Terry Thomas - The Drowned Woman

‘Zeke certainly knows how to take charge,’ Daphne said. ‘You love him very much, don’t you?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

She smiled for a second, before her expression became serious. ‘What’s wrong, Sarah? Something’s bothering you.’

I weighed my words before I spoke. ‘Someone pushed me down the stairs last night. I am certain of it, or at least I was certain of it last night. Now I think I’m being fanciful.’

‘I can assure you that no one in this family would want to harm you.’ She smiled at me.

‘Not even Will Sr?’

Daphne’s face became serious before she forced a smile. ‘I’m so sorry that you had to witness that scene last night Don’t let him bother you. He speaks that way to all of us, except Granna, of course. He’s upset because we are about to be invaded. Again.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Any minute now the reporters will be at the gate, never mind the police investigation. Will Sr is a fusspot, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

Helen came in with a tray laden with a coffee pot and a plate heaped with cinnamon rolls. They smelled divine.

‘Join me?’ I asked Daphne, as Helen busied herself setting the tray down on the small table.

‘No, thanks. I’ve got to get to the barn. Lessons at nine-thirty.’ Daphne walked over to the table to survey the food and coffee. ‘Mrs Griswold is a world-class baker. Oh, Helen, make sure that the vase comes directly back to me.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Helen said.

‘I’ll be off then,’ Daphne said. ‘Rest well, Sarah.’

Resting well didn’t work for me. I had no intention of staying in bed, so I moved over to my desk and transcribed a few of Dr Geisler’s handwritten pages. I had just finished proofing my work when the curtains rustled in the breeze, and the sweet smell of the mown grass wafted into the room. I pushed away from the typewriter, ready to be outdoors.

* * *

Downstairs, the curtains were shut, cloaking the foyer and the adjoining rooms in darkness. I didn’t hear a sound, nor did I see anyone. I knew Zeke and Simon – and probably Will Sr – were at the mill. I opened the front door and headed down the porch stairs.

I walked down the long driveway, staying in the shade. Seadrift raised his head and nickered at me when I walked past the pasture. In the distance, the roof of the stable peeked out among the trees. Soon I was by myself in a wooded area, the trail covered in dead leaves and lichen. I came to a weathered barn, bleached gray from years of sunlight. Bright green ivy climbed the front and wove through the rafters. A limb had fallen onto the roof and rotted there, long forgotten. I veered left, away from the old building, and toward the sun-dappled lane that led to Millport. I walked along the railroad track, my ankle getting better with every step. By the time I reached the town proper, my injury was all but forgotten.

Recalling Zeke’s narrative about the different shops and the people that owned them, I passed the bank, the café, and the general store. I headed for the stationer’s. Despite my brand new typewriter, I still liked to write notes longhand. While some women shopped for shoes and hats, my passion lay with fountain pens and thick linen paper.

A delicate bell jingled as I entered the store, a spacious room with high ceilings and white walls, redolent of floor wax and fresh paint. The cool air gave me goose bumps, and I marveled at how a shop like this managed to stay so cool. The influx of workers at the silk mill and the lumber mill was a boon for Millport. The store had a good share of shoppers, evidenced by the long queue at the cash registers, where two clerks, both wearing navy blue aprons with their names embroidered on their chests, rung up sales. Three women stood off to the side of the registers, huddled together, sharing confidences. They all wore hats and gloves, and I chastised myself for leaving the house without at least a pair of gloves. Every now and again, the tallest woman, who I imagined was the leader of the bunch, would raise her head and scan the store, like a buzzard searching for a fresh carcass.

I ignored her and headed for the row of stationery in the back of the shop. The women broke their huddle and stared at me as I walked by, their gazes burning the spot between my shoulder blades. I ignored them and focused on the surprising selection of fine stationery. I chose a thick creamy linen with matching envelopes.

‘I can get those for you,’ a young girl said. She wore the same apron as the other clerks. Hers had Betty emblazoned across the front. ‘How many?’

‘How about twelve sheets of stationery and eight envelopes.’ I could always walk back into town if I needed more. An excuse to get out of the house might turn out to be a blessing. ‘I’ll just browse for a while.’

‘That’s fine, miss. I’ll have these up at the register for you.’ The girl hurried off. I continued to look around the store, meandering full circle back up to the front, where I paused before a glass display of fountain pens. A black lacquer pen with gold overlay held place of pride in the middle of the display, resting atop a blood red leather case.

‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ Betty spoke from the other side of the counter. ‘It’s a 1918 Conklin Crescent. That’s real gold on the overlay.’

‘May I?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ Betty said. She opened the case, took out the pen, and handed it to me. My hand slipped as I reached to take it from her, and the pen fell to the floor with a clatter. The cap jumped off and skittered across the floor.

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