I swallowed hard, because that certainly fit the rumors. “You liked it?”
I saw on her face first the fear that she had said too much, then the determination to bear witness to the truth of it. “This school can be confining, sometimes. Asenath made us feel free.”
And yet, here she was, a quarter century on, still in the place of her confinement.
Spector slipped in, bearing bandages and what appeared to be a scavenged cane. Our conversation stilled as he passed, and we waited until he bent to more properly dress Charlie’s knee, murmuring reassurance in exchange for grunted protests.
“From what I heard when I was a child,” I said reluctantly, “Asenath may not have been as free as she seemed.”
“Certainly not after she married Mr. Derby. Or after they got involved with that Upton fellow.” She regained some of her composure, and a proud tilt of her chin that made me ache so much for home that I thought she must have picked it up from Asenath. “I hope he rots another twenty-five years in that asylum, for whatever role he played in that sordid situation.”
“Wait—he’s still alive? The man who—” I broke off, uncertain with what version of the story I ought to finish my sentence.
She grimaced and fussed with her sleeve. “They never gave us a straight story, but either Upton or Derby murdered her.” She met my eyes, now that she had spoken it aloud. Spector’s head jerked up, and I waved him back to his notes. “Then Upton killed Derby, and blamed her for it. I always assumed there was an affair; she can’t have been happy. And yes, he’s still alive, locked up because of how he ranted about her.” She shook her head. “I never married. A woman with a brain who marries is a fool. Men will eat you alive.”
That was almost certainly true of Asenath, though I didn’t think it would be a kindness to share what I knew. “I’m sorry for your loss. She left town when I was very young; I’m afraid I don’t have any memories to share. I knew some of her closer cousins, but they died years ago.”
She nodded. “I heard rumors about what happened to Innsmouth, too. I’m glad to do anything I can to help a relative of Asenath’s, even a distant one.”
“Thank you,” I said faintly.
After she left, I joined the others at the table and took a free notebook. I wanted time to think over what she had said, and to decide what I ought to do with it.
Spector stood and checked the now-closed door. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but when I hear the word ‘murder’ it attracts my attention.”
“And when I hear the name of ‘Waite,’” added Caleb. He and Dawson had been murmuring together over marginalia, but apparently not loudly enough to block our conversation. In the camps, I’d grown used to the absolute fiction that people did not hear when there was no room for physical privacy. Apparently the habit had not taken with my brother.
I sighed and put down the scarcely opened notebook. “It’s a very old case,” I told Spector.
“With a Waite…,” said Caleb thoughtfully. Then, eyes unfocused as if summoning old memory, he chanted: “Old Man Waite will steal your eyes, Old Man Waite will steal your soul. Better run to the sea by the count of five, if you don’t want to pay Old Ephraim’s toll.” He reddened at the others’ looks.
“Caleb, where did you get that?” I asked.
“It was a song the kids used to sing. Don’t you remember? You have to run from the street to the porch of the old abandoned Waite house and back before the chant is over, but some people count way too fast.”
“They hadn’t turned it into a song when I was young enough for that sort of game.” Of course the others would not be dissuaded now. “You all understand that this … this thing we’re researching— Body theft is a grave crime. The last suspected case in Innsmouth took place when I was very young. If I remember the details right, Ephraim Waite supposedly stole his daughter Asenath’s body, but was somehow dissatisfied with it. So he left Innsmouth as Asenath, and went to the Hall School. He seduced and married someone from Arkham, and then moved into his body, or tried to.”
“Hold a moment.” Spector looked both queasy and as if he were having difficulty keeping up. “How many bodies at a time?”
“Just one at a time,” I said, “unless he knew a whole different version of the spell from the one people talk about—I certainly hope not. I’m sorry—I’m trying to reconstruct something I overheard—”
“—eavesdropping from the top of the staircase,” put in Caleb.
I ignored him and went on: “—so I could be wrong on the details. But as I understand it, once Ephraim Waite had the husband’s body and forced the husband—‘Derby’ is the name the librarian gave—into Asenath’s, he killed Derby. And then a friend of the family killed him, in Derby’s body. That’s all I know, except that the elders seemed dissatisfied about whether they’d been able to do justice.” I took a deep breath, drawing in air rich with leather and old paper. “That librarian”—and I realized we’d never exchanged names—“was a friend of Asenath’s. Or rather, a friend of her murderous father, unknowing.”
Charlie and Spector spoke nearly at the same time. “I’m sorry.” They looked at each other, then away.
“So am I.” Asenath herself had lost whatever voice she might have had in the whole complicated story, dead before anyone noticed. I glanced surreptitiously at Trumbull. She was unlikely to mourn Asenath Waite as a person, but I wondered whether she regretted the lost perspective, the little piece of history fallen away into the trench created by Ephraim’s crime. Reluctantly, I added, “Mr. Spector, the librarian did tell me about a living witness. If you think it might help. It sounds like he’s the one who killed Ephraim, and probably knew what he was doing.”
To his credit, Spector took the moment to think about it. “I believe it would,” he said slowly. “If he could suggest signs that distinguish a body thief … It could help not only to track down actual cases—if there are any—but also to avoid unnecessary paranoia. Unless you saw it yourself?”
I did not look at Trumbull. Even if one dared judge the Yith, their art was not the same thing. I shook my head. “I was young, as I said. And my understanding is that Asenath—Ephraim, I mean—left town soon after the first switch, presumably to escape notice.”
Spector glanced at Dawson, and she nodded. “Do you have a name?” she asked.
“Upton,” I said.
“There are a lot of Uptons in Morecambe County.”
I looked helplessly at Caleb. “He’s in an asylum…”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never heard any skip rope songs about Uptons.”
Neko leaned forward, as intrigued by Caleb’s childhood as by Ephraim’s old crime. “I thought you said it was for playing keepaway with a haunted house.”