Thomas Cook - Instruments of Night

“You’re like Slovak in many ways, I think.” Miss Davies watched him silently, and Graves wondered if some aspect of Slovak’s decline, the deep loneliness that gnawed at him continually, had suddenly swum into his own face. “I’ve asked you here to solve a mystery, Mr. Graves,” she said finally. “A murder mystery. You see, years ago a young girl was murdered here at Riverwood. Her name was Faye. Faye Harrison. She was my best friend.” She smiled the sort of fleeting, rueful smile Graves put on the lips of the burned-out, melancholy women he wrote about now, the ones Slovak met in smoky bars and drew beneath his arm, though with no other motive than to ease and comfort them, all desire extinguished, departed with his wife.

“She was murdered here during an otherwise perfect summer.” Some element of that happier time appeared briefly in Miss Davies’ face, then no less quickly vanished. “Riverwood was wonderful in those days. We all lived together. My whole family. Faye’s father worked as a groundskeeper. She was eight years old when he died. After that, Mrs. Harrison and Faye stayed on here at Riverwood. Mrs. Harrison continued to work as a teacher in a local school.” Miss Davies glanced over Graves’ shoulder, fixed her attention briefly on something in the distance, then returned to him. “Faye was the closest friend I ever had, Mr. Graves. She was part of our family. Beloved. And that summer, the last one we spent together, was the best one of my life.”

For an instant, Graves thought of his own favorite summer. He could remember how beautiful Gwen had looked when she brushed her hair in the evening and the way she’d always checked in on him before going to bed each night. Are you all right, Paul? He had never felt more safe, more loved, more at home on earth than when he’d answered her. Yes, I’m fine.

“Faye had just turned sixteen when she was murdered,” Miss Davies went on. “That was on August 27, 1946. The summer after the war.”

The scene spontaneously materialized in Graves’ mind, a stage set of brilliant summer days, placid lakes, bright flags flying in the small villages of upstate New York, a few young men still in uniform, all America buoyant and full of celebration, relishing the last lingering pleasure of its recent military triumph. He heard the lilting refrain of “Sentimental Journey,” saw crowded troop ships returning from Europe and the Pacific, soldiers running down wide gangplanks into the arms of relatives, friends, lovers.

“Things were so relaxed that summer,” Miss Davies said. “My brother Edward was home from college. He often went sailing. I remember my father sitting quietly, at the end of the pier. So peaceful. My mother had nothing to do but sit for her portrait.” Something caught in her mind. “Actually, it was the portrait artist who found Faye’s body. Andre Grossman. He found it about two miles from here. A place called Manitou Cave.”

Graves instantly envisioned it as a dank and murky place, with dripping walls and a soggy earthen floor. Bats hung from the ceiling in ceaselessly agitated clusters, their leathery wings flapping in the dark air. In one of its cold, unlighted hollows he saw a slender girl lying facedown, naked. Leaves and dirt were flung over her, crusted in her mouth and open eyes. The dried-out bones of long-devoured animals lay scattered in the soil around her, all that was left of some much earlier prey.

Miss Davies’ pale face tightened. “It was terrible, what Mr. Grossman saw. I don’t think he ever quite got over it.” She shuddered, as if touched by a sudden chill. “There are pictures, of course. You can get the… details. I’d rather not go into them.”

Graves recognized that the moment of truth had arrived. “I suppose it’s time for me to ask what you actually do want me to go into, Miss Davies.”

“The past,” she answered without hesitation. “That summer fifty years ago.” She drew a piece of paper from the pocket of her trousers, white with blue lines, clearly torn from a spiral notebook. “A few weeks ago I received a letter from Faye’s mother. It was quite nostalgic. She recalled how Faye and I had been so close, how wonderful that last summer had been. The way we used to sneak off to Indian Rock. That was our secret place. Faye’s and mine. We went there to be alone. Anyway, Mrs. Harrison’s letter brought back memories. It was good to hear from her again. Nothing really disturbed me until I got to the end of the letter, the last few lines.” She lifted the paper toward Graves. “You can read them for yourself.”

Graves took it, went directly to its last paragraph, and read it silently:

I’ve never understood it, Allison. What happened to Faye? I think and think, but I can’t find an answer. I see her face the way she was. I ask the same question over and over. Why, Faye? I’ve prayed for an answer, but no answer has come. That’s my punishment. I know it is. To be tormented by the mystery of my daughter’s death.

Graves offered the letter to Miss Davies; she didn’t take it.

“I’d like you to hold on to it awhile, Mr. Graves. As a reminder of how tormented Mrs. Harrison is. As you’ve no doubt guessed, Faye’s murder was never solved. At least not formally.”

Graves folded the letter and put it in his pocket. “What do you mean, not formally?”

“Well, a man was accused of the murder. A local man. His name was Jake Mosley. It’s always been quite obvious that Mosley killed Faye. But clearly, Mrs. Harrison doesn’t believe Jake did it. Because of that-what she wrote, particularly in that last line-about not knowing who killed Faye, I decided to contact you.”

Graves said nothing.

“Mrs. Harrison is quite old now, as you might imagine, Mr. Graves. And I don’t want her to die still wondering what happened to her daughter. It’s all I can do for her now. To give her the peace she needs. And only an answer can do that. A solution to Faye’s murder.” She looked at him piercingly. “It would be cruel for her to die without that, don’t you think?”

In his mind, Graves heard Sheriff Sloane’s soft, imploring voice: Please, son, don’t make me die without knowing who killed your sister.

“That’s why I’ve asked you here to Riverwood,” Miss Davies continued when he did not speak. “To find an answer to Faye’s death.” Before Graves could respond, she added, “I know you’re not a detective, Mr. Graves. At least, not a real one. But it’s not a real detective I need. Just the opposite, in fact. I need someone who can go beyond the facts of the case. I need someone who can imagine what happened to Faye, and why.”

The flaw in such reasoning was instantly obvious, and Graves dutifully exposed it. “To imagine things, that’s not the same as finding the truth,” he told her.

“No, of course not,” Miss Davies admitted. “But I already know the truth. Jake Mosley murdered Faye. As you’ll learn quite quickly once you’ve looked into the facts of the case. Unfortunately, Mrs. Harrison isn’t satisfied with that solution.” Her eyes softened. “She needs a different story, Mr. Graves. That’s why I’ve asked you here to Riverwood. To write a story that will give Mrs. Harrison the peace she deserves.”

“A story?” Graves asked.

“Yes, a story,” Miss Davies answered firmly. “It doesn’t have to be true. As a matter of fact, it can’t be true. But it does have to meet two conditions. The first is that the ‘killer’ has to be someone from Riverwood, someone Mrs. Harrison knew. Not a stranger, someone who just happened to come upon Faye in the woods, killed her, and then disappeared forever.”

Graves saw the old car rumble away in the bright morning light, a single arm waving good-bye from an open window, leaving a farmhouse that had been stumbled upon by accident, then left in unspeakable ruin. “But that sometimes happens,” he said.