NORA WALKED AWAY FROM THE RED GINGERBREAD PEEKSKILL STATION, squinting against the bright morning sun. It had been raining when she’d boarded the train at Grand Central. But here, only a few small clouds dotted the blue sky above the old riverfront downtown. Three-story brick buildings were set close together, faded facades looking toward the Hudson. Behind them, narrow streets climbed away from the river, toward the public library and City Hall. Farther still, perched on the rocky hillside, lay the houses of the old neighborhoods, their narrow lawns dotted with ancient trees. Between the aging structures lay a scattering of smaller and newer houses, a car repair shop, the occasional Spanish-American mini-market. Everything looked shabby and superannuated. It was a proud old town in uncomfortable transition, clutching to its dignity in the face of decay and neglect.
She checked the directions Clara McFadden had given her over the telephone, then began climbing Central Avenue. She turned right on Washington, her old leather portfolio swinging from one hand, working her way toward Simpson Place. It was a steep climb, and she found herself panting slightly. Across the river, the ramparts of Bear Mountain could be glimpsed through the trees: a patchwork of autumnal yellows and reds, interspersed with darker stands of spruce and pine.
Clara McFadden’s house was a dilapidated Queen Anne, with a slate mansard roof, gables, and a pair of turrets decorated with oriel windows. The white paint was peeling. A wraparound porch surrounded the first floor, set off by a spindlework frieze. As she walked up the short drive, the wind blew through the trees, sending leaves swirling around her. She mounted the porch and rang the heavy bronze bell.
A minute passed, then two. She was about to ring again when she remembered the old lady had told her to walk in.
She grasped the large bronze knob and pushed; the door swung open with the creak of rarely used hinges. She stepped into an entryway, hanging her coat on a lone hook. There was a smell of dust, old fabric, and cats. A worn set of stairs swept upward, and to her right she could see a broad arched doorway, framed in carved oak, leading into what looked like a parlor.
A voice, riven with age but surprisingly strong, issued from within. “Do come in,” it said.
Nora paused at the entrance to the parlor. After the bright day outside, it was shockingly dim, the tall windows covered with thick green drapes ending in gold tassels. As her eyes slowly adjusted, she saw an old woman, dressed in crepe and dark bombazine, ensconced on a Victorian wing chair. It was so dark that at first all Nora could see was a white face and white hands, hovering as if disconnected in the dimness. The woman’s eyes were half closed.
“Do not be afraid,” said the disembodied voice from the deep chair.
Nora took another step inside. The white hand moved, indicating another wing chair, draped with a lace antimacassar. “Sit down.”
Nora took a seat gingerly. Dust rose from the chair. There was a rustling sound as a black cat shot from behind a curtain and disappeared into the dim recesses of the room.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Nora said.
The bombazine crackled as the lady raised her head. “What do you want, child?”
The question was unexpectedly direct, and the tone of the voice behind it sharp.
“Miss McFadden, I wanted to ask you about your father, Tinbury McFadden.”
“My dear, you’re going to have to tell me your name again. I am an old lady with a fading memory.”
“Nora Kelly.”
The old woman’s claw reached out and pulled the chain of a lamp that stood beside her chair. It had a heavy tasseled lamp shade, and it threw out a dim yellow light. Now Nora could see Clara McFadden more clearly. Her face was ancient and sunken, pale veins showing through parchment-paper skin. The lady examined her for a few minutes with a pair of glittering eyes.
“Thank you, Miss Kelly,” she said, turning off the lamp again. “What exactly do you want to know about my father?”
Nora took a folder out of the portfolio, squinting through the dimness at the questions she’d scribbled on the train north from Grand Central. She was glad she’d come prepared; the interview was becoming unexpectedly intimidating.
The old woman picked up something from a small table beside the wing chair: an old-fashioned pint bottle with a green label. She poured a bit of the liquid into a teaspoon, swallowed it, replaced the spoon. Another black cat, or perhaps the same one, leapt into the old lady’s lap. She began stroking it and it rumbled with pleasure.
“Your father was a curator at the New York Museum of Natural History. He was a colleague of John Canaday Shottum, who owned a cabinet of curiosities in lower Manhattan.”
There was no response from the old lady.
“And he was acquainted with a scientist by the name of Enoch Leng.”
Miss McFadden seemed to grow very still. Then she spoke with acidic sharpness, her voice cutting through the heavy air. It was as if the name had woken her up. “Leng? What about Leng?”
“I was curious if you knew anything about Dr. Leng, or had any letters or papers relating to him.”
“I certainly do know about Leng,” came the shrill voice. “He’s the man who murdered my father.”
Nora sat in stunned silence. There was nothing about a murder in anything she had read about McFadden. “I’m sorry?” she said.
“Oh, I know they all said he merely disappeared. But they were wrong.”
“How do you know this?”