancy was very lively, and liked a song and dance. We had a fine supper, with cold roast chicken, and beer to wash it down; and then Nancy told Jamie to play for us, and he asked me if there was a tune I would especially wish to have, and was very attentive and kind to me, which McDermott did not like, and told him to stop making sheep’s eyes at me, as it was enough to turn the stomach; and poor Jamie flushed bright red. Then Nancy told McDermott not to tease the boy, and couldn’t he remember being young once himself; and she told Jamie he would grow up handsome, she could always tell a thing like that – much handsomer than McDermott with his scowling and pouting, and in any case handsome is as handsome does; and McDermott threw her a look of pure hate, which she affected not to see. Then she sent me down into the cellar to get more whisky, as by that time we had emptied the decanters upstairs.

“Then we laughed and sang; or Nancy laughed and sang, and I joined in. We sang
The Rose of Tralee
, and I remembered Mary Whitney, and wished very much that she was there, as she would
know what to do, and would help me out of my difficulties. McDermott would not sing, as the dark mood was on him; nor would he dance when Nancy urged him, and said now was his chance to make good his boasts about what a nimble dancer he was. She wanted us all to part friends, but he was having none of that.

“After a time the life went out of the party. Jamie said he was tired of playing, and Nancy said it was time for bed; and McDermott said he would walk Jamie back to his own house, across the fields, I suppose to make sure he was well and truly gone. But by the time McDermott was come back, Nancy and I were upstairs already, in Mr. Kinnear’s room, with the door locked.”

“Mr. Kinnear’s room?” says Simon.

“It was Nancy’s idea,” says Grace. “She said his bed was bigger, and cooler in the hot weather, and I had a habit of kicking in my sleep; and in any case Mr. Kinnear would not find it out, as it was us who made up the beds, not him; and even if he did discover it, he would not care, but would no doubt like the idea of two serving-maids in his bed at once. She had drunk several glasses of whisky, and was talking recklessly.

“And I did warn Nancy, after all, Sir. While she was brushing out her hair, I said, McDermott wants to kill you. She laughed, and said, I expect he does. I would not mind killing him, either. There is no love lost between us. He is in earnest, I said. He is never in earnest about anything, she said lightly. He is always bragging and boasting, and it is all just air.

“So then I knew there was nothing I could do, to save her.

“Once she was in the bed, she fell asleep at once. I sat brushing out my own hair, in the light of a single candle, with the naked woman in the picture looking out at me, the one who was taking a bath outdoors, and the other one with the peacock feathers; and they were both smiling at me, in a way I did not like.”

“That night Mary Whitney appeared to me in a dream. It was not the first time; she’d come before, but never to say anything; she would be hanging up the wash and laughing, or paring an apple, or hiding behind a sheet on the line up in the attic, which were all things she used to do before her trouble came; and when I dreamt about her in that way I would wake up comforted, as if she was still alive and happy.

“But those were scenes of the past. This time she was in the room with me, the very room where I was, which was Mr. Kinnear’s bedchamber. She was standing beside the bed in her nightdress, with her hair down, as when she was buried; and on the left side of her body I could see her heart, bright red through the white of her dress. But then I saw it was not a heart after all, but the red felt needle-case I made for her that Christmas, which I’d put in the coffin with her, under the flowers and the scattered petals; and I was glad to see she still had it with her, and hadn’t forgotten me.

“She was holding a glass tumbler in her hand, and inside it was a firefly, trapped and glowing with a cold and greenish fire. Her face was very pale, but she looked at me and smiled; and then she took her hand from the top of the glass, and the firefly came out and darted about the room; and I knew that this was her soul, and it was trying to find its way out, but the window was shut; and then I could not see where it was gone. Then I woke up, with the tears of sadness running down my face, because Mary was lost to me once more.”

“I lay there in the darkness, with the sound of Nancy’s breathing; and in my ears I could hear my own heart, trudging and trudging, as if on a long and weary road that I was doomed to walk along whether I wanted to or not, and who could tell when I would get to the end of it. I was afraid to go to sleep again, for fear I might have another such dream; and my fears were not in vain, for that is indeed what happened.