Twenty-four
In my dream I thought that an audience was applauding. Then I opened my eyes and realized that the rain had come—a hard pattering against the thatch that sounded remarkably like clapping. I got up and looked out of the window and thought I saw a flash of lightning out to sea. At least we were snug in our little cottage tonight and didn’t have to go anywhere. Martha tapped on the door at that moment.
“I’m off home then, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “I’ve heated up the soup like you wanted, and there’s cold ham and tongue and some salad for you at the table in the dining room.”
“Thank you, Martha.” I followed her down the stairs.
“I’m glad he’s feeling better, ma’am,” she said as we reached the front hall. “Mrs. McCreedy said this morning that she thought the poor man was done for and we’d have a second death on our hands.”
She took her shawl down from the hook.
“Tell me, Martha,” I said. “How long have you worked for the Hannan family?”
“About five years, ma’am.”
“So you weren’t here when that terrible thing happened to little Colleen?”
“No ma’am. We heard that a tragedy had befallen a child on the estate and then we saw the funeral, of course. But that’s about it. When they came in the summer they brought all their own servants from the city with them. Mrs. McCreedy and the gardeners were the only locals they employed, and frankly the Hannans were not looked upon with much favor among the people of Newport. Newly rich upstarts—no better than ourselves, not old money like the Rockefellers.”
“I see,” I said. “Well thank you for your help, Martha. It’s been a big comfort to me.”
“We changed our minds later,” she added as she opened the front door. “Mr. Hannan was a generous man. He paid well.” She opened the door and looked out. “We’re in for another wild night, I can tell. Best hurry home before it starts in earnest.”
I watched her go out into the rain. I had just shut the front door again and was on my way to the kitchen to see about Daniel’s soup when the front door opened.
“It’s me again, Mrs. Sullivan. There are some people outside the gate. I could hear them talking softly in the darkness. Should we tell them at the big house, do you think?”
“What kind of people?”
“Hard to tell in the dark, but I heard one say, ‘There has to be another way in.’ And knowing what just happened to the master, I thought I should tell someone.”
I took down my own cape. “Quite right,” I said, although I suspected that her return to find me had more to do with her own unease than with her sense of duty. “I’ll come and see if you like.”
“Oh, go carefully, ma’am. They might be armed.”
“It’s not as if it’s the middle of the night,” I said. “I don’t think we can be in too much danger.” But even as I said it I realized that Brian Hannan had probably died in the early evening hours and nobody had seen anything.
However I put on a good show of bravery as I walked ahead of her toward the gate. The rain had died down to a gentle patter on the dry leaves. At first I couldn’t see anybody but I soon picked up a rustling just behind the wall.
“Have you found a door yet?” came a shrill whisper.
“There had better be one. I’m not about to climb over the top,” came a whisper in reply.
“They’re trying to get in.” Martha grabbed my arm. “Shouldn’t I run and tell the gentlemen at the house?”
I inched closer to the gate and peered out. I caught a movement of light fabric, contrasting with the darkness of the ivy. It seemed to be a skirt, moving in the breeze. The words white lady flashed into my mind. The boys swore they had seen somebody running across the lawn. Maybe their ghost had been all too real—a real person who had managed to gain access once and was now back again. The thought struck me that news of Brian Hannan’s death would have reached New York by now and that these intruders were most likely newspaper reporters, determined to get a scoop. Suddenly I wasn’t afraid, just angry.
“What are you doing out there?” I demanded. “If you want to see the Hannan family you can telephone them to make an appointment. Or you can return in daylight.”
“It’s not the Hannan family we want to see.” One of the figures came out of the ivy and started to walk toward me. “We understand you have a Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan staying on the property. It’s them we’ve come to visit.”
And out of the shadows stepped my dear friend and next door neighbor Elena Goldfarb, usually known to her friends as Sid. She was followed by Miss Augusta Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts, who went by the nickname of Gus. I saw delight and recognition flood their faces as they saw who I was.