Part two
The following morning, having seen that Ivy was still not talking much, Trixie put in a call to William Heffernan, to ask him some further questions. The first question, on the possible existence of an attic, he could not answer. The second, on local cemeteries, he was more informative.
“Yes, I know where the family burial plot is. Would you like to see it? I could come and pick you up, if you would like.”
“That would be great,” she responded with enthusiasm.
They made some arrangements and Trixie grabbed her camera, notebook and pen. A short time later, she was heading out the door to meet him outside. It was a short drive to the cemetery and, when they got there, Trixie was glad she had someone to show the way. He led her to the plot, which was topped by a tall spire. There were inscriptions on three of the four sides.
On the side which Trixie thought was the front, it read:
Everett-Cooper
Our
beloved mother
Cornelia
Daughter of John and Adelaide Browne
Widow of Silas
1881-1980
Rosemary
Beloved daughter
1914-1967
Olive
Beloved daughter
1906-1973
To the left was an inscription to those who had died before the move to Ridgefield:
In Loving Memory
Silas Everett-Cooper
Born Albany NY 1862
Died Hartford CT 1923
Fern
Beloved daughter
Born Hartford CT 1909
Died Hartford CT 1926
The opposite side held the details of the most recent deaths:
Everett-Cooper
Myrtle
Beloved sister
1904-1994
Viola
Beloved sister
1912-2006
There was a space at the bottom, no doubt intended for Ivy’s name and the dates of her birth and death. Trixie took some photographs, then got out her notebook to try to put the sisters in their birth order.
“Now, that’s interesting,” her companion mused. “I’ve never really noticed that before. Silas was a good deal older than his wife – almost old enough to be her father, really.”
“He was?” Trixie asked. She looked back at the dates. “From 1862 to 1881 is … what? Nineteen years. And she outlived him by more than fifty years. That’s kind of sad.”
“For him? No, I don’t think so,” he replied, eyes twinkling. “I think it might have been a blessed release. Mrs. Everett-Cooper was quite a formidable woman. It might have been to her daughters’ advantage if she hadn’t held on quite so long, but I don’t think it was at all sad for her husband to be out of harm’s way.”
“You sound like you didn’t like her at all.”
A contemplative expression graced his face. “No, I don’t suppose I did. She was the kind of mother who sucked all of the life out of her children. Those daughters never stood a chance against the kind of attack that she made. I have a feeling that this one –” He pointed to Fern’s name. “–tried to escape from her mother. Maybe she killed herself; I don’t know. She was never talked about, or referred to.”
“It sounds like you knew the family well.”
He nodded. “After my mother died, my father became very lonely for female company. He had high hopes of attracting a second wife and thought that one of the Everett-Cooper sisters might suit him. The more he tried to befriend them, however, the more that evil old woman tried to prevent him. He gave up after a while and found a nice widow with no domineering relatives at all. They were very happy together.”
“I’m glad,” Trixie answered. “I’m glad, too, that I don’t have relatives like that. I thought my aunt was bad, trying to teach me to knit!”
He laughed. “Have you seen what you need to see here?”
She nodded. “Thanks for bringing me. It’s starting to come clear in my head what this family was like. Still not many clues on what I’m trying to find out, though. Poor Ivy hasn’t had too many coherent moments since I met her.”
“It’s early days, yet.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m sure some more clues will turn up. You’ll just have to be patient with Ivy and wait for her to tell you what you need to know.”
“Patience isn’t my best point,” she admitted, ruefully. “But I’ll try my best.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“There’s one other thing,” she began, as they walked back to the car. “I’ve asked Ivy twice, once when she was thinking it was the past and once when she was in the present, and she can’t remember who Calvin Ellis is. In the past, she didn’t know the name at all.”
“Yes, that is one of the biggest problems,” he agreed. “She wrote that will shortly before her stroke. Ever since, she’s been unable to explain who he was and why she wanted to leave something to his descendants. It’s quite plain from the wording that he’s dead, but when or where we don’t know. I even went to see the lawyer who drew it up – I hold power of attorney, you see, and I’m the executor of the will – to see if he had any more information, but she apparently only told him that it was only right. So, I know that she wants to put something right, but I don’t know what it is, or how she came to the decision.”
“I guess she must have had previous wills. Did any of them mention him, do you know?”
“They did not. Previously, she always left things divided between her sisters and to charities and museums if they all predeceased her. She intended to update it after Viola died, but couldn’t bring herself to do it until nearly two years later. I don’t know what prompted her, but it was done in something of a rush.” He sighed and they got into the car. “I was out of town at the time. I’ve always wished I was here. Maybe she would have confided in me.”
Trixie frowned for a moment, trying to make a connection with something she had heard previously. Her brow cleared as it came into focus. “I thought you said that you’d suggested to her that she solve the problem twenty-five years ago. How could you, if this has only come to light in the last four or five years?”
He gave her a look of approval. “You are sharp, aren’t you? Yes, it’s true that the problem of the elusive Californian is relatively new, but the other problem – that of the family heirloom – has been going on for the entire time I have known the family. You see, from Ivy’s father’s family there is only one item of significance left. All of the daughters – at least, all of the ones I knew – have always been adamant that it should remain in their father’s family for all time. Each of them had a stipulation in their will to that effect. Since Ivy is the last, it falls to her executor, namely me, to find them – if they actually exist.”
“What about their mother? What did she think?”
William looked away. “I always got the impression that she would have preferred that no trace of him remained. If you look around the house, you’ll find nothing much to suggest he ever existed.”
“No,” she mused, “or the daughter who died young, either. And yet, all the other daughters’ bedrooms, and the mother’s, are all left just as if they’re still living in them. It’s really strange.”
“You’ll have no argument from me on that point.” At that moment, they pulled up in front of the house. “Call me if you need anything else, Trixie. It’s no trouble and I have a vested interest in your success, remember.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She waved to him as he drove away and then turned to frown up at the house. There was something niggling at her mind about it that she could not quite bring into focus. For a few moments, she looked, not seeing anything of any significance. As she tried to match the inside to the outside, she began to see where the problem lay. Instead of going in through the front door, she began a slow walk around the house, stopping now and then to try to picture which room belonged to each window.
As she stood in the back garden, her gaze rose from the upstairs windows to a dormer above. She drew a sharp breath. She had not noticed while standing out the front, but there had been a dormer window there, as well. With quickened steps, she completed her circuit of the house and went in through the front door. She gave the stairs little thought, even though her leg muscles screamed their disapproval, and had soon arrived at the top.
“It must be here somewhere,” she muttered aloud. “You don’t have windows leading into nothing.”
The windows had been over the rooms she had identified as Olive’s and Myrtle’s, with the former facing the back garden and the latter facing the front. She concentrated her search in and around those rooms, tapping on walls and looking for anywhere that an entrance might be concealed.
“I’ll just go and see. Don’t you worry.” The raised voice floated up the stairs and Trixie’s heart sank.
“I’m really sorry,” she told Sarah, when she came into sight. “I forgot that Ivy would be resting.”
Sarah smiled. “I’ve been hearing you for a long time, but Ivy only just noticed. If you could stop the banging, I think it would be okay for you to stay up here.”
Trixie shrugged and started for the stairs. “There’s no point, really. I just can’t find what I’m looking for, even though I’m sure it’s here.”
“What’s that?”
“An access point to the attic. I can see its windows, but I can’t find out how to get up there.” She sighed. “Ivy gave me permission to search it, but I can’t if I can’t get in.”
Sarah looked thoughtful. “I can’t say I can help you with that. It will be lunch soon, though, and Ivy is much more herself this morning. Maybe she’ll be able to tell you something useful.”
Trixie nodded, but did not hold out much hope; if she did not expect much, she would not be so disappointed. When she sat down at the table, however, it seemed that her pessimism was unfounded. Ivy was ready to chatter away about her family, the house and the life that she had lived there.
“You’ve seen all of the rooms upstairs, now, have you dear? What did you think of them?”
Trixie scratched around in her mind for something polite to say. “This is such a lovely house. I don’t suppose you get to go up there much, now.”
Sadness washed over Ivy’s face. “No, only on the special days. I have to make an effort for those, but the rest of the time it’s too much trouble.”
“What are the special days?”
There was a quiet dignity in the old, lined face. “The anniversaries of my mother and sisters’ births and deaths, of course.” Once more, she looked sad. “I’ve missed some of them in the last couple of years – due to my infirmity, you understand – but before that I made sure to visit their rooms on their special days every single year.”
A spark of an idea lit inside Trixie’s brain. “Were there some in the last few months before you got sick?”
Ivy frowned and turned to Sarah. “When was it that I got sick?”
“August third, 2008.” She smiled at Trixie. “It’s a date I have to quote often; she can never remember it.”
“Let me see … Fern’s birthday was August first, but she never had a room here. I wouldn’t have visited a room for her. Before that was Rosemary’s death day on July twenty-eighth. Myrtle’s birthday was July twenty-fifth. Before that, it was Viola’s birthday in May. She would have been ninety-six. That’s the age I am now, did you know?”
“Yes, I did know that,” Trixie answered.
“It’s not something I should tell people; I’m sure my mother would not approve.” She seemed to shrink in on herself.
“I’m pretty sure that rule no longer applies when you pass the age of ninety,” Trixie assured her. “I think you’re entitled after that.”
Ivy smiled softly. “I hope you’re right. There are no gentlemen present, too, which surely makes it all right.”
Not wanting a discussion on propriety, Trixie hastened to change the subject. “You mentioned yesterday that you thought your father had come from somewhere far away. Was it Albany, New York?”
“Oh, no. That’s where he was born – didn’t I tell you? – but he lived somewhere else before coming here. I just can’t remember where.” Her voice slowed as the last sentence progressed. “Myrtle used to tell us stories about him, when our mother was not paying attention. She told us that our grandfather was a Civil War hero, but he died when my father was very small. His mother did her best and raised him well, but she died when he was a young man and he was forced to make his own way in the world. He moved … somewhere … and did very well, but then thought to come back nearer his roots. He met a man along the way and was convinced to come to Connecticut instead of New York State. Some years passed and he moved again to the town where my mother grew up. They met, married and bought their own house in Hartford, where they stayed for the rest of my father’s life. We moved here after Fern died and my mother decided to start afresh somewhere new.”
“I guess she was terribly upset …” Trixie trailed off, wondering if this was too tactless.
Ivy looked thoughtful. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. She was angry with Fern. She was angry that she died. She tried to wipe away her whole existence. Why, she didn’t even get an inscription on the monument until after our mother had passed away. She never allowed one to be made, but we had it put on at the same time as our mother’s.”
“I’ve seen it,” Trixie told her. “I wondered, though, why your mother’s inscription was at the top and the two sisters who died before her are below.”
“It was only proper,” Ivy answered, looking and sounding shocked. “We left a space there, of course. That was my mother’s place and no one else could take it.”
“Your mother always made sure that no one took her place, didn’t she?” Trixie murmured, too low for Ivy to hear. “The more I hear about her, the less I like her.”
After lunch, Trixie made a fresh assault on the upstairs bedrooms. A short amount of consideration had caused her to conclude that if a visit to one of the rooms had resulted in the hasty new will, it most likely had been the visit to Myrtle’s room; the visit to Rosemary’s room had occurred on the same day that the new will was signed.
With that in mind, Trixie went into Myrtle’s old room and stared at each of its features in turn. She had already spent considerable time searching here, as Myrtle in particular had been of interest. She had been the eldest sister and had the potential to know the most about her father. For a moment, Trixie closed her eyes and tried to picture what Ivy might do while visiting her dead sister’s room. Would she stand still, or walk around? Would she touch the items that meant most to her sister, or merely look? She opened her eyes.
A wardrobe in dark wood stood against one wall to the left of the door. Beyond it, the bed was made up in a pale shade of yellow. A night stand stood beside it with a lamp shaded in pale yellow, with frills. For some reason, Trixie thought that the lamp might have been chosen by Mrs. Everett-Cooper and not by Myrtle herself, but she had no solid reason to believe so. In the far corner stood a small writing desk and beside it were a pair of tall bookcases filled to the brim with books and set one on each side of the corner of the room so that their outer edges touched.
Frowning, Trixie pulled a tightly-wedged book from one of the shelves and was surprised to feel the shelves move as she did so. She looked up at the top and saw some kind of fastening, which should have held the two units together, had come undone. Reaching up, she found that she could just reach it, but that the shelving unit moved in what seemed to be an unnatural way as she touched it.
An image flashed into her mind of the family photograph that Ivy had shown her. Myrtle had been a tall girl, towering over her younger sisters and nearly equalling her father. Ivy was shorter than Trixie. Myrtle would have been able to reach the latch with ease, but it would have been too high for Ivy …
Holding her breath in anticipation, Trixie grasped a shelf and gave it a gentle tug. It moved smoothly, as if on hidden wheels, away from the wall and its twin. A gap appeared between the two sets of shelves and Trixie peered into it. Concealed behind the set of shelves was a hole in the wall that was big enough to enter and rising past the hole was a steep and narrow set of stairs. In the wall that lined the hallway was a blocked-off doorway. Light filtered down from above.
Trixie barely hesitated before pushing through the gap and climbing through the hole. She was soon at the top of the stairs, looking around at the attic she had worked so hard to find. It was an odd shaped room, certainly not taking up more than half of the potential space, but well lit by the two windows that Trixie had noticed. Part of it was stacked with boxes and old trunks, but an area near the window held an old desk and some makeshift shelves. These were stacked with small, leather-bound books, rather like the diaries in Viola’s room.
The sense of anticipation heightened as she reached out and grasped one of the volumes. She opened it to the first page and read the entry there:
‘January 1st, 1927
‘I am so furious with Mother that I could kill her. I really think I almost could, except that I’d rather not sink to her level. She thinks that she can hide the truth from me. Worse, still, she thinks that she can bully people outside the family into believing her version of events. I don’t know how much longer Dr. Hill will hold his nerve. Not long, surely. He looks terrible and he trembles whenever he sees one of us. Something will change soon, that is certain.’
Eyes wide, Trixie scrabbled around on the shelves, trying to find the volumes that came before this one. To her dismay, they appeared to be in random order. A few minutes searching, however, revealed something of a pattern. The first few books on the top shelf were out of their places, but the remainder progressed in date order. Trixie wondered for a moment about the significance of this fact, then began examining the earliest volume.
It began on the first day of 1915, shortly after a ten-year-old Myrtle had been given a diary for Christmas. This earliest book was filled with accounts of Myrtle’s schooling and her younger siblings, down to the baby, Rosemary. In 1917, Ivy was added to the family and Trixie smiled at the thoughts Myrtle shared about her youngest sister. Mrs. Everett-Cooper had not, it seemed, been forthcoming on the topic of where babies come from.
An entry in 1919, when Myrtle was fifteen years old, piqued Trixie’s interest:
‘Something very strange happened today that I don’t understand. Olive and I went for a stroll in the evening, as it had been so hot, and as we walked across the park we saw our father talking to an elderly man. They didn’t seem to see us, but we could hear them, they were so angry with each other. The old man told Father that he knew who he really was and there was no use pretending! I can’t think what that could mean. Even worse, Father told the man that they would both be in a lot of trouble if that news got out. They got quiet then, so we couldn’t hear any more. I think the man was threatening Father and that Father was threatening the man in return. I don’t understand it at all.’
Over the next four years, there were more and more suggestions of trouble in the family. Letters arrived for their father, which were quickly suppressed. Finances, previously seeming unlimited, became tighter. Their father looked older and acted weary. Sometimes, at night, their parents would argue.
The volume for 1923 did not appear in its own place, but Trixie soon found it amongst those at the beginning of the shelf. A pair of entries in that year made shivers run up her spine.
‘March 7, 1923
‘Father is very sick this evening with a stomach complaint. Dr. Hill came and looked grave. I could not understand the look he gave my mother. It held something of fear and trepidation, but also wariness and something like dismay. I’ve long suspected that, before she married my father, Dr. Hill may have had feelings for my mother. I know he’d do anything for her. I wonder what he’s doing for her now.
‘March 8, 1923
‘Father died early this morning. Dr. Hill signed the certificate. I am certain that Mother killed Father deliberately by poison, that Dr. Hill knows this and that he has chosen to cover it up. I don’t know what to do, but I know that I cannot give her away. I am so ashamed.’
A few weeks later, another entry caught Trixie’s attention.
‘April 24, 1923
‘I followed Mother today, even though she expressly forbade me to leave the house, and saw her talking to an elderly man. I suspect he might have been the same one that Olive and I saw arguing with Father all those years ago, but I cannot be sure. The way that she behaved with him seemed wrong in some way. She seemed frail and delicate and broken, but I know that she is none of those things. She is hard and unyielding and manipulative. I am afraid of what she might have done, but I don’t know how to find out what it might have been.’
Through the rest of that year and the couple following, Myrtle noted the return of financial ease in the household and the changes that she saw in her mother. Gone were most of their freedoms. Her mother had always been strict and overbearing, but now she seemed to delight in those characteristics. She kept a tighter rein on all of her daughters’ activities. For two of the sisters, Olive and Viola, this had the effect of making them nervous and easily upset. Olive became more prone to tears and Viola became withdrawn and introspective. Fern, on the other hand, was becoming rebellious.
The book for 1926 was one of those set aside. Trixie had read through almost two-thirds of it without finding anything shocking when it came to her attention that the light was fading. She glanced at her watch and found, to her dismay, that she was late for dinner. She jumped up from where she was sitting on the floor, wincing as her leg muscles protested, and hobbled down the stairs, only to find that the bookcase was back in front of the hole. She pushed on it and found it to be unyielding.
In alarm, she banged on it with her fists and called out for someone to let her out. There was no audible response from the outside. As she pounded some more, however, something gave way and the bookcase rolled forwards suddenly, spilling some books, which stopped its progress. Trixie tried to squeeze through the small gap, but found that she could not. Putting her arm through, she managed to move most of the books, but one was out of reach. It was enough, however, and she stumbled out through the gap and into the room.
As quickly as she could, she searched through the rooms on that level, finding all of them unoccupied. She clattered down the stairs and did a quick tour of that floor as well, finding nothing and no one out of place.
Sarah and Ivy were sitting in the meals area, empty plates in front of them. Trixie’s full plate had gone cold.
“I’m sorry,” she told them. “I found something interesting and lost track of time. By the way, Sarah, have you been upstairs this afternoon?”
She shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I don’t think anyone has, except you. Hardly anyone ever goes up there.”
Trixie did not comment, but instead began to eat her cold meal. She considered asking for it to be reheated, but remembered Sarah’s comments about Maria the cook and decided against that action. She ate as quickly as she could, eager to return to the attic. When she had finished, she stopped by her room for a flashlight, in case it got dark before she was finished. She was almost certain that no one had gone up the stairs in the meantime, but felt the need to be cautious regardless.
Returning to the attic, she made sure to move the bookcase across the bedroom door and wedge it in place, guaranteeing that no one could come in that way and trap her again. She also slipped the key to the bedroom door in her pocket. Back up the stairs, she seated herself just where she had been before and reached for the book she had been reading, only to find it was gone.
For several minutes, Trixie searched for the missing book, unable to believe that she could be so stupid as to leave it unattended, especially after what had happened. In the end, there was nothing she could do to change the result. Under other circumstances, she might have gone downstairs and searched through the house, but her leg ached and there were still so many diaries here to be read. Shaking her head in defeat, she picked up the book for 1927 – the same one she had looked at first – and tried to pick up what had happened in between from the context.
Soon, she came to the conclusion that the main event in the few missing months was Fern’s death. Myrtle dropped dark hints about her mother, Dr. Hill and the circumstances of her sister’s passing, but it was clear that there was something missing from the picture. Myrtle knew or suspected something about the death and, from her comments about Dr. Hill’s declining health, it seemed that she was not the only one.
Her conclusions were soon confirmed.
‘March 24, 1927
‘The news is all over town that poor Dr. Hill is dead. People are saying that he killed himself and I’m not at all surprised. What’s worse, he left a note that hinted at a terrible secret. I know his secret, of course. I know that he signed a death certificate for my father, when he should have turned my mother over to the police. I know he signed one for poor Fern, too, after the abominable thing that Mother did to her. I know that he once loved Mother and I know that he let her get away with murder and worse. I will never forgive Mother for what she did to Fern. Never. I don’t care so much about marriage and children. I will spend my life watching her and seeing that she never does such a thing again. If that is all I achieve in my life, it will be enough.’
A few weeks later Myrtle recorded her mother’s decision to sell their house and move somewhere else. Her sisters’ reactions were all negative, ranging from tears to exhortations to hysterics. Nothing swayed their mother. The house was sold and their belongings packed. Their mother tried to destroy everything that had belonged to either her husband or Fern, but the other girls conspired to save all they could. Myrtle was most proud of the effort to save the heirloom hand-carved candlestick from her father’s family, but did not care much for the other relics.
After the move to Ridgefield, the girls settled into a new routine. Their mother controlled everything and the four younger girls accepted the situation as normal. Myrtle kept on the watch and wrote about her efforts to encourage her sisters to be obedient and good.
She also recorded an account of her mother gathering together all kinds of things and packing them into the attic, then employing someone to seal up the door. A moment of illumination occurred for Trixie as she read of the young man’s conversation with Myrtle and his agreement to construct a secret entrance for her, hidden by her wardrobe, the rear of which he altered to suit. She deduced that the rolling bookcase must have come later. It was at this time, too, that Myrtle began hiding things – especially her diaries – in the attic.
As the years rolled by, Trixie found herself skimming more and more. For forty years, not much happened in the household that was of any interest now. Their mother vigorously defended the family against contact with outsiders and none of the daughters tried to escape from her. Their life was calm and dull, though fraught with emotional difficulties.
Then came Rosemary’s illness. Whatever this had been, Myrtle only referred to it in the most delicate of terms. Trixie could not make head nor tail out of her comments and resolved to ask Ivy about it, if the opportunity arose, simply for the sake of curiosity.
Rosemary’s death in 1967 was hard on the family. Their mother grieved like she had never grieved before, but after a few weeks Myrtle came to the conclusion that it was feigned. The remaining family settled into a new normal, with their mother becoming more difficult to deal with all the time.
The next jolt came in 1973.
‘November 12, 1973
‘I’ve failed. Poor Olive. She took an overdose last night. I tried to tell her that Mother didn’t really mean those things she said and that it would be okay, but she always did take these things to heart. Why didn’t I kill Mother all those years ago? Why didn’t I tell anyone what I knew? I could have saved her if I’d tried. Poor Olive.’
Shortly afterwards, Myrtle wrote of a ‘kind man’ who was ruling the death an accident, rather than a suicide. She was grateful for the gesture, but knew that he thought the same as she did on the matter.
Now, there were only three daughters remaining. Trixie skimmed through the next few years, until she came across Cornelia’s death. The way that Myrtle recorded it caused Trixie’s jaw to drop.
‘December 23, 1980
‘I’ve finally done it. It was so easy, I don’t know why I didn’t do this before. Mother was so horrible to us yesterday, especially to Viola. She should have known that it would upset Viola to talk about those kinds of things. I don’t mind so much having missed out on life, but Viola so desperately wanted children of her own. It’s terrible to taunt her like that. So, I fixed her. She boasted so often that she would live to be 100, but now she’s gone. I gave her her sleeping tablet, as usual. I waited until she was asleep. I put a plastic bag over her head and sealed it up as well as I could. Later, I checked that she was really dead and took the bag away. She’s ninety-nine. No one will suspect a thing.’
It seemed that Myrtle was correct and that no one did suspect anything. She recorded, with contempt, the comments that people made to her on how it was such a shame that her mother didn’t make it to her hundredth birthday. She also recorded the lightness in Viola and Ivy’s faces as they came to the realisation that their mother could not dominate them any longer. Later, she wrote about her despair when she found that her sisters still lived under their mother’s rule, even though their mother was gone.
Some time later, Myrtle decided to make an attempt at tracing any relatives on her father’s side. She was beginning to feel the burden of her years and worried that when the time came, no one would be able to find a suitable relative to leave their few precious heirlooms. With this end in mind she had hired a professional genealogist to do the research for her. She mentioned once having received the report, but that the result was less than she would have liked. She hinted at another family secret that destroyed her illusions about her father, but did not set down what that might be.
After a brief and unsuccessful search for the genealogist’s report, Trixie skimmed through the rest of the entries, but nothing else jumped out at her. They stopped in 1994, when Myrtle herself died. Two of her sisters outlived her. In one of the last few entries, Myrtle expressed the regret that she had not saved anyone from her mother’s attempts to destroy them.
Setting down the last book, Trixie reflected for a few moments on what she had learned. With a horrible jolt of guilt, she realised that she had learned very little of the things that she was being employed to find. Instead, she had turned out skeleton after skeleton from the family closet – and it was not her family’s closet to empty.
To assuage her guilt, she reflected on the things that she had learned: that there was a question as to whether Ivy’s father’s name was his real one, that Cornelia had considered his secrets serious enough to kill him for them and that an unknown man had caused the trouble. There was also the suggestion that Cornelia had somehow deceived the stranger.
By this time, the attic was wreathed in shadows and Trixie needed to switch on her flashlight in order to get down the stairs safely. She made another quick search for anything else of interest and chanced upon a manilla folder with a small leather-bound book on top. They were hidden behind one of the boxes, in the depths of the shadows and she only found them because she now had a light. To her surprise, she found that the small volume was the missing diary from 1926 and that the folder contained the genealogist’s report.
Wondering just what this meant, Trixie took both items and carried them with her down the stairs and into the room below. She returned the bookcase to its original position and opened the bedroom door. The hallway outside was deserted and silent. She locked the door behind herself and went down to her room, making sure that it was secure, too. Someone had concealed these items from her and it seemed likely that this person was inside the house. In spite of the initial appearance that there could be no possible danger in this job, Trixie felt a thrill of fear.
Shortly after settling down to read once more, that fear turned to horror. She was so absorbed in the story unfolding before her, she forgot about the present and concentrated on the drama that had played out so long ago. On the same page as she had left off, Trixie read Myrtle’s theory that her sister Fern had a secret boyfriend. A page or two later, events began to spiral out of control.
‘September 23, 1926
‘I have a terrible feeling of foreboding. Mother and Fern had a dreadful argument this evening, about what I can only guess. Mother said something about Fern bringing dishonour on our family. Fern told her that there was nothing she could do to stop it. It can’t be what I’m thinking, can it?
‘September 24, 1926
‘Mother brought home something today that she tried to keep hidden. I tried to find out what it was, but she was too crafty for me. I am so afraid of what she’s up to, but I can’t think of how to stop her. I think I’ll make a search tonight, after everyone is asleep.
‘September 25, 1926
‘Mother caught me searching last night and locked me in my room for the day. Poor little Ivy sat outside my door and cried. She’s so frightened by what’s happening. I can’t comfort her, I’m frightened, too.
‘September 26, 1926
‘It’s been a terrible day today. Mother and Fern had another argument this morning and Mother locked Fern in her room. Then, after it was fully dark, Mother went to the room and locked the two of them in. We could hear Fern screaming, saying that she wanted to keep it, that she didn’t want Mother to do what she was doing. So, my suspicion was correct, Fern was pregnant. She died about an hour ago. Whatever it was that Mother did to try to get rid of the baby, it killed Fern. Dr. Hill came, not long before Fern died, and Mother has convinced him to say that poor Fern died of whooping cough. I suppose it is believable, as the little girl next door is still suffering from it. I don’t know what to do. She is my mother and I suppose that I love her. How can I give her away?
‘September 27, 1926
‘Today was Fern’s funeral. We buried her next to Father. I am ashamed to say that there is still no permanent marker on Father’s grave, but perhaps we’ll have one made now. I made sure to look for anyone who might have been Fern’s boyfriend and feel sure that I now know who he was. The poor boy was distraught. I’m not sure of his name, but I have seen him working at the drug store. Mother would never have approved, but maybe Fern could have gotten away if she hadn’t been so silly as to get pregnant. The house feels so empty without her. She was the one of us with the most life.
‘September 28, 1926
‘I mentioned to Mother today that we should order a tombstone for Father and Fern. She was so angry with me! I don’t believe that she wants either of them remembered. She got so angry, in fact, that she lost control of herself for a moment and said something that she could not possibly have meant to say. She said that the glorious family history that I love telling to my sisters is just a fantasy and that there was nothing great about my father before my mother met him. She claims that she made him the man that he was – right down to his name – and that his past was shameful and should be forgotten.
‘I’m not sure what to believe. It’s perfectly true that the story has been embellished over the years. I am as guilty of that as anyone. Perhaps his father was not a civil war hero, but only an ordinary soldier. Maybe Father didn’t go to California and make his fortune there. Or maybe his origins were more humble than what we’ve been led to believe. Surely there has to be some truth in the story, though?’
Trixie stared at the page. She had been so enthralled by the events being related that she had once more lost track of her real aim. And yet, there was another clue. She read through the rest of that volume, only to be disappointed. The tension in the household continued to mount, but Myrtle gave no more information of note.
Having now read all of the diaries, Trixie turned her attention to the folder containing the genealogist’s report. She frowned as she read. According to the woman’s research, there was no trace anywhere of a man called Silas Everett-Cooper prior to 1902, when he married Cornelia Browne. There was, however, a man surnamed Cooper with the given names Silas Everett in the same area from 1901 and in various locations within forty or fifty miles from about 1884 onwards. The researcher advanced the theory that these two were the same man and that, for some reason, he had altered his name slightly when he married.
From the information that Myrtle had provided, the genealogist had looked for Silas in the San Francisco area of California. She had failed to find him there, but had found a man of similar name and once more theorised that Silas had undergone a name change. Silas Everett Creeper was evident in Petaluma, California, from about 1878 until 1883, when he abandoned his pregnant wife and their daughter, allegedly having swindled a fortune from a man named Calvin Ellis.
At this point, Trixie’s jaw dropped. The two halves of her investigation now coincided. If the theory was correct, then the relatives on Ivy’s father’s side would be the descendants of those two children, if they had descendants. Further, whether the theory was correct or not, here was the place where Ivy found the name of Calvin Ellis.
The sequence of events unfolded in Trixie’s mind as if she had seen them. Ivy must have gone up to her sister’s room to remember her, but for some reason disturbed the bookcase. Finding that it moved, she would have investigated and discovered the staircase behind it. While it may seem unlikely that an elderly lady would climb through the hole and up the stairs, Trixie knew from her own family that a determined elderly person could do the most extraordinary things. At the top of the stairs, she would have looked at the things her sister had hidden there, including the genealogist’s report. Reading it would have opened her eyes to the truth … But at this point, Trixie’s reasoning stopped as she came to the realisation that she still did not know the whole story.
It appeared that the genealogist had not been much interested in the family that Silas had left behind as there was little information on them at all, beyond a given name of Minnie for the wife and Daisy and Rosa for the two children. She had failed to find deaths for any of them and speculated on a name change. From that point, she had written about earlier times. Myrtle had told her that her father was born in Albany, New York. Again, there was no trace of him under the name he used in later life, but Silas Everett Creeper was born there to a woman called Flora. This woman had claimed to be the wife of Silas Creeper, a soldier. Despite her best efforts, the researcher had not been able to find a marriage for the pair. Flora’s true surname was not known, but a woman called Flora Everett lived in the same town as a man called Silas Creeper. The elder Silas Creeper enlisted as a soldier near the beginning of the war and was killed in action in 1863, the year after Ivy’s father was supposedly born and that Flora registered her baby’s birth. Flora Creeper, as she called herself, died when her son was sixteen. If the theories were correct, he shortly afterwards moved across the country to begin a new life.
Beyond that, the researcher had found little. There was no evidence of any siblings for either Silas Everett Creeper or either of his parents. There appeared to be no extended family. Each of his parents had disappeared with little discernible trace. Silas Creeper the elder had come alone to America and had died alone. Flora seemed to be every bit as much alone. Both were buried in unmarked graves.
Trixie sat back and thought about what she had read. To her mind, it all fitted together very well. She could see the progression as Silas reinvented himself from lone orphan to family man, to a loner once again and back to raising another family. That he had gone through some name changes along the way only made sense. The story also fitted well with the family stories as passed down by Myrtle. There was little in the way of direct proof, but she considered that it was a good starting point.
With this established, Trixie began to wonder who had moved the diary and papers and to what end. Had they intended that she waste time searching the whole house for them? Or was it merely to annoy her? To the best of her knowledge, the only other people in the house at the time were Ivy, Sarah and Maria. A number of other people had keys, including William Heffernan and the people who did Sarah’s job when she was not working. Further to that, there is no telling who might be admitted by one of these people.
Giving up on the suspect list for the moment, she began considering how she might find out more about Silas – whatever his real name might have been – and Calvin Ellis. She was looking forward to sharing her discoveries with Ivy, but a sudden thought caused her to pause. Perhaps there was someone else she should tell first. A quick glance at the clock told her it was not too late. She picked up her cell phone and put a call through to William Heffernan.
“I found something important earlier, when I found my way into the attic,” she told him, after they had greeted each other. “I think I know where Ivy got the name Calvin Ellis and I think I also know why she chose to leave something to his descendants.”
“Really? I’d love to see what you’ve discovered,” he answered, sounding enthusiastic. “When can you show me? I don’t suppose you’d want to look at it tonight, but I could come first thing in the morning.”
“You can look now, if you want to,” she answered. “I don’t have anywhere else I want to be.”
“In that case, I will. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.”
Smiling, Trixie told him she’d see him then and they ended the call.
Less than ten minutes had passed when she heard him arrive. She picked up the key to the bedroom and the things she had taken from the attic and went out to meet him.
“Lead the way,” he urged and Trixie was quick to comply.
She followed the same procedure as before, securing the door from within, and explained to William as she did so about the missing items and how she had later found them. This cast a dampener on his enthusiasm and he looked at her in dismay.
“You’re sure about that?” he asked.
“Positive. I know that was the same diary I was reading. I know I didn’t misplace it.” She gestured to the bookcase. “Come up and have a look. I’ll show you where I left it and where I found it.”
She moved the shelves out of the way and switched on her flashlight. At the top, she let him look around for a few moments.
“This is where I sat and read, in the light of this window,” she explained. “I left the book there, on the floor. When I found it later, it was behind this box, right over here.”
“What’s in all these boxes and trunks?” he asked.
Trixie shrugged. “I haven’t looked, yet. From what I read in Myrtle’s diary, I think it’s things from when they lived in Hartford and quite possibly things that belonged to Silas and Fern. Ivy’s mother apparently tried to throw it all out, but the daughters kept rescuing them. I think she kind of lost her temper and had them sealed up in here, but Myrtle convinced the man doing the work to make that opening, which was behind her wardrobe in those days, and something in the back of the wardrobe so that she could get up here. It’s where she hid all of her secrets.”
“I see. So, how does Calvin Ellis figure into this?”
She held up the folder. “After her mother died, Myrtle hired a genealogist to look for her father’s relatives. This is the report.” She shrugged. “There’s not a whole lot of evidence, but the woman who wrote that thought that he’d been born under a slightly different name, and that a man by that slightly different name had swindled a man called Calvin Ellis in a place called Petaluma in California.”
“Is there anything else to see here?” he asked. “If not, let’s go back downstairs where it’s light.”
She shook her head. “If there is, I haven’t seen it yet.”
They went back downstairs and into the employees sitting room, which was unoccupied. They both took a seat and Trixie waited while William read the report. It did not take long. When he was finished, he blew out a long breath.
“That’s some story. I wonder if it’s true.”
Trixie grinned. “I was wondering the same thing. In one way, it doesn’t matter, though. This will be where Ivy got the name from and this is why she made the bequest. She can’t really change her mind now, I don’t think, so this is what you’ll have to work with.”
He nodded. “That’s true.” He turned to her and smiled. “You’ve done a great job so far. I’m really starting to think we might get somewhere with this.”
“I hope so,” she agreed. “Do you think I should talk about this to Ivy? Will it upset her if I tell her what I’ve found out?”
He thought for a few moments. “I think you’d better tell her. Wait until one of her good days, if you have to, then talk her through what you found.” He frowned. “I have to wonder, though, how she would ever have seen those papers.”
“Oh, that’s pretty simple,” Trixie answered. “See, she went to the room of each family member on the dates of their birth and death each year. She would have gone to Myrtle’s room on July 25th, because that was her birthday. The little latch at the top must have been undone and she must have touched the bookcase and found that it moved.”
“And from there it’s a foregone conclusion that she would have investigated and found the papers,” he concluded for her. He paused, deep in thought. “I want you to search the rest of that attic for clues. Don’t be afraid to look at anything for propriety’s sake, or anything else of that kind – it may hold the clue that we need.”
A blush stained her cheeks. “I already read the diaries. I started out looking for clues, but I kind of got engrossed in some of them. There weren’t all that many clues in them, but I found a few.”
He smiled. “It’s only natural. I don’t think Myrtle would have minded. She was not a very emotional person, so I imagine that her diaries were not all that personal.”
“There were a lot of secrets in them,” Trixie admitted. “Family secrets. Really horrible ones, sometimes.”
“Well, you don’t need to tell me,” he assured her. “So long as you don’t upset Ivy and don’t spread the stories about in her lifetime, I don’t suppose it matters. From what I’ve seen tonight, I think the quest for the paternal relative is going to be a failure. I doubt that there are any relatives on either side.”
“There are the two half-sisters,” she reminded him. “They may have descendants. Maybe a child of theirs is still alive – they’d be Ivy’s niece or nephew.”
William’s brow creased, then he laughed. “I doubt that any such person would still be alive. The two half-sisters were a whole generation older than Ivy. If you hadn’t noticed, the elder one was born in the same year as Ivy’s mother.”
Trixie’s eyes widened. “Where did it say that? I never saw years of birth for the girls in California.”
“Here, on the last page.” He flipped the folder open and showed Trixie a page that she had neglected to read, which showed the family tree that the researcher had constructed.
Trixie’s nose crinkled. “Ew! He really married a woman the same age as his daughter? That’s sick.”
“Times were different then,” he reminded her. “And if this was correct, he was still quite young when he first married and when that first daughter was born. Maybe it was all too much for him.”
Trixie reflected on the dates for a moment, then came to a startling conclusion. “He was the age that I am now!”
“And do you think you’d like a child right now?” William asked, smirking. “Don’t answer, I can see it on your face.”
“I still have a lot of things I want to do before having kids. Like getting married.” She screwed up her nose. “Not that I’m planning on that at the moment, either.”
“Plenty of time,” he assured her. “Now, you’re clear on what to do next?” When she nodded, he continued, “Let me take this with me and I’ll photocopy it. I’ll bring the originals back in the morning for you to show Ivy. I’d appreciate it if you could also go back through those diaries and bring down the significant ones. We can copy out any clues that you can find to do with either Ivy’s father or Calvin Ellis, even if it’s only a hunch. I’ll hire another genealogist and see if we can get a bit further. I’m sure something has improved in the last twenty or thirty years, with the internet and everything.”
“What about the person who moved the things?”
He considered for a moment. “Say nothing, for now. Be careful, though. I don’t want you getting into any trouble.”
Trixie cringed. “Maybe you hired the wrong person, then. I’m not good at staying out of trouble.”
“Just do your best. I’ll see you in the morning.”
When he had gone, she returned to her room to check her email. She was pleased to see one from Diana. Her friend was spending the early part of the summer studying, in order to gain some extra credit. Trixie read the email, finding that most of it dealt with Di’s latest activities and the trouble she was having with one of her courses. At the end were a few paragraphs on a different topic:
‘Honey tells me that Jim said that Brian said that Mart said that he and Dan might be able to drop by and see you on their way past later this week. Did you know that already? Isn’t it funny the way that we tell each other things and they get passed along? Last week, Honey told me that she heard from Jim that Brian had heard from Mart that Dan had heard from you that I had said that I didn’t think I’d be back in Sleepyside at all this summer and she wondered why I hadn’t told her myself! I don’t even remember saying that in the first place, though it’s probably true. I also don’t know why Honey is worried, because she isn’t there and neither are any of the other Bob-Whites. *sigh* I miss those summers we spent all together. I don’t miss the mysteries. You can keep those.
‘Speaking of, how is your mysterious job?
‘Talk to you soon!
‘Di.’
Trixie smiled as she read, despite the surge of loneliness that the missive provoked. Hers was not a very social job, in spite of her main task of listening to Ivy. Setting that feeling aside, she began typing a reply.
‘Hey, Di. Good to hear from you. I am so glad I’m not studying at the moment. I think my brain may have exploded. The play sounds interesting, though. I hope you do get the part.
‘My job is going really well. I’m finding out all kinds of things and it’s making me so glad that I grew up with my family and not people like this! Ivy – that’s the old lady I’m working for – well, let’s just say that her mother was not all that nice. And I’m certain that my family doesn’t have so many terrible secrets. I’m not supposed to really talk about that part, because that’s not what I’m really supposed to be finding out, but I can’t help thinking about Ivy and her sisters and the way that their mother controlled them. None of them ever married and, as far as I can tell, only one sister ever had a boyfriend and she died when she was 17. There are so many things I’m curious about and hardly any of them are what I’m supposed to be looking for.
‘Speaking of boyfriends, you didn’t mention Tony in your email. Is that still on, or did I miss something?
‘Also, I’m hoping that you and Honey and I can get together in chat sometime, when the time zones allow. How is Saturday for you?
‘Trixie.’
She clicked send and, not finding any other emails of interest, turned her attention elsewhere.