The Transcendental Murder (28 page)

After a few minor matters had been disposed of, the main article of the evening was moved and seconded. The topic at issue was not very controversial, but a few ex-commissioners of Public Works had objections to make or brilliant alternative solutions, and a few citizens opposed to any rise in the tax rate attempted to fog the issue, suggesting that the cost of the new pipe be laid at the town of Lincoln's door, since it was their dam which was at fault. There were speeches, amendments, motions and countermotions. Howard Swan untangled smoothly all the parliamentary snarls as they came along and moved adroitly toward a vote on the main motion. But then at the last minute there was an emotional speech from a member of the Save Walden Committee. If, he said, the town of Concord was gong to spend all that money anyway, why not use it to turn Walden Pond into a water supply, appeal to the State of Massachusetts to remove the shameful public bathing beach there, and vote at the same time to take away the trailer park and the town dump, thus restoring Walden to its original quiet beauty and creating not only an adequate water supply for the town of Concord but a true shrine to the memory of Henry Thoreau? There was a silence as the justice of this double-barreled appeal was taken in, then a burst of applause. A couple of citizens sprang to their feet to turn the idea into a motion. But the Moderator ignored them and swiftly recognized Philip Goss, who had merely nodded his head and raised an eyebrow. Philip rose and turned to address the town.

Mary had heard him speak before. But she had forgotten (she had forgotten!) how good he was at it. Dreamily she stopped listening to him and let his voice flow over her. It was a wonderful voice, liquid and smooth. Philip spoke in long polished sentences, with that aristocratic accent that stopped just short of Rowena's boarding-school affectations. “Aristoplatitudinous uppercrassmanship,” that was what Homer had called it. Typical Kelly sour grapes.

Philip's melodious voice flowed on and on. He spoke of the generous offer of the town of Lincoln to lower the height of its dam, he mentioned the lengthy history of mutual benefit and good will between the two towns, he described the long and thoughtful consideration given to the matter by the boards of both towns, and explained the relatively inexpensive cost of the laying of the new pipe compared to the cost of any other solution, excellent as those solutions might be (gently laying aside alternatives). He praised the diligence and integrity of the members of the Concord Department of Public Works. He never said “I” or even “we.” His verbs were always in the passive voice, and everything was “in the best interests of the Town as a whole.” HIs audience was persuaded by his high tone, his logic, his sober thoughtfulness, his lack of obvious emotion, his role as an impersonal and perfect instrument of the legal arm of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, incapable of wrong opinion, utterly to be depended upon. Mary found herself staring at Philip in fascination, barely listening. This man had proposed marriage to her once. She had turned him down, then, without hesitation. But look at him! He could certainly weave a spell. That was all it was, of course, a spell. Mary felt sure that she could snap out of it whenever she wanted to. But not now …

The motion passed. Howard Swan called immediately for a motion to adjourn, and the meeting was over. Afterwards in the confusion of standing up and shuffling out there were the usual expressions of satisfaction with the results of the meeting and praise for the competence of the Moderator, whose efficiency had become legendary. If there were one or two who grumbled that their points of view had been overridden, their complaints were lost in the buzz of general approval. “Best darn moderator we ever had. Look at that—we got through the whole warrant by 9:30.”

Mary found Alice Herpitude clinging to her arm. “Mary,” she said, “what about Charley Goss? Do you really think the police are going to arrest him?”

Mary mumbled that she was afraid so. Miss Herpitude tightened her hold on her arm. And then her next remark suddenly rang out loud and clear across the entire hall. There had been a sudden rap of Howard Swan's gavel to bring order to the hall again, so that he could ask the knot of people blocking the entrances to move on out. But Alice, her frightened eyes on Mary's, her hands tightening on Mary's sleeves, failed to hear, and it was her voice instead of the Moderator's that carried across the room. “I've got to tell you something, Mary, I've got to …” Everyone turned to stare at her, and she stopped, her hand going to her trembling lips. Then Grandmaw Hand put her arm around her friend's waist and drew her away. Howard Swan made his announcement, and Mary looked around for Gwen. But instead of Gwen she found Philip Goss at her side. She turned hot and red. Had Philip seen something different in her face as she had sat listening to him? He took her hand and pressed it. He was offering to drive her home. Out of the corner of her eye Mary could see Homer with Rowena. Charley was sloping off towards the stage exit. Had Harold Vine seen him? Yes, he was ambling out that way, too.

“I-I thought I might go home with Alice …”

But Alice Herpitude was there, staring up at Philip, her eyes blinking rapidly. Then she looked at Mary. “Oh, no. No, dear. I just—I just think I'll go back to the library and do a little work there.”

“Let me go with you,” said Mary.

But Miss Herpitude was adamant. She plucked at Mary's sleeve and whispered in her hear. “Never mind. You young people run along. I'm going to write it all down, and then I'll give it to you in the morning. That's much the best way.”

But after Philip had driven Mary home and stood in the starlight with her at her front door and gallantly refrained from attempting to kiss her good night (was she disappointed?) and after he had driven off again, Mary walked into the house and announced to Grandmaw that she was going back to the library to see what was troubling Alice.

“I'll come, too,” said Grandmaw.

“All right, fine,” said Mary. “That's fine.”

They found Alice at Mary's desk in Mary's office. She started up violently when she heard Mary's key in the door and stared at them with a whitewashed face. Then she put her hand on her heart. Grandmaw Hand took her in her arms and patted her back. “Whatever is the matter, Alice?”

“Oh, Florence, I'm so afraid. What
should
I do? I just don't know what to do.”

Mary turned on the desk lamp in the main hall, and looked around. The rest of the great room was shadowy, with the dark doorways of the other rooms opening off it, and the deep channel of the stack wing a hollow black tunnel. Emerson's high seated figure was a white mass in the darkness, and down from the dim balcony looked the marble effigies of Concord's nineteenth century worthies. Were their eyes still open? Did they never sleep?

Grandmaw began to walk Miss Herpitude up and down. Then Miss Herpitude blew her nose and drew herself up. “Now, now,” she said. “I won't be foolish any more. I'm going to tell you the whole story, right from the beginning, and I'll go right on to the end.” She waved her arms with the enthusiastic little gesture both of them knew so well and started to walk briskly up and down in the little alcove of locked glass cases dedicated to Henry Thoreau. Then she stopped, and cleared her throat. “You see, I knew it wasn't true, what she claimed. So I couldn't let …”

Her sentence was never finished. Down from the balcony above her plummeted interrupting death—a white object, toppling forward and downward, turning over in its descent and striking Alice Herpitude on the back of the head. She fell instantly, her slight figure folded over, slipping and dropping to the floor. The white object fell beside her with a smash, shivering asunder. Mary gave a cry and threw out her hand. She dropped to her knees, looking from the broken, bleeding skull of her beloved old friend to the calamitous scattered shards that were all that was left of the plaster bust of Louisa May Alcott. Then Mary broke into racking sobs, and put her hand over her mouth. Across the huge plaster bun that had formed the back of Louisa's head, smearing the twisted, massy knot of plaster hair, was the blood of the woman she had struck down.

Grandmaw was the one who held together. She ran to the light switch and turned it on. The hall filled with light from the old-fashioned globe lamps and then from the new fluorescent fixtures under the balcony. Then Grandmaw started for the stairs. Mary jerked to her feet. “No, no,” she said. “Don't go up there.” She ran after her and grasped at her dress, sobbing. “No, no, please, no.” But Grandmaw pulled Mary's hand away, and scrambled up the stairs, Mary stumbling after her. At the top Mary used all her tall strength to set Grandmaw aside. Then she stood shaking in front of her, staring down into the black cavern of the stacks. The little signs that announced the catalogue numbers marched into darkness along the rows of shelves.
92 Biography, 88 Travel.
Mary felt a hysterical giggle rising inside her. One of the little signs should be labelled
Murderers
, because whoever had tipped the bust of Louisa May Alcott off the balcony must have filed himself in one of those corridors. They moved slowly down the aisle, turning on the light switches at the ends of rows. It was a foolhardy thing to do. But they found nothing.

“He must have ducked downstairs and gotten out down below,” said Grandmaw. She hurried down the stairs again and picked up the telephone on the main desk to call the police. Mary followed her slowly, humping her shoulders, holding the sides of her face in her hands. Oh, Alice, Alice. Charley, was it you?

Chapter 48

	Their costume, of a Sunday ,
Some manner of the Hair—
A prank nobody knew but them
Lost, in the Sepulchre—
EMILY DICKINSON

Homer Kelly came in like thunder, his face extraordinary. He saw Mary leaning, pale and drawn, against the desk and stopped short. Then he turned to the wall and struck it a great blow with his clenched fist. “My God, all the desk man said was ‘one of the librarians …'”

Then he recovered himself and walked unsteadily over to the Thoreau alcove where Jimmy Flower had already started to work. Jimmy looked at him and shook his head, a sign of pain. There was a bright flash from the photographer's equipment. Homer knelt down and looked at Alice Herpitude. Then he got up and went to Mary and took her roughly by the arm, looking savage. “Where were you?” he said. “Were you anywhere near her?”

Mary laughed lightly. “Oh, I was up on the balcony, pushing over p-pieces of sculpture.”

Homer glared at her. Then he saw that one of her eyes looked queer, with the water in it. He turned abruptly away, and started questioning Grandmaw Hand. Grandmaw was holding up heroically, being factual and terse. She was a remarkable woman.

Dr. Allen came in with his bag and bent over Miss Herpitude's body. Mary turned away. The investigation didn't interest her any more. She heard Homer tearing into Harold Vine.

“You lost him? When? How? Why in hell …?”

“Gee, I'm sorry.”

“Gee, you're sorry,” sneered Homer. “Oh, damn it, it's my own fault. There we were, assuming Charley was too much of a gentleman to do anything nasty or unsporting like run away and kill somebody. Oh, my God, why didn't I go on ahead and put him in the lockup this afternoon, in spite of the D.A.?” He beat the side of his head with his fist. “Well, okay, Harold, so What happened?”

“Oldest trick in the book. Charley headed up toward Main Street, just ambling along, then he wandered down the Milldam until he got to Monument Square by the Civil War Memorial (you know, where it says ‘Faithful unto Death'), and then he just sat down for a while, leaning against it and looking up at the sky, like looking for airplanes, only there weren't any. I felt awful stupid, walking along about half a block behind him, pretending to be minding my own business. I had to walk past him and go around the corner there by the Middlesex Fire Insurance Company. Well, after a while he got up and went toward the Colonial Inn, where you folks were. I saw you in there, having a beer. He went in, and I went in, and then he went toward the Men's Room. So, stupid jerk that I am, I waited for him to come out. And of course he went out the window. I guess I'm not much good at tailing. He must have known I was there.”

Homer turned to Jimmy Flower. “How did he get in here and out again?”

“The coalbin window. All the others were locked from the inside. There Wasn't even hardly any coal in it, so he may have got away without any coal dust on him anywhere. I've got the state police out on the road, looking for his car.”

But then the phone rang. It was Morey Silverson, at the Goss house. He had found Charley right at home, all tucked up in bed.

“Well, thank God for that,” said Jimmy. “What did he say he was doing after he got rid of Harold Vine?”