The present
JULIA DROVE NORTH, fleeing the heat of the Boston summer, and joined the weekend stream of cars headed north into Maine. By the time she reached the New Hampshire border, the temperature outside had fallen ten degrees. Half an hour later, as she crossed into Maine, the air was starting to feel chilly. Soon her views of forest and rocky coastline vanished behind a bank of fog, and from there northward the world turned gray, the road curving through a ghostly landscape of veiled trees and barely glimpsed farmhouses.
When she finally arrived at the beach town of Lincolnville that afternoon, the fog was so dense she could barely make out the massive outline of the Islesboro ferry docked at the pier. Henry Page had warned her that there'd be limited space aboard for vehicles, so she left her car parked in the terminal lot, grabbed her overnight bag, and walked onto the vessel.
If there was any view to be seen out the ferry window that day, she caught no glimpse of it during the crossing to Islesboro.
She walked off the boat into a disorientingly gray world. Henry Page's house was just a mile's walk from the island's terminal — A nice stroll on a summer's day, — he'd said. But in thick fog, a mile can seem like forever. She stayed well to the side of the road to avoid being hit by passing cars, and clambered off into the weeds whenever she heard an approaching vehicle. So this is summertime in Maine, she thought, shivering in her shorts and sandals. Though she could hear birds chirping, she couldn't see them. All she could see was the pavement beneath her feet and the weeds at the side of the road.
A mailbox suddenly appeared in front of her. It was thoroughly rusted, affixed to a crooked post. Staring closely, she could just make out the faded word on the side: STONEHURST.
Henry Page's house.
The one-lane dirt driveway climbed steadily through dense woods, where bushes and low branches reached out like claws to scrape at any passing vehicle. The farther she climbed, the more uneasy she felt about being stranded on this lonely road, on this fog-choked island. The house appeared so suddenly that she halted, startled, as if she'd just encountered a beast looming in the mist. It was made of stone and old wood that, over the years, had turned silvery in the salt air. Though she could not see the ocean, she knew it was nearby because she could hear waves slapping against rocks and seagulls crying as they wheeled overhead.
She climbed the worn granite steps to the porch and knocked. Mr. Page had told her he would be home, but no one came to the door. She was cold, she'd brought no coat, and she had nowhere to go except back to the ferry terminal. In frustration, she left her bag on the porch and walked around to the back of the house. Since Henry wasn't home, she might as well take a look at his view if there was one to see today.
She followed a stone path to a back garden, overgrown with shrubs and scraggly grass. Though the grounds were clearly in need of a gardener's attention, she could tell this once must have been a showplace, judging by the elaborate stonework. She saw mossy steps leading downward into the mist, and low stone walls enclosing a series of terraced flower beds. Enticed by the sound of waves, she headed down the steps, past clumps of thyme and catmint. The sea had to be close now, and she expected at any second to catch a glimpse of the beach.
She stepped down, and her heel met empty air.
With a gasp, she scrabbled backward and her rear end landed hard on the stairs. For a moment she sat staring down through shifting curtains of fog to the rocks a good twenty feet below. Only now did she notice the eroded soil on either side of her, and the exposed roots of a tree that was barely clinging to the crumbling cliffside. Gazing down at the sea, she thought: I'd survive the drop, but it wouldn't take long to drown in that frigid water.
On unsteady legs she climbed back toward the house, fearful the whole way that the cliff would suddenly collapse, dragging her down with it. She was almost to the top when she saw the man waiting for her.
He stood with stooped shoulders, his gnarled hand gripping a cane. Henry Page had sounded old over the telephone, and this man looked ancient, his hair as white as the mist, his eyes squinting through wire-rimmed spectacles.
— The steps are unsafe, — he said. — Every year, another one drops off the cliff. It's unstable soil. —
— So I found out, — she said, panting from her quick climb up the stairs.
— I'm Henry Page. You're Miss Hamill, I presume. —
— I hope it's okay that I took a look around. Since you weren't home. —
— I've been home the whole time. —
— No one answered the door. —
— You think I can just sprint down the stairs? I'm eighty-nine years old. Next time, try a little patience. — He turned and crossed the stone terrace toward a set of French doors. — Come in. I already have a nice sauvignon blanc chilling. Although this cool weather might call for a red, not a white. —
She followed him into the house. As she stepped through the French doors, she thought, This place looks as ancient as he is. It smelled of dust and old carpets.
And books. In that room facing the sea, thousands of old books were crammed in floor-to-ceiling shelves. An enormous stone fireplace took up one wall. Though the room was huge, with the fog pressing in against the sea windows, the space felt dark and claustrophobic. It did not help that there were a dozen boxes stacked up in the center of the room beside a massive oak dining table.
— These are a few of Hilda's boxes, — he said.
— A few? —
— There are two dozen more down in the cellar, and I haven't touched those yet. Maybe you could carry them upstairs for me, since I can't quite manage with this cane. I'd ask my grandnephew to do it, but he's always so busy. —
And I'm not?
He thumped over to the dining table, where the contents of one of the boxes were spread out across the battered tabletop. — As you can see, Hilda was a pack rat. Never threw away anything. When you live as long as she did, it means you end up with a lot of stuff. But this stuff, it turns out, is quite interesting. It's completely disorganized. The moving company I hired just threw things willy-nilly into boxes. These old newspapers here have dates anywhere from 1840 to 1910. No order to them whatsoever. I'll bet there are even older ones somewhere, but we'll have to open all the boxes to find them. It could take us weeks to go through them all. —
Staring down at a January 10, 1840, issue of the Boston Daily Advertiser, Julia suddenly registered the fact he'd used the word us. She looked up. — I'm sorry, Mr. Page, but I wasn't planning to stay very long. Could you just show me what you've found concerning my house? —
— Oh, yes. Hilda's house. — To her surprise, he walked away from her, his cane thudding across the wood floor. — Built in 1880, — he yelled back as he headed into another room. — For an ancestor of mine named Margaret Tate Page. —
Julia followed Henry into a kitchen that looked as if it had not been updated since the 1950s. The cabinets were streaked with grime, and the stove was splattered with old grease and what looked like dried spaghetti sauce. He rummaged around in the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of white wine.
— The house was passed down through succeeding generations. Pack rats all of us, just like Hilda, — he said, twisting a corkscrew into the bottle. — Which is why we're left with this treasure trove of documents. The house stayed in our family all these years. — The cork popped out of the bottle and he looked at her. — Until you. —
— The bones in my garden were probably buried before 1880, — she said. — That's what the university anthropologist told me. The grave is older than the house. —
— Could be, could be. — He pulled down two wineglasses from the cabinet.
— What you've found in these boxes isn't going to tell us anything about the bones. — And I'm wasting my time here.
— How can you say that? You haven't even looked at the papers yet. — He filled the glasses and held one out to her.
— Isn't it a little early in the day to be drinking? — she asked.
— Early? — He snorted. — I'm eighty-nine years old and I have four hundred bottles of excellent wine in my cellar, all of which I intend to finish. I'm more worried that it's too late to start drinking. So please, join me. A bottle always tastes better when it's shared. —
She took the glass.
— Now what were we talking about? — he asked.
— The woman's grave is older than the house. —
— Oh. — He picked up his own glass and shuffled back into the library. — It very well could be. —
— So I don't see how what's in these boxes could tell me her identity. —
He rifled through the papers on the dining table and plucked out one of them, which he set in front of her. — Here, Ms. Hamill. Here is the clue. —
She looked down at the handwritten letter, dated March 20, 1888.
Dearest Margaret,
I thank you for your kind condolences, so sincerely offered, for the loss of my darling Amelia. This has been a most difficult winter for me, as every month seems to bring the passing of yet another old friend to illness and age. Now it is with deepest gloom that I must consider the rapidly evaporating years left to me.
I realize that this is perhaps my last chance to broach a difficult subject which I should have raised long ago. I have been reluctant to speak of this, as I know that your aunt felt it wisest to keep this from you —
Julia looked up. — This was written in 1888. That's well after the bones were buried. —
— Keep reading, — he said. And she did, until the final paragraph.
For now, I enclose the news clipping, which I earlier mentioned. If you have no desire to learn more, please tell me, and I will never again mention this. But if indeed the subject of your parents holds any interest for you, then at my next opportunity, I will once again pick up my pen. And you will learn the story, the true story, of your aunt and the West End Reaper.
With fondest regards,
O.W.H.
— Do you realize who O.W.H. is? — asked Henry. His eyes, magnified by the lenses of his spectacles, gleamed with excitement.
— You told me over the phone it was Oliver Wendell Holmes. —
— And you do know who he was? —
— He was a judge, wasn't he? A Supreme Court justice. —
Henry gave a sigh of exasperation. — No, that's Oliver Wendell Holmes Junior, the son! This letter is from Wendell Senior. You must have heard of him. —
Julia frowned. — He was a writer, wasn't he? —
— That's all you know about him? —
— I'm sorry. I'm not exactly a history teacher. —
— You're a teacher? Of what? —
— The third grade. —
— Even a third-grade teacher should know that Oliver Wendell Holmes Senior was more than just a literary figure. Yes, he was a poet and a novelist and a biographer. He was also a lecturer, a philosopher, and one of the most influential voices in Boston. And he was one more thing. In the scheme of his contributions to mankind, it was the most important thing of all. —
— What was that? —
— He was a physician. One of the finest of his age. —
She looked at the letter with more interest. — So this is historically significant. —
— And the Margaret whom he addresses in the letter that's my great-great-grandmother, Dr. Margaret Tate Page, born in 1830. She was one of the first women physicians in Boston. That's her house you now own. In 1880, when her house was built, she would have been fifty years old. —
— Who is this aunt he speaks of in the letter? —
— I have no idea. I know nothing at all about her. —
— Are there other letters from Holmes? —
— I'm hoping we'll find them here. — He glanced at the dozen boxes stacked beside the dining table. — I've only searched these six so far. Nothing's organized, nothing's in order. But here is the history of your house, Ms. Hamill. This is what's left of the people who lived there. —
— He said that he enclosed a clipping. Did you find it? —
Henry reached for a scrap of newspaper. — I believe this is what he referred to. —
The clipping was so brown with age that she had trouble reading the tiny print in the gray light of the window. Only when Henry turned on a lamp was she able to make out the words.
It was dated November 28, 1830.
WEST END MURDER DESCRIBED AS — SHOCKING AND GROTESQUE —
At 10 PM Wednesday, officers of the Night Watch were called to Massachusetts General Hospital after the body of Miss Agnes Poole, a nurse, was discovered dead in a large puddle of blood on the back steps of the hospital. Her injuries, according to Officer Pratt of the Watch, left no doubt that this was an attack of the most brutal nature, most likely inflicted with a large cutting instrument such as a butcher knife. The lone witness remains unidentified to this reporter, out of concern for her safety, but Mr. Pratt confirms that it is a young woman, who described the assailant as — cloaked in black like the Grim Reaper, with the wings of a bird of prey. —
— This murder took place in Boston, — said Julia.
— A mere half-day carriage ride from your house in Weston. And the murder victim was a woman. —
— I see no connection to my house. —
— Oliver Wendell Holmes may be the connection. He writes to Margaret, who's living in your house. He makes this puzzling reference to her aunt, and to a killer known as the West End Reaper. Somehow, Holmes became involved in this murder case a case he felt compelled to tell Margaret about over fifty years later. Why? What was this mysterious secret she was never supposed to know? —
The distant bellow of a ship's horn made Julia look up. — I wish I didn't have to catch the ferry. I'd really love to learn the answer. —
— Then don't leave. Why not spend the night? I saw your overnight bag by the front door. —
— I didn't want to leave it in my car, so I brought it over with me. I was planning to check into a motel in Lincolnville. —
— But you can see all the work we have to do here! I have a perfectly nice guest room upstairs, with quite a spectacular view. —
She glanced at the window, at fog that had grown even thicker, and wondered what view he was talking about.
— But perhaps it's not really worth your trouble. It seems I'm the only one who cares about history anymore. I just thought you might feel the same way, since you touched her bones. — He sighed. — Oh, well. What does it matter? Someday, we'll all be just like her. Dead and forgotten. — He turned. — The last ferry leaves at four thirty. You'd better head back to the landing now, if you want to catch it. —
She didn't move. She was still thinking about what he'd said. About forgotten women.
— Mr. Page? — she said.
He looked back, a bent little gnome of a man clutching his knobby cane.
— I think I will spend the night. —
For a man his age, Henry could certainly hold his drink. By the time they'd finished dinner, they were well into a second bottle of wine, and Julia was having trouble focusing. Night had fallen, and in the glow of lamplight everything in the room had blurred to a warm haze. They had eaten their meal at the same table where the papers were spread out, and alongside the remains of roast chicken was a stack of old letters and newspapers she had yet to examine. She could not possibly read them tonight, not the way her head was spinning.
Henry didn't appear to be slowing down at all. He refilled his glass and sipped as he reached for another document, one of an endless collection of handwritten correspondence addressed to Margaret Tate Page. There were letters from beloved children and grandchildren and medical colleagues from around the world. How could Henry still focus on the faded ink after all those glasses of wine? Eighty-nine years old sounded ancient, yet Henry was out-drinking her, and certainly outlasting her through this evening's reading marathon.
He glanced at her over the rim of his glass. — You've given up already? —
— I'm exhausted. And a little tipsy, I think. —
— It's only ten o'clock. —
— I don't have your stamina. — She watched as he brought the letter right up to his spectacles, squinting to read the faded writing. She said, — Tell me about your cousin Hilda. —
— She was a schoolteacher, like you. — He flipped over the letter. Added, absently: — Never got around to having any children of her own. —
— Neither did I. —
— Don't you like children? —
— I love them. —
— Hilda didn't. —
Julia sank back in the chair, looking at the stack of boxes, the only legacy that Hilda Chamblett had left behind. — So that's why she was living alone. She didn't have anyone. —
Henry glanced up. — Why do you think I live alone? Because I want to, that's why! I want to stay in my own house, not some nursing home. — He reached for his glass. — Hilda was like that, too. —
Stubborn? Irascible?
— She died where she wanted to, — he said. — At home, in her garden. —
— I just find it sad that she was lying there for days before anyone found her. —
— No doubt, so will I. My grandnephew will probably find my old carcass sitting right here in this chair. —
— That's a horrible thought, Henry. —
— It's a consequence of liking one's privacy. You live alone, so you must know what I mean. —
She stared at her glass. — It isn't my choice, — she said. — My husband left me. —
— Why? You seem like a pleasant enough young woman. —
Pleasant enough. Right, that would bring the men running. His remark was so unintentionally insulting that she laughed. But somewhere in the middle of that laugh, the tears started. She rocked forward and dropped her head in her hands, struggling to get her emotions under control. Why was this happening now, why here, in front of this man she scarcely knew? For months after Richard left, she hadn't cried at all, and had impressed everyone with her stoicism. Now she could not seem to hold back the tears, and she fought them so hard her body was shuddering. Henry didn't say a word and made no attempt to comfort her. He simply studied her, the way he'd studied those old newspapers, as if this outburst was something new and curious.
She wiped her face and abruptly stood. — I'll clean up, — she said. — And then I think I'll go to bed. — She swept up the dinner plates and turned toward the kitchen.
— Julia, — he said. — What's his name? Your husband. —
— Richard. And he's my ex-husband. —
— Do you still love him? —
— No, — she said softly.
— Then why the hell are you crying over him? —
Leave it to Henry to so logically cut straight to the heart of the matter. — Because I'm an idiot, — she said.
Somewhere in the house, a phone was ringing.
Julia heard Henry shuffle past her bedroom door, his cane thunking as he walked. Whoever was calling knew that he required extra time to reach the phone, because it rang more than a dozen times before he finally picked it up. Faintly she heard his answering — Hello? — Then, a few seconds later, — Yes, she's here right now. We've been going through the boxes. To be honest, I haven't decided yet. —
Decided what? Who was he talking to?
She strained to make out his next words, but his voice had dropped, and all she could hear was an indistinct murmur. After a moment his voice fell silent, and she heard only the sea outside her window, and the creaks and groans of the old house.
The next morning, by the light of day, the call did not seem at all disconcerting.
She rolled out of bed, pulled on jeans and a fresh T-shirt, and went to the window. She saw no view today, either. If anything, the fog looked even thicker, pressed so densely against the glass that she thought, if she poked her hand outside, it would sink into something that felt like gray cotton candy. I drove all the way up to Maine, she thought, and I never even saw the sea.
There was a sharp rap on her door, and she turned, startled.
— Julia! — Henry called. — Are you awake yet? —
— I'm just getting up. —
— You must come downstairs at once. —
The urgency in his voice made her immediately cross the room and open the door.
He was standing in the hall, his face alight with excitement. — I've found another letter. —