Conspiracy of Silence (5 page)

A point suddenly occurred to me. “Who's running the company now? . . . now that James is . . . incarcerated?”

She answered quickly. “Oh, the plants—we have two of them, one here in Pompton Lakes and the other in Wayne—have excellent managers. They handle the day-to-day operations. And my mother-in-law is a very capable overseer of the whole enterprise. I do my part also.”

“And Dr. Granger . . . what about him?”

“What about him?”

“Was it customary for him to be invited over for dinner?”

She shrugged again. “Oh, he came over from time to time...he'd been the family doctor for years, after all. A very friendly man—everyone got along with him.”

“Could I talk to him?” I asked.

“I don't see why not. He's still in Pompton Lakes. All you have to do is ask.”

I said I'd do that.

Lizbeth came back a short time later, after she realized that I had finished my conversation with her mother. She didn't dare pump me for information while Florence was present, so on the pretext of ushering me out she followed me all the way outside to my car.

“So what did she say?” she asked breathlessly.

“Oh, she said quite a bit,” I said. “But I have a feeling it's what she didn't say that will give us the ammo we need.”

Her face screwed up in puzzlement. “What do you mean? What sort of ammo are we going to need?”

“Never mind,” I said carelessly. Then: “You know, at some point I think I'm going to have to go to the source.”

“The source?”

“Yes, the source. Your father, James Allen Crawford. He's going to have to tell me what he knows.”

Before I left Thornleigh, I asked Lizbeth to take me to the gravesite of her uncle. This turned out to be on a remote corner of the estate—a relatively small patch of land in a clearing in the woods well to the west of the house, surrounded by a low stone wall and dominated by a mausoleum built chiefly for the patriarch of the clan, Patrick Henry Crawford, Lizbeth's grandfather. This edifice was inaccessible to us, as a locked wrought-iron gate barred our entrance; but I could see, on the left side of the interior, the impressive sarcophagus that housed the deceased, and on the right an empty shelf that was no doubt designed to bear the mortal remains of his wife, Helen Ward Crawford.

It appeared that other members of the family were not to be interred in this imposing structure but would have to content themselves with the area around it, as if they themselves were serfs in perpetual attendance on their lord and master. An obelisk some twenty-five yards away from the mausoleum was the focal point of a cluster of graves. It did not take me long to find not one but two headstones of interest:

WILLIAM ALLEN CRAWFORD

1892–1918

FRANK WARD CRAWFORD

1897–1924

There was, in fact, a third headstone that read:

JAMES ALLEN CRAWFORD

1894–

It always unnerved me to come upon the gravesite of a living person—as if that final date was in some kind of hurry to be filled in.

This raw and overcast November day did not make the site any more cheerful. The maples, oaks, and elms that enclosed the little tiny graveyard on all sides, looming over it like stone-faced sentinels, had scattered their dead leaves all over the area, so that each step produced a distinct crunch like the cracking of innumerable tiny bones. We stood there silently, both of us envisioning the ill luck—the mischance of a world war and of some nameless crime of passion, whoever its ultimate perpetrator may have been—that had felled an entire generation of an illustrious family, two by death and one by incarceration. Lizbeth could not have known her elder uncle, but I don't doubt that she had abundant memories of Uncle Frank—and however much of a rogue or a scamp or a wastrel he may have been, I suspected that it was exactly those qualities that had endeared him to her. Lizbeth's tortured expression as she peered at his grave said as much.

We entered the house again, for another thought had occurred to me. In this cavernous dwelling, where the servants far outnumbered the nominal occupants, it was not entirely clear what I could find that would be of any use; but I did inquire about any possible papers left by either James or Frank. Lizbeth told me that James's study, located upstairs in the east wing, was locked at his own request and had never been entered, so far as she knew, by anyone since his imprisonment. I raised an eyebrow at that, but felt this was not the time to pursue the matter.

As I was leaving, I did get collared by Helen Ward Crawford, who seemingly glided out of nowhere to bear down on me. Lizbeth was still hovering nearby, and in spite of a stern glance from her grandmother she held her ground.

“Mr. Scintilla”—I felt she used the title grudgingly, since she clearly regarded me as no better than one of her servants, and perhaps quite a bit worse—“may I have a word?”

I stopped at the doorway but said nothing.

Possibly my lack of deference threw her a bit, for she herself stood by in an awkward silence before continuing: “I would like to know how far you intend to go with your . . . inquiries.”

I looked at her closely. There was some kind of alarm, even terror, behind those hard, shiny eyes and taut jaw. I made a quick decision. Turning to her granddaughter, I said:

“Lizbeth, may I speak to your grandmother in private for a moment?”

She looked at me with a flash of apprehension, then dropped her eyes and retreated out of earshot.

“Now, ma'am,” I said, turning back to Helen, “I want to make certain things clear if I haven't already. I told you I'm working for Lizbeth, not you or anyone else. She has asked me to pursue this matter, and I will pursue it—wherever it leads. Right now I don't know where it will lead. Lizbeth seems convinced that her father is innocent of the murder of his brother Frank.”

“And you believe that too?” she said sharply, almost accusingly.

“I didn't say that. In fact, I have no evidence to that effect, and I don't even know what evidence, if any, Lizbeth herself has to make her feel as she does. But there are curiosities in this case that warrant investigation.”

Helen looked at me intently for what seemed a full minute before replying. When she did so, her tone was surprisingly subdued.

“Mr. Scintilla, our family has been through more troubles than most. My husband was a pioneer in his field and worked hard to give us the enjoyment of this house and our estate; it is a small comfort to me that he did not live to see how his own sons . . .” For the first time, I saw her choke up as if with an overriding melancholy. “. . . his sons failed to fulfill their promise.

“Perhaps you don't think the wealthy suffer like other people. But we do suffer, Mr. Scintilla. I've suffered more than you could possibly imagine. My dreams have been shattered, and I am now a lonely old woman just waiting for death.”

I didn't know what to make of their hyperbolic, theatrical utterance. Was this an act, or did Helen Ward Crawford really speak this way to everyone? I didn't doubt that the core of her statement was sound—her ashen face said as much—but I also had little doubt that she was wielding as much emotional pressure as she could to compel me to drop my investigation.

“Ma'am,” I said softly, “maybe I don't know what you've been through. I don't know what it is to have my children die on me. But I have a job to do. Whatever you may think of me, I'm not a heartless man. I'll do my best to spare you pain and trouble, but I'll follow this case wherever it takes me.”

She almost collapsed in front of me, as if deflated by the failure of her mission to deter me. With scarcely a second glance, she turned on her heel and said over her shoulder:

“Then I wish you good luck, Mr. Scintilla.”

My next task was to track down this doctor, Nathan Granger. His office was not difficult to find, as it was smack in the center of the better part of Pompton Lakes. I didn't have an appointment, as I felt it best not to tip him off. So I marched right into his office, placed my card in front of his secretary, and asked to speak to him.

As she looked at the card, her eyes enlarged a bit and she looked up at me with a trace of apprehension.

“I don't think he's available right now,” she said nervously.

“Then I'll wait,” I said, making myself comfortable in one of the many chairs—all empty—in the anteroom.

The secretary quickly got up, my card in hand, and retreated into an inner office.

Within a few minutes, a tall, slim, but large-headed man with a shock of gray hair framing his face stalked out to meet me. He was a bit younger than I had expected: he couldn't have been much older than fifty, meaning that he would have been quite a young man to have tended to the elder Crawford during the latter's final illness, whatever that was. Crawford had died just before the war.

Granger scarcely allowed me to stand up before extending an arm jerkily for a firm handshake.

“I'm Nathan Granger. How may I assist you, Mr. Scintilla?”

I wasted no time in small-talk. “I'm investigating the apparent murder of Frank Crawford by his brother, James Allen Crawford, in 1924. I believe you were present at the incident.”

I was certainly not mistaken in thinking that a wave of nervousness and fear clouded Granger's face the moment my words were out. But he put on a brave front. Eyes narrowing, he said tartly:

“On whose behalf are you conducting this investigation?”

“On behalf of James's daughter, Lizbeth, who has hired me.”

Granger continued to peer into my face as if that alone could have unlocked the secret of my presence and my mission. He was thinking furiously—that much was obvious. Quickly turning around, he said, “Come with me, Mr. Scintilla. Let's talk in private.”

I followed him into his office, where he not only closed but locked the door.

I sat down at a chair in front of his desk, while he took his seat in the chair behind it. This room did not have any medical apparatus in it—that was apparently reserved for another room leading off a private door to the left—but contained only the records of his patients, along with many hundreds of medical works, ranging from textbooks to periodicals. As Granger sat down carefully, I could tell that he was attempting to gain the upper hand by situating me in his domain. But it would take more than that to intimidate me.

For a time we simply sat there, staring at each other across the desk. We were like two prizefighters, sizing each other up.

Finally he said: “What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Scintilla?”

“Just some information, Dr. Granger.” I took out a small steno pad, as if I were a reporter. “You were indeed present at the death of Frank Crawford on March 19, 1924?”

“Yes,” he said shortly.

“And you pronounced him dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you were present when James Allen Crawford confessed to killing him?”

“Y-yes.”

Granger's hesitancy made me look up sharply at him. “James confessed on the spot, didn't he?”

“Only when the police showed up.” He seemed to cough up that remark a bit reluctantly.

“Is that so? What did he do before that?”

Granger took his time answering. “Mr. Scintilla, that whole evening was . . . curious. I don't really know what I was doing there. I was not exactly an intimate member of the family, even though I'd been the family doctor for years, perhaps a decade or more. I don't know how much you know about the dynamics of the Crawford family . . . .”

“I know plenty,” I said shortly.

He paused abruptly at that, and once again a pall of fear passed quickly over his face. “Well, then, you know that James's wife, Florence, had some relatives visiting her . . .”

“Yeah, her brother, Daniel, and his wife Norma.”

“Yes, exactly. Perhaps she wished me to make them feel at home.”

“Did they visit Thornleigh often?”

“Not that I know of.” Granger exhibited little interest in them. “And then, of course, there was Frank's . . . er, girlfriend, or maybe fiancée, Eva.”

“What do you know about her?” I said quickly.

He shrugged. “Nothing. I'm not sure I ever met her before, and I never met her again.”

“You know she took her own life a few months later.”

“Yes, I know that.” Once again, Granger's interest could not have been any less. “But she was an unsuitable mate for Frank. He needed someone of his own . . . rank.”

“You mean someone who wasn't poor as a churchmouse and had a long pedigree.” I don't doubt there was bitterness in my voice.

Granger looked at me almost with a certain pity, and I regretted that I had given him an opportunity to feel superior to me.

“Mr. Scintilla, I don't think you quite understand. The Crawford family has a certain standing to maintain. It has to be careful whom it lets into its charmed circle. That may be offensive to true-blue Americans like yourself, but I fear it is a necessity to people in the Crawfords' position. They have too much to lose by letting just anyone into the family.”

I had to turn the tables on him, and quickly.

“You know, Dr. Granger, I've read the police report on the death. James Allen Crawford claims he strangled his brother. But there were no marks or bruises of any kind on Frank's neck or throat.”

This wasn't the opening I had hoped for, as Granger replied loftily: “That means nothing. Many cases of strangulation leave no marks. All I know is that Frank was dead, and that his brother confessed to the crime. It was an open and shut case.”

“It certainly seems to have been,” I said. “The police certainly did no investigation.”

“Why should they have? They had their man. It would have been just a waste of effort.”

“No autopsy was performed,” I pursued.

Once more Granger shrugged. “What of it? It would simply have caused additional pain to the family, and in their situation they certainly didn't need that.”

“So you don't think,” I pursued, “that there's any chance that James confessed to a crime he didn't commit?—that he was taking the rap for someone else?”

Granger's face was suddenly transformed into a mix of puzzlement, anger, and fear. “What sort of nonsense is that? Who was he ‘taking the rap' for?”

“That's what I'm asking you.”

“Rubbish. It's all rubbish.”

“You don't think, for example, that Frank might have been poisoned?”

“Poisoned?” Granger almost exploded. “How? By whom?”

“Well, an autopsy might have told us something.”

To this Granger merely barked a gruff laugh.

“Could somebody have slipped him something in his food?” I said. “Given him a hypodermic injection?”

Again Granger looked at me with a certain condescending pity in his eyes. “Mr. Scintilla, you've been reading too many detective stories. Things like that don't happen. How could there have been any opportunity to do such a thing with all these people about? There must have been eight or nine or us, not to mention the servants.”

“I'm aware of that.” I sighed heavily. “There was never a time when anyone was alone with Frank that evening?”

Granger gave me an expression of mild incredulity. “I have no idea, Mr. Scintilla. It was twelve years ago. I can't remember many of the details at this point in time.”

“But it could have happened?”

“Well,” Granger said grudgingly, “anything
could
have happened. But I doubt that it did.”