Douglas Preston - Two Graves

Still, somewhere deep inside, she felt thwarted. Disappointed. Sad, even. She had to admit that, despite everything, she wanted to see him—if only to ask him straight out why he had abandoned her, why he had left her at the mercy of a mother he knew full well to be a horrible drunken bitch. There had to be an explanation for that—and for all those letters and packages stashed in his closet. Or at least, that’s what she hoped beyond all hope.

She realized she was thirsty and went into the kitchen, turned on the tap, let the rusty water run until it ceased being lukewarm, filled up a glass and drank it down. So he was on the run. Where would he have gone?

And even as she asked the question, she realized she knew the answer.

20

FELDER HAD NEVER BEEN TO SOUTHPORT, CONNECTICUT, before, and he found himself unexpectedly charmed. It was an attractive, sleepy harbor town in otherwise bustling Fairfield County. As he turned off Pequot Avenue onto Center Street, heading for the historic district, he thought one could do a lot worse than to live in a place like this.

It had a quintessential New England atmosphere. The houses were mostly Colonials, early twentieth century by the look of them, with white clapboards and picket fences and manicured grounds dense with trees. The town library was impressive as well—a rambling, Romanesque structure of dressed stone with whimsical details. The only blot on the town’s escutcheon seemed to be an old mansion a few doors from the library, a dilapidated Queen Anne pile straight out of The Addams Family , complete with gaping shutters, loose slates, and a weed-choked lawn. The only thing missing, he thought wryly as he drove by, was a grinning Uncle Fester in an upper window.

His spirits rose again as he entered the village proper. Pulling into a parking space across from the yacht club, he consulted a handwritten note, then—with a spring in his step—crossed the road to a cheery, one-story wooden frame building overlooking the harbor.

The interior of the Southport Historical Museum smelled pleasantly of old books and furniture polish. It was stocked with a variety of nicely preserved antiques, and appeared deserted save for a well-coifed woman of a certain age—also nicely preserved—who sat in a rocking chair, doing needlepoint.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Felder replied. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

“I’d be happy to answer what I can. Please have a seat.” The woman indicated a rocking chair across from hers.

Felder sat down. “I’m doing some research into the painter and illustrator Alexander Wintour. I understand that his family came from this area.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, that’s true.”

“I’m interested in his work. Specifically, his sketchbooks. I was wondering if they still exist, and whether you could give me a lead on where I should start searching for them.”

The woman placed the needlepoint carefully in her lap. “Well, young man, I can tell you with some assurance that they almost certainly do exist. And I know where you can find them.”

“That’s very good to hear,” Felder said, feeling a little thrill course through him. This was going to be easier than he had hoped.

“We know quite a bit here about the Wintour family,” the woman went on. “Alexander Wintour never really reached the top shelf, you might say. He was a good illustrator with a fine eye, but not what you would call a real artist. Still, his work is interesting from a historical point of view. But I’m surely telling you what you already know.”

She smiled brightly.

“No, no,” Felder hastened to assure her. “Please go on.”

“As far as the family went, his brother’s son—his nephew—made an excellent match. Married the daughter of a local shipping magnate. Alexander, who never married, moved out of the Wintour family bungalow on Old South Road and into his nephew’s much grander residence nearby.”

Felder nodded eagerly. “Go on.”

“This shipping magnate was an avid collector of literary memorabilia—books, manuscripts, the odd lithograph, and in particular epistolary material. It’s said he obtained the complete collection of Albert Bierstadt’s correspondence from his 1882 trip across California, including dozens of sketches. He also managed to procure a series of love letters written by Grover Cleveland to Frances Folsom, before she became his wife—he was the only president ever to have a wedding in the White House, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Felder said, leaning in a little closer.

“Well! And then there are the letters Henry James sent to his editor at Houghton Mifflin during the writing of The Portrait of a Lady . Really, a most impressive collection.” She folded her hands over the needlepoint. “In any case, Alexander Wintour died young. He never married, and his sister was said to have inherited much of his artistic output, beyond a collection of paintings that were donated to, I believe, the New-York Historical Society. The albums and notebooks must have been passed on to her son. The son and his wealthy wife had only one child of their own—a daughter, Alexander’s grandniece. She’s still alive and living here in Southport. We at the museum have little doubt that Wintour’s sketchbooks are still in her library, along with her grandfather’s collections of letters and manuscripts. Naturally, we would dearly love to have them, but…” The woman smiled.

Felder practically clasped his hands together in excitement. “This is wonderful news. Tell me where she lives, please, so I can call on her.”

The woman’s smile faded. “Oh, dear.” She hesitated a moment. “Now, that’s a bit of a problem. I didn’t intend to get your hopes up.”

“What do you mean?”

The woman hesitated again. “I told you that I knew where you could find the sketchbooks. I didn’t say you’d be able to see them.”

Felder stared at her. “Why not?”

“Miss Wintour—well, not to put too fine a point on it, but she’s been an odd one ever since she was a little girl. Never goes out, never has company, never sees anyone. After her parents died, she remained shut up in that house. And that dreadful manservant of hers…” The woman shook her head. “It’s a tragedy, really, her parents were such pillars of the community.”

“But her library—?” Felder began.

“Oh, many people have tried to gain access—scholars and the like, you know, the Henry James and Grover Cleveland letters in particular have historical and literary importance—but she’s turned everyone away. Every last one. A delegation from Harvard came down expressly to examine the Bierstadt letters. Offered a tidy sum, so people say. She wouldn’t even let them in the front door.” The woman leaned forward, touched the side of her head with a fingertip. “Batty,” she whispered confidentially.

“There isn’t… anything I could do? It’s terribly important.”

“Frankly, it would be a miracle if she let you in. I hate to say it, but I know of quite a few scholars and others who are waiting—” she dropped her voice—“for a time when she won’t be around any longer to block access.”

Felder stood up.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

Felder sighed. “I’ve come all the way up from the city. As long as I’m here, I might as well try to see her.”

A look of pity came over the woman’s face.

“Can you tell me where I can find her house, please?” he asked. “There’s no harm in knocking on her door, is there?”