“And when did they move away from this area?”
“Ah, well.” He sucked through his teeth. “That would have been more than twenty years ago. They hadn’t been married long. Mr. Lynch had done very well for himself. He’d got other business interests down south and he wanted to be closer to them. At least, that’s what I heard. So they upped and moved to a swank part of New York City. I expect it was Mrs. Lynch’s doing—she always was one for parties and dances and smart society. There wasn’t much for her in Williamstown or North Adams, that’s for sure.”
“They must have moved away when they took on the baby,” I said.
“Baby? I never heard of no baby,” he said. “That was one of Mr. Lynch’s disappointments, that he had no heir.”
“Not hers,” I said. “A cousin’s orphan. She took over the rearing of a cousin’s baby. Its parents were missionaries in China, so I’ve been given to understand. They died in a cholera epidemic and Mrs. Lynch took on the baby.”
He frowned. “Maybe I did hear something about that, but Mr. Lynch isn’t one for conversation when he comes here. And since she died, he never mentions her. He’s not one to show his feelings, you know. All business and then he’s off again. And he’s not the easiest man in the world to work for, but by and large he’s fair. He pays a decent wage.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I stood up. “Thank you for your time,” I said, and we shook hands.
So it was back to Williamstown and the old Johnson mansion. By now it was obvious that I’d need to stay the night somewhere in the area, so I booked myself at an inn on Main Street near the college. The landlady looked at me suspiciously to begin with as she showed me up to a clean but spartan room.
“Are you visiting a sweetheart at the college?” she asked.
“No, I’m a businesswoman from New York City,” I said. “I’m here checking for relatives of the Johnson family.”
“Johnsons? You mean the old Johnson mansion?”
I nodded.
“There’s nobody here now,” she said. “The old couple died, of course. Tragic accident.”
“What happened?” I asked.
She sucked in air through her teeth. “Their buggy went off the road in a storm. They were both swept into the creek and drowned. And then their daughter married and moved away.”
“What about the house? Who owns it now?”
She shrugged. “As far as I know Miss Lydia’s husband still owns it. I never heard of its being sold and it just sits there, going to ruin. I can’t see why. He’d have got a tidy sum for that when it was in good condition, years ago.”
This didn’t tally with the picture of Horace Lynch that I’d been given—a man who was keen on money would surely have sold a vacant property, wouldn’t he?
“So where is this house?” I asked. “Is it in town?”
“On the edge of town on the Petersburg Road. You just follow Main Street and you’ll get there. About a mile’s walk, I’d say.”
“So I’d have time to go there today?”
“If you’re not afraid of a good walk.”
I smiled. “I’m from Ireland and we thought nothing of walking five miles into the nearest town.”
“Ah well, then. Off you go, but you’ll find nothing there but weeds and a ruin. Supper’s at six o’clock sharp.”
I set off, quite enjoying the pace of a small town, the passing buggies, the men chewing the fat outside the barber’s shop, a group of Williams College young men in earnest discussion as they crossed the road. I thought they might be debating Plato or Shakespeare until I heard one of them say, “Of course the beer isn’t better there, but the barmaids do make up for it, don’t they?”
I smiled to myself as I walked on. At first there were college buildings on either side of me, then shops and businesses until Main Street became Petersburg Road and meandered out of town. At last I came to a high brick wall. I continued along it until it was broken by a wrought-iron gate. Ivy grew up the wall and spilled over the top of the gate. I pushed the rusty latch and the gate swung open with much creaking and groaning. Cautiously I stepped inside. A gravel driveway led to a tall mansion in the neo-Gothic style. Tall Scotch pine trees surrounded it and creepers covered much of the walls. It looked like the house from one of those dreadful Gothic novels and I half expected to see the heroine, clad only in her nightgown, run screaming from the front door, pursued by a man with an axe. I could see why Lydia Lynch had been keen to leave Williamstown for the elegance and bright lights of New York City.