“Fair?” he replied.
“You’re saying this while you are, right now, having other people go through your dad’s stuff. Which you stole.”
“To stop him from getting more powerful.”
“And I’m trying to find out what happened to Hayes, to Ellie, to Fenton.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Yes,” Stevie snapped. “It is.”
“Because it sort of looks like you want more dirt for your pet project.”
It was the words pet project that did it. A kind of blue-white rage came up behind her eyes.
“I want the information,” she said.
David smiled that long, slow smile—the smile that said, “I told you this is how the world works.”
“Okay,” he said chirpily. “Let’s write a nice note.”
The note poured forth with surprising speed. David spoke under his breath as he typed. Perhaps this was what it had been like when Francis and Eddie composed their Truly Devious note, head to head:
The senator regards anything involving his son as his business. This is why the senator donated a private security system to assist you after your recent issues. I need not remind you that two students have died at the school and the senator’s son ran off while under your supervision. The senator would like to know of any potential issues that may arise due to your negligence; this includes any publicity having to do with the historical issues of the school. We felt this was a polite way of getting information, but if you wish for us to take more legal action, we will do so.
Regards,
J. Malloy
“There,” he said. “I knew all the years I spent around these choads would pay off. Your note. And now, we’re done.”
He hit send, then he turned and walked back toward their camping room.
April 13, 1937
MONTGOMERY, THE BUTLER, PRESIDED OVER THE MORNING’S SIDEBOARD with his usual taciturn efficiency. The house still turned out a good and ample breakfast, with great lashings of the famous Vermont syrup gently warmed by a spirit lamp. There was enough food to feed twenty guests, but the four people at the table wanted very little of it. Flora Robinson sipped at a cup of coffee from the delicate fairy rose pattern that Iris had chosen. Robert Mackenzie was going through the morning mail. George Marsh hid behind a newspaper. Leonard Holmes Nair made a few stabs at his half of a grapefruit, none of them fatal.
“Do you think he’ll come down this morning?” he asked the group.
“I think so,” Flora replied. “We need to act as normal as possible.”
Leo was polite enough not to laugh at this suggestion.
It had been exactly one year since the kidnapping. One year of searching and waiting and pain . . . one year of denial, violence, and some acceptance. There was an unspoken agreement that the word anniversary would never be spoken.
The door to the breakfast room swung open, and Albert Ellingham came in, dressed in a light gray suit, looking strangely well rested.
“Good morning,” he said. “I apologize for my lateness. I was on the telephone. I thought we might . . .”
He eyed the breakfast suspiciously, as if he had forgotten what food was for. He often had to be reminded to eat.
“. . . I thought we might all go for a trip today.”
“A trip?” Flora said. “Where?”
“To Burlington. We’ll take the boat out. We’ll stay in Burlington for the night. I’ve had the house there made ready. Could you be ready to go in an hour?”
There was only one answer to give.
As they stepped out to the waiting car, Leo saw four trucks rumbling up the drive, two full of men, and two full of dirt and rocks.
“What’s going on, Albert?” Flora asked.
“Just a bit of work,” Albert said. “The tunnel under the lake is . . . unnecessary. There is no lake. Best to have it filled in.”
The tunnel. The one that had betrayed Albert, letting the enemy in. It would now be smothered, buried. The sight of the rocks and dirt seemed to trigger something in George Marsh, who set down his bag.
“You know,” he said, “it might be better if I stayed here to keep an eye on things.”
“The foreman can handle anything that comes up,” Albert replied.
“It may be better,” George Marsh said again. “In case any reporters or sightseers try to get in.”
“If you think it’s best,” Albert replied.
Leo took a better look at George Marsh, and the strange, fascinated way he was watching the wheelbarrows full of dirt and rocks that were heading to the back garden. There was something there, on George’s face—something Leo couldn’t quite identify. Something that intrigued him.
Leo had been watching George Marsh since he had learned the truth from Flora, that Marsh was Alice’s biological father—the great, brave George Marsh who had once saved Albert Ellingham from a bomb, who followed the family everywhere, providing reassurance and protection.
Of course, he had not protected Iris and Alice that fateful day, but he could not be blamed for that. Iris liked to go out on her own. He couldn’t be faulted for not retrieving them that night—he had gone to meet the kidnappers and gotten himself beaten to a pulp in the process. He wasn’t a great brain, a Hercule Poirot, who solved crimes in his head while tapping on his boiled egg with a spoon at breakfast. He was a friend, muscle, a good person for someone like Albert Ellingham to have around. And yes, he was with the FBI, but he never seemed to do much for them. Albert had made sure he was made an agent, and there were vague notions about him looking for drug smugglers coming down from Canada, but he’d never seemed to notice the ones Leo met regularly, the ones who supplied Iris with her powders and potions of choice.
Or maybe he had and had looked away.
Right now, George Marsh was lying about why he wanted to stay. Of that, Leo was certain. That people lie was nothing of particular interest. It’s not the lie itself that matters—it’s why the lie happened. Some, like Leo, lied for fun. You could have some excellent evenings with a good lie. But most people lied to hide things. If it was as simple as a love affair—well, no one would have minded that. Whatever it was was secret, not just private.
George Marsh, Leo could see very clearly, had a secret.
“All right, then,” Albert said, ushering Leo, Flora, and Robert toward the waiting car.
George Marsh stood by the front door and watched the car drive off. Once he was sure that the group was a decent distance away, he got in his own car and left the property.
He was gone for several hours, returning near nightfall. He parked on the dirt road, far back from the house. He returned to the house and made note of who remained. The work crews had gone, as had the day servants. Montgomery had retired to his rooms and the other servants to theirs. He checked in with the security men, sending them out to patrol the edges of the property. Once all of this was done, he changed his clothes, putting on work pants and a simple undershirt. Then he took a lantern and walked out into the back of the house, grabbing a shovel as he went. He slid down the muddy ground, into the marshy pit where the lake had been, then he walked to the mound in the middle where the glass dome reflected the early moonlight.
It was unpleasant to go back into the dome now. It smelled of dirt and neglect and was full of footprints from where the workmen had been. There were no rugs or cushions now. He sat down on the bench on the side, exactly where he had been when he faced Dottie Epstein. She had tried to hide under a rug on the floor, but fear and curiosity got the better of her . . .