Thomas Cook - Instruments of Night

“Mrs. Harrison?” Graves said softly as he walked toward the rocker, his eyes now fixed on the gentle curve of the head, a nest of white hair shining softly in the afternoon light.

“Mrs. Harrison?” he repeated.

Her head jerked up and around, a pair of light blue eyes suddenly leveling upon him.

“My name is Paul Graves,” he told her as he continued forward.

Mrs. Harrison’s gaze remained on him with an unearthly stillness. There was an unmistakable anguish in them, so that Graves instantly knew that all the passing years had done nothing to lift the vast weight of her daughter’s violent death from her shoulders.

“Allison Davies arranged for me to see you,” he said.

Mrs. Harrison did not seem pleased to receive him. She pointed to the plain metal chair to her right. “About Faye,” she said, her voice frail, little more than a whisper. She closed her eyes briefly. When they opened again, they seemed fixed in the sort of pain Graves understood too well, the agony of being unjustly bereft, of having someone taken so suddenly and cruelly, they seemed not to have been taken at all, but to linger everywhere, in everything, darkening the very quality of the air.

“I didn’t mean to drag it all up again,” she said. “I just wanted to thank Miss Davies for all her family did for us after my husband died. That’s all I said in the letter. And that I sometimes wondered about Faye.” She flinched as if she’d briefly glimpsed her daughter’s last moments in Graves’ eyes. “Some souls won’t ever have any peace. Because they’ve done something terrible.”

Graves knew that the moment had come to confront the issue at hand. Even so, he realized that he didn’t know exactly where to begin, what questions to ask. These were things Slovak would have sensed intuitively, relying on powers Graves had given him but that Graves did not himself possess. And so he decided to start with the only day in Faye’s life that he’d learned anything about. “The morning Faye disappeared,” he began. “What do you remember about it?”

Mrs. Harrison shrugged, and Graves saw her reluctance to return to that painful time. “There’s nothing much to tell. It was warm. There was a nice breeze blowing.”

As if he’d been standing beside the pond that morning, Graves saw the leaves rustle in the trees around her small home, ripple the otherwise tranquil waters of the nearby pond.

“I’d done a wash,” Mrs. Harrison added. “I was outside, pinning it to the line.”

Graves drew the notebook from his pocket, determined to take notes no less detailed than those Slovak took, then studied until dawn.

“That’s when my girl came out the back door.”

Graves envisioned Faye still sleepy as she came through the door, yawning, stretching, rubbing her eyes, her body draped in a white sleeping gown, the breeze of that long-ago morning gently riffling through her still unruly hair.

“I was surprised to see her up so early,” Mrs. Harrison said. “She didn’t work at the main house anymore.”

“Faye worked in the main house?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Harrison answered. “Aftar my husband died, Mr. Davies took a real interest in Faye.” Her eyes took on a sudden tenderness. “He noticed how Faye liked to walk in the flower garden. She was just eight years old. But she seemed curious. I guess Mr. Davies liked that. Anyway, he noticed her.”

In his mind Graves saw a little girl among the flowers, a man approaching her. Tall. Gray. The father she had lost.

“Mr. Davies kept part of the flower garden for himself, Mrs. Harrison continued. “For his studies.”

“Studies?”

“What Mr. Davies was doing. In the garden. Growing new flowers. That’s how Faye described it. Putting one flower with another one, she said. Making a different flower. She was real interested in it.” She seemed to see her daughter as she’d been at that time. A little girl with bright, inquisitive eyes. “And I guess Mr. Davies liked having her around. I don’t think Miss Allison ever took an interest in the work he did. With the flowers, I mean.” She sensed that she’d gotten off track. “Anyway, Mr. Davies asked if my Faye could work with him. He said he’d teach her what he was doing. He’d even pay her a little salary for helping him in the garden. She had a gift, he told me. For understanding things. Scientific things.” A gentle smile played on her lips. “Faye wanted to do it. She was real excited. So I brought her to Mr. Davies’ office. He gave her a piece of candy. He was a real kind man, always real thoughtful. Then they went to the garden. They worked together almost every day after that. Faye would go to his office after school. Then they’d go to the garden and work for an hour or so. She worked with Mr. Davies until she turned sixteen. Then she stopped.”

“A sudden stop?”

“Yes.”

Graves envisioned Warren Davies standing just behind a teenage girl, his eyes fixed upon the delicate slope of her shoulder, the whiteness of her throat, his elegant fingers toying with the strands of her blond hair in a way that was no longer innocent. He saw Faye turn to face him, appalled by what she saw in his eyes, repulsed by his touch.

It was just a story, of course. Something he imagined. Still, Graves wondered if it might be true.

“Did Faye ever tell you why she stopped working for Mr. Davies?”

“She said he’d lost interest in the flowers,” Mrs. Harrison answered. “Just lost interest. One day he told her that he didn’t want to work in the garden anymore. So there was nothing for her to do. That was the end of it.” She was silent for a time. Then she returned to the last day of her daughter’s life. “So that’s why it seemed strange that Faye got up so early that morning. Since she wasn’t working. Had nothing to do.”

As Mrs. Harrison went on to describe her final conversation with her daughter, Graves found that he could hear their voices sounding in his head.

You look tired.

I couldn’t sleep.

How come?

I don’t know.

Graves felt he was watching the scene from a scant few yards away, a silent observer, scribbling notes, as mother and daughter hung the morning wash, talking companionably as they did so.

Got any plans this morning, honey?

No.

Well, there’s going to be a party when Mrs. Davies’ portrait is finished. You might want to go down to Britanny Falls and get yourself a new dress.

I have my blue dress. I don’t need a new one.

Well, you can be sure that Mona will have a new one.

“Mona?” Graves asked.

“Mona Flagg,” Mrs. Harrison replied. “Edward Davies’ girlfriend.”

Graves wrote the name in his notebook.

“Mona lived at Riverwood that summer,” Mrs. Harrison said. “Pretty girl. Her whole life ahead of her.” She stopped. Graves knew that she was comparing the open future of Mona Flagg with the tragically shortened one of her daughter. “Those two were together all the time. Edward and Mona.”

Graves imagined them in precisely that way, a handsome young couple rowing on the pond or taking long romantic walks in the surrounding woods.

“Faye never had a boyfriend,” Mrs. Harrison said softly. “Never had a chance to marry. To have kids.” She looked at Graves plaintively. “My girl wanted all of that. Husband. Children. She could have had it too. Everything.” The tragedy of her daughter’s death fell upon her with renewed heaviness. “Everyone loved Faye,” she whispered.

Everyone loved Faye. They were the same words Saunders had used. In his mind Graves saw her body sprawled on the floor of the mountain cave. At least one person had not loved her.

“Did Faye mention anything out of the ordinary that morning?” Graves asked.