The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2) Read online

“Camilla certainly is not mentally defective,” Tallulah said. “Her mother, that two-legged tarantula, has pressured her to the point of snapping. If we could get her away from Mrs. Granger, she would be back to herself in no time. Even when you visited her at Bryce, she hasn’t had another single episode.” She pulled out a gold cigarette case. Reginald had a light ready for her before she could blink. She gave him a look through her heavily mascaraed lashes. “You, darling, are indispensable. I like that in a man.”

  “Mrs. Granger says she believes Camilla is defying her, and Maude Granger has no intention of losing a battle of wills.” I wanted everyone to know the score. “That makes the proposed surgery a form of punishment for deliberate disobedience.”

  “That woman’s off her nut,” Zelda said.

  “What do you think has happened to Camilla?” Reginald asked David.

  “I don’t know. She was fine, ebullient even. In March we set the October 7 wedding date. Camilla had chosen a seamstress to make her gown. Her bridal attendants’ gowns would mimic the fall colors. My parents had accepted my choice of a wife. Everything was falling into place.”

  “Tell me about the day she first attacked you.” Reginald brought out his cigarette case and offered it around the table.

  David signaled the waiter for another drink and lit a cigarette. “The first time she had an episode was in late April. I’d taken her to see her wedding gift, Roswell House. I’d kept it a surprise because I wanted her to know that she would always have a place of her own. The deed to the house was to be her wedding gift.” He took a long swallow of his drink. “Camilla was elated. She ran inside and went from room to room, exclaiming about the things she loved. I’ve never seen her so happy.”

  “And what happened?” I asked.

  “She ran into the kitchen talking about the dinner parties we’d have, the dances, the lawn parties. She was . . . so happy. I was in the library checking the shelving the carpenter had finished. I heard something like a scuffle. Then Camilla cried out, ‘No, no! Help! Stay away.’ I ran to the kitchen as quickly as I could and found her staring out the window as if she were in a trance. There was nothing outside, just the overgrown gardens. When I spoke her name, she didn’t answer. I grasped her shoulders, intending to help her. She spun around, and she had a butcher knife in her hand. She slashed at me without warning.”

  By the time he finished, he was almost panting. He took a large swallow of his new drink, draining the glass. “The look on her face was pure hatred. I have no doubt she would have killed me if she’d been faster.”

  “And there was nothing in the house or yard to provoke this reaction?” I asked. “You didn’t sense anything?”

  “Nothing I could see. One minute she was delighted with the house, and then suddenly she was furious and dangerous. The blade actually cut through my coat and shirt and into my skin. I was lucky the wound wasn’t deep. Had I gone to the hospital, the police might have become involved.”

  “Did she eat or drink anything in the house?” I shifted the focus a bit so David could collect himself. The memory of Camilla’s startling transformation from happy young fiancée to angry attacker had clearly distressed him.

  “No. We didn’t bring food with us, and the plumbing isn’t completed yet, so water must be brought in from the well. There was nothing to eat or drink in the house.”

  “Did she say anything when she attacked?”

  He shook his head, holding up his glass to gain the waiter’s attention. “She was savage. Animalistic. When she swung the blade at me, she was . . . grunting with exertion. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  I had a few theories. I’d read stories of possession by dark influences, creatures more beast than human. Not demons but something not human either. And stories of malevolent spirits. Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw was a favorite. Amelia B. Edwards’s tale Was It an Illusion? walked the edges of the twists of a brain caught between rationalism and superstition. My favorite authors speculated on such things, and I hoped someday to explore that terrain with my own writing.

  “How did you escape her?” I asked.

  “I ran out of the house. She followed and then collapsed in the yard. I couldn’t rouse her, so I drove her home, and the doctor was called.”

  “Dr. Abbott,” I said.

  “Yes. When Camilla came back to herself, she had no memory of the events.”

  “And there were other occurrences?”

  “One more.”

  “And both times were you alone with Camilla?” Reginald spoke as gently as he could, but the implication couldn’t be ignored.

  “I was, but you have to believe I’d never do anything to harm Camilla. I love her, and I will marry her and care for her, no matter what.”

  The waiter delivered David’s drink, and Zelda stopped him with a flirtatious hand on his arm before he could leave the table. “I’ll have a drink. Make mine a gin fizz, please.” When she focused on David, all signs of the coquette were gone. “Don’t you dare tell the dragon that you’ll marry Camilla no matter what state she’s in, or Maude will send her back to you like an imbecile capable of incubating your children and little else.”

  David looked stricken at the harsh image Zelda painted, but I didn’t think she was overstating the situation. The waiter returned to take our orders, and Tallulah and I deferred to Zelda’s recommendation of beef over a bed of rice and fresh mushrooms. Reginald and Scott ordered steaks. When the waiter had gone, Reginald continued his questions.

  “Please, tell us about the second episode.”

  “Weeks had passed without incident, and we’d all been lulled into the belief that Camilla was fine. We’d convinced ourselves that she’d eaten something tainted or been stung by something that produced an adverse reaction. The wedding plans continued, and finally last month Camilla and I went back to Roswell to outline the wedding decorations. Her mother was to meet us. It was similar to the first event, except that Camilla was in the upstairs ballroom, planning where the musicians would be, and I was measuring the parlor floor for a Turkish rug. I heard what sounded like a struggle upstairs. I called out to Camilla, and I heard her cry as if someone were hurting her. I rushed upstairs. She came at me again with a knife. She must have taken the knife upstairs with her. I ran outside again, and she came after me. Luckily the same thing happened. She fell down, unconscious.”

  “When did Mrs. Granger arrive?”

  “I was trying to revive Camilla when Mrs. Granger’s driver pulled up. We took Camilla home, and Dr. Abbott came immediately. It was then that Mrs. Granger decided to have Camilla put in Bryce Hospital. She convinced Camilla to go voluntarily. She said it was our only hope. Now she’s been there for four weeks, and each time I see her she’s more eager to come home.” David rubbed the side of his face. “But she refuses to come home with me until she’s assured she’s not a danger.”

  “Why not pick her up at the hospital, drive off to a justice of the peace, and marry her?” I asked David. “She’d be your wife. You could take care of her.”

  He drew in a ragged breath. “Because I fear I’m the trigger that sends her into violence. It only happens when we’re alone together. What if I’m . . . bad for her?”

  Silence fell over the table. Three waiters arrived with the food we’d ordered. The dishes were delicious, but the will to eat had fled. The others ate slowly and in silence.

  “Did you object to Camilla spending some time in New York City with Zelda and Tallulah?” I had to ask David this. If he had somehow manipulated Camilla to prevent her from pursuing her dream of a brief respite of independence, I wanted to know.

  “I would have worried about her. My family is from New York, and we have banking concerns there. I’ve spent enough time in the city to be aware of the dangers, but I didn’t oppose her desire to taste freedom. I have great faith in our love for each other. Besides, shouldn’t we all, men and women, know a life of independence before we agree to a partnership?”

 
It was the perfect answer. David Simpson was either a remarkably progressive man or a very clever manipulator.

  “Do your parents approve of Camilla?” Reginald asked David.

  “How could they not?” Zelda responded.

  “They would have preferred that I marry into one of the banking families,” David said. “Ideally a family they knew. It’s how alliances are created. But I told Mother and Father I intended to marry for love or not at all.”

  “Are they aware of Camilla’s problems?”

  “No. I haven’t told them, but I can’t keep the truth from them much longer. The wedding is set for October 7. They’ll be arriving here in Montgomery in September, and they’ll expect to spend time with their future daughter-in-law. I can’t very well take them to a mental hospital.”

  “They aren’t gonna like it if she’s a dim bulb.” Zelda pushed her plate away. She’d barely touched her food, and she signaled for another drink. “I talked to Scott last night. He said Southern women are suffocated by the past. We live in the shadow of the fallen South, a burden the women carry more so than the men.”

  “Slow down on that gin, darling, or you’ll give Scott all of your best lines,” Tallulah said as she lit one of Zelda’s cigarettes.

  David kept his attention on Reginald and me. “My parents will adore Camilla when she’s herself. A kinder, sweeter young woman has never been created. I will not allow her to be butchered. If you can’t help her, I’ll take necessary action.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “Exactly what you said: pick her up in the hospital, take her to a justice of the peace, and marry her. With or without her parents’ permission. Once she’s my wife, I can make sure she receives the proper help.”

  “And if she tries to kill you?” Reginald asked softly.

  “I’ll find a way to help her. I can take her to New York or Europe. There are other treatments safer than Dr. Perkins’s barbaric surgery. If I have to, I’ll set her free to live as she chooses in New York or anywhere else. If she’s my wife, Mrs. Granger will have no say.”

  He was right about that. I’d known of young girls who ran away and married. Some were underage. Once the wedding night was over, there was little the parents could do to return the girl to a state of virginity, so the marriage was accepted. Of course, the Grangers could disown Camilla, and I didn’t doubt the dragon’s power to make that happen.

  “I’d like to see Roswell House,” I said. “Would that be possible?”

  “Yes, I can give you a key. There are workmen there on some days. Because I believe Camilla will be well again, I’ve continued with the renovations.”

  I nodded. “Could you accompany us?”

  “Of course. But it will be three days. I have to travel to Birmingham in the morning.”

  “And we’re scheduled to visit Camilla at Bryce Hospital tomorrow,” Zelda reminded me. “We can’t disappoint her. I don’t believe her parents have been to see her at all. You can tour Roswell House when we return.”

  “David, how was she when you visited?” I asked.

  “She was . . . normal. We walked the grounds, under the ever-watchful eye of two aides, but we spent an afternoon together. Nothing untoward occurred. I believe she’s beyond the worst of whatever affliction she had.”

  “She does seem jolly when she sees David,” Tallulah said. “I visited her a week ago. She asked for chocolate, which I happily smuggled in to her. If I’d had a flask, I would have given it to her, but I gather she isn’t much for cocktails. Chocolate and David are the only things she asked about.”

  “Not her parents?” Reginald asked.

  Tallulah shook her head. “You can hardly blame her. Mrs. Granger would cannibalize her young if she thought it would make her more socially desirable. Camilla realized long ago she was a weapon to her mother, something to be used to pry open the door of polite society. The terrible thing, darlings, is that Camilla would have been accepted anywhere on her own dime. No matter how much money she acquires, the dragon never will. Camilla is her only possible ticket into the world she believes she deserves.”

  “When we return from Bryce Hospital, I’ll be in touch,” I told David. We thanked him for our lunch and left.

  Outside the restaurant, Tallulah firmly took the keys from a weaving Zelda. Relief washed over me that Zelda wouldn’t be behind the wheel. Not that there was much traffic to contend with in residential Montgomery. But there were plenty of trees.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Would it be possible to ride the trolley?” I asked before we climbed into the car. The sun was hot in the early afternoon and throbbed off the newly laid asphalt of the road. “Uncle Brett would be so disappointed if I didn’t give the electric vehicles a try and return with a full report.”

  “Darling, why would you want to ride the trolley when we have a perfectly good car?” Tallulah asked.

  “The trolley might be cooler,” I suggested.

  “Oh, take her for a ride.” Zelda did a pirouette. “Let a girl live a little.”

  I had to laugh. She was tipsy but generous of heart. “Thank you.”

  We sauntered slowly to the trolley stop, and, within a minute or two, the electric car arrived. Reginald was amused by my interest in electric transportation. New Orleans boasted a trolley system, so he was familiar with the contraptions. I’d never been aboard one.

  Once we were moving, the breeze made the heat much more tolerable. I’d taken a bench at the front, and a folded newspaper left on the seat caught my eye. KLAN HOLDS RALLY IN SELMA was the front-page headline. The story was illustrated with a photograph of men wearing robes and pointed hats that covered their faces as they cheered around a burning cross. The photograph brought back the lynching death of a young Mobile man I’d known and the abduction of my uncle. The horror of those events remained all too close in memory.

  Reginald must have seen my pale countenance, so he picked up the paper to move it. “Bad people are everywhere,” he said softly. “The past is over.”

  “I know.” I reached for the paper because I wanted to read the story later, alone in my room at the Sayre home. When I folded it to slip under my arm, another story caught my eye: TEENAGE GIRL MISSING.

  My visitor from the night before came back to my mind. The girl, begging for help. I scanned the narrow column of type, which gave only the barest of details. A young girl who lived in the county northwest of Montgomery had disappeared while walking home from town. This was the girl the police officer had been talking about when he came to speak to Judge Sayre. From what I’d overheard, she was not the first young woman to disappear in the area.

  According to the article, Autauga County law enforcement was asking for volunteers to search the rural area. They needed mounted men and searchers on foot.

  I don’t know why the story hit me with such power. The details about the missing girl were scant. Her name was Pamela DuMond, and she was sixteen. She lived with her mother in the small community of Autaugaville, which had a population of slightly more than two hundred. She walked home every school day, a distance of less than a mile. She’d gone into town to meet a friend for an afternoon of teenage chatter.

  “Raissa?” Zelda had come to sit across the trolley aisle from me. “Are you okay?”

  “I am. It’s the missing girl the officer was talking to your father about.” I showed her the headline.

  “How terrible. Do you . . . sense her ghost?”

  It shouldn’t have been an unexpected question, but it caught me flat-footed. “I don’t, I’m afraid. Maybe she’s still alive.” I didn’t want to mention the girl I’d seen—or dreamed about—the night before. She’d been so afraid, so lonely. And I knew beyond a doubt she was dead.

  “I’ll ask my father to find out what he can.” In an obvious effort to distract me, Zelda pointed to a raised white house on a shady lot. “Look, there’s the first White House of the Confederacy. Jefferson Davis lived there for three months before the Confederate capital was m
oved to Richmond, Virginia.”

  The Italianate design of the clapboard house was pleasing and serene. Magnolia trees provided a shady lawn, and I was glad it had survived the shells and torches that had been the fate of so many lovely homes.

  “Mrs. Davis hosted lots of galas,” Zelda said. “The cream of the Confederacy attended. My grandmother spoke of the parties and socials.”

  “Can you imagine wearing those dreadful laced corsets?” Tallulah joined in the conversation. “Add in all those petticoats, pantaloons, and floor-length skirts? I would have been driven to homicide. And no one would have blamed me.”

  “We would have stripped naked and danced on the lawn,” Zelda agreed. “Why have women allowed men to set the rules for their attire, hairstyles, and choices?” She fingered her short curls. “Not to mention voting. Are you fighting for the right to vote?” she asked me. “We need one more state for ratification.”

  “I have protested and signed petitions,” I said, though I had never been in the forefront of the suffragette movement. “My husband was a lawyer, and he assisted the Savannah suffragettes with legal advice before he went to war. He believed, and so do I, that the Nineteenth Amendment must be ratified.”

  “Hopefully next month,” Tallulah said, and for a moment she no longer seemed like a bored, sophisticated vamp but rather a young woman with a cause. “There’s talk that Tennessee will ratify.”

  “And Alabama?” I asked.

  “Hopeless.” Zelda’s mouth took on a grim set. “Which is why I’ll live in New York. And Tallulah, too. She’ll be queen of the Broadway stage, and I’ll be on the invitation list for every party of any importance in the city. Scott is in demand, and I’ve begun to develop my own following of devotees.”

  “Oh, those naughty vixens.” Tallulah’s laugh was low and throaty. “Zelda will lead the vanguard of scandalous women who refuse to be quiet or demur or be well behaved or managed.” She put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Your work is about a lot more than upsetting a few high hats.” The sly grin returned. “But I promise you—before we leave town we’ll make Maude Granger have a blue-faced fit.”