should hope so! Anyway, I must go back to my original reaction of earlier today, when you first told me Sebastian was dead. I was certain he’d had a heart attack, or possibly a stroke. And to tell you the truth, I still believe, deep down, that that’s what happened.”
When Jack made no response, I gave him a penetrating look, asked, “Well, don’t you?”
He brought his hand up to his face, rubbed his mouth and his chin, suddenly reflective. “I don’t know,” he answered. “This afternoon I would have agreed with you, but now I’m vacillating. Not sure of anything.”
“Do you honestly think he was attacked? By an intruder?” I pressed.
“Maybe. He could have gone into the farmhouse and surprised a burglar.”
“Before the burglar had an opportunity to steal anything? Is that what you think? After all, you said there’s nothing missing.”
“Well, the paintings and the major art objects are in place. On the other hand, Sebastian could have had something else there worth stealing, something to tempt a thief.”
“Such as what?” I frowned, shaking my head. “I don’t get it, Jack.”
“Cash, Vivienne. You know Sebastian always carried a lot on him. I was often warning him about that. Or maybe there were some documents around.”
“Documents,” I said sharply, staring at him. “But if someone stole documents that smacks of premeditation, doesn’t it? Listen, a thief breaking in at random, looking for loot, is one thing. A thief breaking in and stealing documents is a different thing altogether. It suggests prior knowledge to me.”
Jack nodded. “You’re right there.”
“What made you think of documents? Are there any missing? And what kind of documents did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t know why I thought of them. Except that Sebastian said he was going to the farm to work. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a liar. If he said he had to go over papers, then he was telling the truth. But there weren’t any, at least none that he’d been working on—”
“What about all those scattered around the library?” I cut in.
“The letters on the floor and spread over the desk were just the usual things. Correspondence, bills, personal notes from people. The way he spoke on Thursday he sounded as if he had real work to do on important documents. Come to think of it, he did actually say documents. I guess that’s why I just thought of them now.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Look, I haven’t been at Laurel Creek Farm in a coon’s age, Viv, so how would I know if there’s anything missing? Mrs. Crane’s the best person to ascertain that, but then only as far as the art is concerned. Not even she would know if any papers have disappeared.”
“No, she wouldn’t.” I let out a long sigh. “It looks as if we’re back to square one.”
“Yep…” Jack shook his head, his puzzlement surfacing again. Then he said suddenly, in a torrent of words, “Look, Viv, I disagree with you. I don’t think he died of natural causes, as you do. I think he was killed. Most probably by an intruder. Sebastian surprised him. The intruder ran out. Sebastian chased him. They struggled. And Sebastian got himself killed. Sort of inadvertently.”
“Or he was murdered by someone who was with him at the farm, for reasons we don’t know,” I remarked.
Jack pondered for a moment. Then slowly, and more thoughtfully than usual, he said, “We’re speculating. We’d better stop. It’ll lead nowhere.” Pinning me with his eyes, he added, “Let’s admit it, Vivienne, we won’t know exactly how he died until the police get that autopsy report from the Chief Medical Officer in Farmington.”
I could only nod. I agreed with him, at least as far as his last comment was concerned.
Long after Jack had left, I prowled around the house, stacking the dishwasher, clearing up, making the den and the dining room neat and tidy.
At one moment I even had another stab at my story, hoping to do the final edit, but I was not very successful. I would try again tomorrow, and if my concentration still eluded me I would have to let it go out as it was. The piece had to be at the newspaper in London by Friday at the latest, and I would have to FedEx it on Wednesday, no matter what.
The hall clock was striking midnight by the time I climbed the stairs of Ridgehill and went to my room, feeling weary and worn down.
I, like all of my female forebears, occupied the master bedroom that stretched almost the entire length of the house. Situated at the back, rather than the front, it was a charming room with rafters, many windows, and an imposing stone fireplace. French doors on either side of the fireplace opened out onto a wide balcony suspended over the garden. This was the most marvelous spot in the world for breakfast on spring and summer mornings, especially when the lilacs were in bloom.
Ridgehill stood at the top of Tinker Hill Road. Set amidst a copse of centuries-old maples, it looked out over Lake Waramaug. When my illustrious ancestor Henrietta Bailey had built this house she had thought things out most prudently, had chosen well when situating the master bedroom within the overall architectural plan. The views were spectacular from the many windows, were panoramic in their vistas.
I went and stood at one of the windows, moving the curtain slightly, staring out across the tops of the trees toward the large body of water far below. The lake was as flat and as unmoving as black glass, and above it the sky was littered with tiny bright stars. There was a harvest moon tonight, silvery and perfectly spherical, riding the black clouds. It cast a sheen across the murky waters of the lake, touched the tops of the trees with brilliance.
What a beautiful night, I thought, as I let the curtain drop and turned away. After undressing, I slipped into a nightgown and climbed into the grand old four-poster. Turning out the bedside lamp, I pulled the covers up over me and settled down for the night, hoping to fall asleep quickly. It had been such an exhausting day emotionally. A day of shock. A day of sorrow.
Moonlight filled the room. The silence was a balm. I lay there drifting with my thoughts; Sebastian was foremost in them. We had shared so much in this room. So much pleasure. So much heartbreak. I am convinced that I conceived my child in this room, his child, the child I lost in miscarriage. And, once again, I found myself wondering if Sebastian and I would have remained together if that child had been born. Perhaps.
Cradled in his arms, I had lain in this bed, weeping on his shoulder, and he had comforted me about the loss of our baby. How could Jack believe he was a monster? Nothing was further from the truth. Sebastian had always comforted and nurtured me. And everyone else, for that matter. Jack was so terribly wrong about him; his judgment about Sebastian was flawed, just as it was flawed about most things in his personal life. He had made a mess of it and he loved to blame others, especially his father. I loved Jack like a brother, but I saw him with clear eyes.
Sebastian had always been there for me, for as long as I could remember, since my childhood. I recall so well the afternoon he had come to me, after my mother had been found dead at the bottom of the cellar steps at his farm. I had just arrived from Manhattan; Jess, my mother’s housekeeper, had phoned him the instant
