Conviction leaps in him like a flame - her story is true, then - but it dies as quickly. What are such physical tokens worth? A magician produces a coin from a hat, and because it's a real coin and a real hat, the audience believes that the illusion too is real. But this stone is only that: a stone. For one thing, it has no dates on it, and the Mary Whitney buried beneath it may not have any connection with Grace Marks at all. She could be just a name, a name on a stone, seen here by Grace and used by her in the spinning of her story. She could be an old woman, a wife, a small infant, anyone at all.
Nothing has been proved. But nothing has been disproved, either.
Returning to Kingston, Simon travels first class. The train is almost full, and to avoid the crowding it's worth the expense. As he's carried eastward and Toronto recedes behind him, and Richmond Hill and its farms and meadows, he finds himself wondering what it would be like to live back there, in that lush and peaceful countryside; in, for instance, Thomas Kinnear's house, with Grace as his housekeeper. Not only his housekeeper: his locked and secret mistress. He'd keep her hidden, under a different name.
A lazy, indulgent life it would be, with its own slow delights. He pictures her sitting in a chair in the parlour, sewing, the lamplight falling on the side of her face. But why only mistress? It comes to him that Grace Marks is the only woman he's ever met that he would wish to marry. It's a sudden notion, but once he's had it he turns it over, considering it. He thinks, with a certain mordant irony, that she may also be the only one who would satisfy all of his mother's oft-hinted requirements, or almost all: Grace is not, for instance, rich. But she has beauty without frivolity, domesticity without dullness, and simplicity of manner, and prudence, and circumspection. She is also an excellent needlewoman, and could doubtless crochet rings around Miss Faith Cartwright. His mother would have no complaints on that score.
Then there are his own requirements. There is passion in Grace somewhere, he's certain of it, although it would take some hunting for. And she'd be grateful to him, albeit reluctantly. Gratitude by itself does not enthral him, but he likes the idea of reluctance.
But then there's James McDermott. Has she been telling the truth in that respect? Did she really dislike and fear the man as much as she's claimed? He'd touched her, certainly; but how much, and with how much of her consent? Such episodes appear differently in retrospect than in the heat of the moment; nobody knows that better than he, and why should it be any different for a woman? One prevaricates, one makes excuses for oneself, one gets out of it the best way one can. But what if, some evening in the lamplit parlour, she were to reveal more than he would care to know?
But he does care to know.
Madness, of course; a perverse fantasy, to marry a suspected murderess. But what if he'd met her before the murders? He considers this, rejects it. Before the murders Grace would have been entirely different from the woman he now knows. A young girl, scarcely formed; tepid, bland, and tasteless. A flat landscape.
Murderess, murderess, he whispers to himself. It has an allure, a scent almost. Hothouse gardenias. Lurid, but also furtive. He imagines himself breathing it as he draws Grace towards him, pressing his mouth against her. Murderess. He applies it to her throat like a brand.
XIII.
PANDORA'S BOX
My husband had contrived a very ingenious sort of Spirit-oscope.... I had always refused to put my hands upon this board, which would move for people under the influence and spell out letter by letter messages and names. But being alone, I placed my hands upon the board, and asked, 'Was it a spirit that lifted my hand?' and the board rolled forward and spelt out 'Yes.' ...
You, will perhaps think, as I too, have often thought, that the whole is an operation of my own mind, but my mind must be far cleverer than I, its owner have any idea of if it can spell letter by letter, whole pages of connected and often abstruse matter, without my knowing one word about it, for, it is not, until, Mr Moodie reads it over to me, after the communication is suspended that I know what it is about. My sister Mrs Traill, is a very powerful Medium for these communications, and gets them in foreign languages. Her spirits often abuse, and call her very ugly names.... Now, do not think me mad or possessed by evil spirits. I could wish you altogether possessed by such a glorious madness.
- Susanna Moodie,
Letter to Richard Bentley, 1858.
A shadow flits before me,
Not thou, but like to thee.
Ah, Christ, that it were possible
For one short hour to see
The souls we loved, that they might tell us
What and where they be!
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
Maud, 1855.
I felt a Cleaving in my Mind -
As if my Brain had split -
I tried to match it - Seam by Seam -
But could not make it fit.
- Emily Dickinson,
c. 1860.
48.
They wait in the library of Mrs. Quennell's house, each in a straight-backed chair, each turned not too obviously towards the door, which is slightly open. The curtains, which are of maroon plush with black trim and tassels and remind Simon of Episcopalian funerals, have been drawn shut; a globe-shaded lamp has been lit. It stands in the centre of the table, which is oblong and made of oak; and they sit around it, silent, expectant, decorous and wary, like a jury before the trial.
Mrs. Quennell, however, is relaxed, her hands folded placidly in her lap; she anticipates wonders, but will evidently not be surprised by them, whatever they may be. She has the air of a professional guide for whom the ravishments of, say, Niagara Falls have become a commonplace, but who hopes to enjoy vicariously the raptures of visiting neophytes. The Governor's wife wears an expression of yearning piety, tempered with resignation, whereas Reverend Verringer manages to look both benign and disapproving; there's a glinting around his eyes as if he's wearing spectacles, although he is not. Lydia, who is seated to Simon's left, is dressed in some cloudy, shiny material, a light mauve shot through with white, cut low enough to reveal her charming collarbone; she exudes a moist aroma of lily of the valley. She's nervously twisting her handkerchief; but when her eyes meet Simon's, she smiles.
As for Simon, he senses that his face is set in a sceptical and not very pleasant sneer; but that's a false face, as underneath it he's eager as a schoolboy at a carnival. He believes in nothing, he expects trickery and longs to discover how it is worked, but at the same time he wishes to be astonished. He knows this is a dangerous state of mind: he must preserve his objectivity.
There's a knock at the door, which opens wider; and Dr. Jerome DuPont comes in, leading Grace by the hand. She isn't wearing a cap, and her coiled hair shines redly in the lamplight. She has on a white collar, which is something he's never seen her in; and she looks astonishingly young. She walks tentatively, as if blind, but her eyes are wide open, fixed upon DuPont with the timorousness, the tremulousness, the pale and silent appeal, which Simon - he now realizes - has been hoping for in vain.
"I see you are all assembled," says Dr. DuPont. "I am gratified by your interest, and, I hope I may say, by your trust. The lamp must be removed from the table. Mrs. Quennell, may I impose upon you? And turned down, please. And the door closed."
Mrs. Quennell rises and silently moves the lamp to a small desk in the corner. Reverend Verringer shuts the door firmly.
"Grace will sit here," says Dr. DuPont. He places her with her back to the curtains. "Are you quite comfortable? Good. Do not be afraid, no one here wishes to hurt you. I have explained to her that all she has to do is listen to me, and then go to sleep. Do you understand, Grace?"
Grace nods. She's sitting rigidly, her lips pressed together, the pupils of her eyes huge in the weak light. Her hands grip the arms of the chair. Simon has seen attitudes like this in the wards of hospitals - those in pain, or awaiting an operation. An animal fear.
"This is a fully scientific procedure," says Dr. DuPont. He is talking t
o the rest of them, rather than to Grace. "Please banish all thoughts of Mesmerism, and other such fraudulent procedures. The Braidian system is completely logical and sound, and has been proven by European experts beyond a shadow of a doubt. It involves the deliberate relaxation and realignment of the nerves, so that a neuro-hypnotic sleep is induced. The same thing may be observed in fish, when stroked along the dorsal fin, and even in cats; although in higher organisms the results are of course more complex. I do ask you to avoid sudden movements and loud noises, as these can be shocking, and perhaps even damaging, to the subject. I request that you remain completely silent until Grace is asleep, after which you may converse in low voices."
Grace stares at the closed door as if thinking of escape. She's so high-strung Simon can almost feel her vibrating, like a stretched rope. He's never seen her so terrified. What has DuPont said or done to her before bringing her here? It's almost as if he must have threatened her; but when he speaks to her she looks up at him trustingly. Whatever else, it isn't DuPont she's afraid of.
DuPont turns the lamp down lower. The air in the room seems to thicken with barely visible smoke. Grace's features are now in shadow, except for the vitreous gleam of her eyes.
DuPont begins his procedure. First he suggests heaviness, drowsiness; then he tells Grace that her limbs are floating, drifting, that she is sinking down, down, down, as if through water. His voice has a soothing monotony. Grace's eyelids droop; she is breathing deeply and evenly.
"Are you asleep, Grace?" DuPont asks her.
"Yes," she says, in a voice that is slow and languid, but clearly audible.
"You can hear me."
"Yes."
"You can hear only me? Good. When you wake, you will remember nothing of what is done here. Now, go deeper." He pauses. "Please lift your right arm."
Slowly the arm rises as if pulled by a string, until it is held out straight. "Your arm," says DuPont, "is an iron bar. No one can bend it." He looks around at them. "Would anyone care to try?" Simon is tempted, but decides not to risk it; at this point he wants neither to be convinced, nor to be disillusioned. "No?" says DuPont. "Then allow me." He places his two hands on Grace's outstretched arm, leans forward. "I am using all my force," he says. The arm does not bend. "Good. You may lower your arm."
"Her eyes are open," says Lydia, alarmed; and sure enough there are two half-moons of white showing between the lids.
"It is normal," says DuPont, "but of no import. In this condition the subject appears able to discern certain objects, even with the eyes closed. It is a peculiarity of the nervous organization which must involve some sensory organ not yet measurable by human agency. But let us proceed."
He bends over Grace as if listening to her heart. Then he takes from some hidden pocket a square of fabric - an ordinary woman's veil, light grey - and drops it gently over her head, where it billows and settles. Now there's only a head, with the merest contour of a face behind it. The suggestion of a shroud is unmistakable.
It's too theatrical, too tawdry, thinks Simon; it reeks of the small-town lecture halls of fifteen years ago, with their audiences of credulous store clerks and laconic farmers, and their drab wives, and the smooth-talking charlatans who used to dole out transcendental nonsense and quack medical advice to them as an excuse for picking their pockets. He's striving for derision; nevertheless, the back of his neck creeps.
"She looks so - so odd," whispers Lydia.
" 'What hope of answer or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil,' " says Reverend Verringer, in his quoting voice. Simon can't tell whether or not he intends to be jocular.
"Pardon?" says the Governor's wife. "Oh yes - dear Mr. Tennyson."
"It helps the concentration," says Dr. DuPont in a low voice. "The inner sight is keener when hidden from outward view. Now, Dr. Jordan, we may safely travel into the past. What is it you would wish me to ask her?"
Simon wonders where to begin. "Ask her about the Kinnear residence," he says.
"What part of it?" says DuPont. "One must be specific."
"The verandah," says Simon, who believes in starting gently.
"Grace," says DuPont, "you are on the verandah, at Mr. Kinnear's. What do you see there?"
"I see flowers," says Grace. Her voice is heavy, and somehow damp. "It's the sunset. I am so happy. I want to stay here."
"Ask her," says Simon, "to get up now, and walk into the house. Tell her to go towards the trapdoor in the front hall, the one leading to the cellar."
"Grace," says DuPont, "you must ..."
Suddenly there's a loud single knock, almost like a small explosion. It has come from the table, or was it the door? Lydia gives a little shriek and clutches at Simon's hand; it would be churlish of him to pull away, so he does not, especially as she's shivering like a leaf.
"Hush!" says Mrs. Quennell in a piercing whisper. "We have a visitor!"
"William!" cries the Governor's wife softly. "I know it's my darling! My little one!"
"I beg you," says DuPont, with irritation. "This is not a seance!"
Under the veil, Grace stirs uneasily. The Governor's wife sniffles into her handkerchief. Simon glances over at Reverend Verringer. In the dimness it's hard to be sure of his expression; it seems to be a pained smile, like a baby with gas.
"I'm frightened," says Lydia. "Turn up the light!"
"Not yet," Simon whispers. He pats her hand.
There are three more sharp raps, as if someone is knocking at the door, imperiously demanding entry. "This is unconscionable," says DuPont. "Please request them to go away."
"I will try," says Mrs. Quennell. "But this is a Thursday. They're used to coming on Thursdays." She bows her head and clasps her hands. After a moment there's a series of little staccato pops, like a handful of pebbles rattling down a drainspout. "There," she says, "I think that's done it."
There must be a confederate, thinks Simon - some accomplice or apparatus, outside the door, under the table. This is, after all, Mrs. Quennell's house. Who knows how she may have rigged it up? But there's nothing under the table except their feet. How is it all worked? Just by sitting here he is rendered absurd, an ignorant pawn, a dupe. But he can't leave now.
"Thank you," says DuPont. "Doctor, please pardon the interruption. Let us proceed."
Simon is increasingly conscious of Lydia's hand in his. It's a small hand, and very warm. In fact the entire room is too close for comfort. He would like to detach himself, but Lydia is clutching him with a grip of iron. He hopes no one can see. His arm tingles; he crosses his legs. He has a sudden vision of Rachel Humphrey's legs, naked except for her stockings, and of his hands on them, holding her down while she struggles. Deliberately struggles, watching him through the lashes of her almost-closed eyes to see the effect she's having on him. Writhes like an artful eel. Begs like a captive. Slippery, a skin of sweat on her, hers or his, her dank hair across her face, across his mouth, every night. Imprisoned. Her skin where he's licked her shines like satin. It can't go on.
"Ask her," he says, "whether she ever had relations with James McDermott." He hasn't been intending to pose this question; certainly not at first, and never so directly. But isn't it - he sees it now - the one thing he most wants to know?
DuPont repeats the question to Grace in a level voice. There is a pause; then Grace laughs. Or someone laughs; it doesn't sound like Grace. "Relations, Doctor? What do you mean?" The voice is thin, wavering, watery; but fully present, fully alert. "Really, Doctor, you are such a hypocrite! You want to know if I kissed him, if I slept with him. If I was his paramour! Is that it?"
"Yes," says Simon. He's shaken, but must try not to show it. He was expecting a series of monosyllables, mere yes's and no's dragged out of her, out of her lethargy and stupor; a series of compelled and somnolent responses to his own firm demands. Not such crude mockery. This voice cannot be Grace's; yet in that case, whose voice is it?
"Whether I did what you'd like to do with that little slut who's got hold of your hand?"
There is a dry chuckle.
Lydia gasps, and withdraws her hand as if burned. Grace laughs again. "You'd like to know that, so I'll tell you. Yes. I would meet him outside, in the yard, in my nightdress, in the moonlight. I'd press up against him, I'd let him kiss me, and touch me as well, all over, Doctor, the same places you'd like to touch me, because I can always tell, I know what you're thinking when you sit in that stuffy little sewing room with me. But that was all, Doctor. That was all I'd let him do. I had him on a string, and Mr. Kinnear as well. I had the two of them dancing to my tune!"
"Ask her why," says Simon. He can't understand what's happening, but this may be his last chance to understand. He must keep his head, and pursue a straight line of enquiry. His voice, to his own ears, is a hoarse croak.
"I would breathe like this," says Grace. She utters a high erotic moan. "I would twist and twine. After that, he'd say he'd do anything." She titters. "But why? Oh Doctor, you are always asking why. Poking your nose in, and not only your nose. You are such a curious man! Curiosity killed the cat, you know, Doctor. You should watch out for that little mouse beside you; and her little furry mousehole too!"
To Simon's astonishment, Reverend Verringer giggles; or perhaps he is coughing.
"This is an outrage," says the Governor's wife. "I won't sit here and listen to such filth! Lydia, come with me!" She half rises; her skirts rustle.
"Please," says DuPont. "Bear with me. Modesty must take second place to the interests of science."
For Simon this whole occasion is reeling out of control. He must seize the initiative, or at least try to seize it; he must keep Grace from reading his mind. He's been told of the clairvoyant powers of those under hypnosis, but he's never believed in them before. "Ask her," he says sternly, "if she was in the cellar of Mr. Kinnear's house, on Saturday, July 23rd, 1843."