The Body in the Ivy

Every murderer is probably
somebody's old friend.

—A
GATHA
C
HRISTIE,
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

Pelham, Ma, May 17—

The body of Hélène Prince of New York City, a senior at Pelham College, was found early yesterday morning at the base of the 182-foot Gothic tower that dominates the campus, by Professor Robert LaFleur of the Math Department. LaFleur, who was passing the spot on his way to his office, told reporters that at first he thought someone had left a white garment of some kind in the abundant bed of ivy that grows beneath the tower. Upon closer inspection, he determined it was the lifeless body of a young woman and sought help. Upon arrival, campus police pronounced Miss Prince dead, an apparent suicide.

An art history major, Miss Prince had planned to leave for a job in Paris, France, immediately after graduation. Friends and family have said that she did not appear depressed, but was looking forward to graduation and her new job. She leaves her mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Reynolds Prince, and her twin sister, Elaine, also a Pelham senior. The Pelham police have not released any further details pending their investigation. Expressing deep regret and in consultation with the Prince family,
Pelham President Virginia Franklin said commencement ceremonies would proceed as planned and that she was sure this was what “Prin,” as she was known, would have wanted. “She was a campus leader and beloved by all. She will be missed,” Franklin said. In lieu of flowers, the family requests contributions to the Hélène Prince Scholarship Fund at Pelham College.

From the May 17, 1970, issue of
The Pelham Town News

Faith Sibley Fairchild stared out the train window, the book she had brought to while away the trip resting unopened in her lap. The scenery wasn't particularly engrossing—yards backing up to the tracks, some with fences or hedges in an attempt to block the view and every so often a town center, a glimpse of a bandstand in the middle of a green or a white clapboard church with a spire, followed by a row of pines. A New England flip book. The churches reminded Faith of First Parish in Aleford, Massachusetts, where her husband, the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, tended the spiritual needs of the community while Faith quite literally catered to its physical well-being, continuing the business she had started in her native New York City in the late 1980s. Her clientele looked different—if a man was in a tux and a woman in a gown it was either the opening night of the Boston
Symphony or a wedding—but the food was of the same quality. It wasn't a question of serving no boiled dinners before their time, but never serving them at all.

June had finally arrived and the flickering shades of green outside were deeply comforting after a winter of record snowfall that had stretched well into April. The cold had clung to May, and Faith found herself placing her palm on the window to feel the warmth of the day's bright sunshine. She was alone in the row of seats that stretched to both sides of the aisle. Later trains would be packed as Bostonians headed north for weekends by the shore.

Alone. This was such an unusual state of affairs that she wasn't quite sure what she was feeling. When she wasn't involved with Tom and their two children, eleven-year-old Ben and eight-year-old Amy, she was at work with her staff or active in other Aleford pursuits that mostly revolved around the church and the kids' school. Technology meant she was always within reach. She slipped her cell out of her purse. No service. She smiled. What she was feeling snapped into focus as fast as the TGV, the swift French train they had taken last summer from Paris to Lyon. Faith felt absolutely wonderful, suspended for a few brief hours with no responsibilities whatsoever. Wonderful. The book slipped unnoticed to the floor.

The train was making that clickety-clack train noise that never failed to excite her, bringing with it the notion of all those other trains—Trans Siberian, Orient Express, Canadian Pacific—and trips, some imagined; some real. She was back in Grand Central Station with her sister, Hope, one year younger, pulling away from
their parents to spot Camp Merrydale's banner, darting toward it squealing excitedly with several dozen other girls, accompanied by counselors who already looked exhausted.

Another journey. One of her camp friends lived outside Philadelphia, and twice a year Faith would be placed on the train in Penn Station and be met at the 30th Street Station in Philly. She could still remember the names of the stops on the way and her disappointment when she discovered that Cherry Hill, New Jersey, bore little resemblance to what she had been envisioning—a town filled with acres of delicate blossoms ripening into sweet ruby-red fruit.

She'd missed the glory days of train travel, Faith thought regretfully. The Twentieth Century from New York to Chicago. Nick and Nora Charles traveling coast to coast in style with Vuitton steamer trunks and martinis in the club car. And her favorite, Hitchcock's
North by Northwest;
Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint in a compartment larger than most NYC studio apartments. Faith thought wistfully of the meal they had consumed—brook trout—with a Gibson first for Grant. Fine linens, cutlery, china, and glassware—fresh flowers on the table. The only sustenance offered on this train consisted of prepackaged sandwiches with expiration dates so far in the future they were ready-made time capsules, and a machine that offered the ubiquitous snacks that Americans seemed unable to exist without, despite the absence of either nourishment or flavor. Faith had packed her own lunch—smoked turkey, watercress, and a dollop of mango chutney on buckwheat-walnut bread, one of her assistant Niki's delectable blondies, some muscat grapes,
and a bottle of Voss water. She wasn't hungry yet, and besides, having the food was like having a few hefty deposits in the bank—or a number of dinners in the freezer. You were tempted to use them, but it felt equally good just to know they were there.

The train swayed slightly from side to side, the motion keeping time with the sound of the tracks. Another movie,
Silver Streak.
Gene Wilder is in the bar with Ned Beatty, supposedly a vitamins salesman, who is telling Wilder he's in “for the ride of your life.” Pick a woman, any woman. “It's something about the movement of the train that does it.” Faith
did
find herself thinking about Tom, heading by plane in the opposite direction for the weeklong annual meeting of the denomination in Virginia. Beatty strikes out with Jill Clayburgh, who responds to his obvious come-on by pouring her drink in his lap to “cool” him down. And it's Wilder who gets to eat dinner with her—another well-appointed table and menu: macédoine of fruit, beef oriental with rice and carrots, apple pie à la mode, a bottle of Mouton Cadet 1961, and several bottles of Korbel in an elegant champagne bucket back in another spacious compartment.
Ah, for those days.
Faith sighed to herself and resolved to watch all three movies upon her return. Plus Agatha Christie's
Murder on the Orient Express
.

Another train going in the opposite direction hurtled by and for a moment the sensation of motion was suspended as her car traveled parallel to the next. Then the passing train built up speed. Faith looked at the people in the cars. The train was as empty as the one she was traveling on. There were only two people in the car moving rapidly by her now. Her cinematic musings took hold
again. More Hitchcock—Uncle Charlie, Joseph Cotton, trying to push his niece off the train to her death. And more Christie—Margaret Rutherford as Miss Marple views a murder in the train next to hers in
Murder She Said
. Faith continued to gaze into the passing compartments. It would be so easy. A blunt instrument or a sharp knife, the victim shoved under the seat, not to be discovered until North Station in Boston, the murderer having stepped off in Exeter, New Hampshire—or stayed on. Tomorrow's headline nonchalantly reading today's paper wherever the trip ended.

The rattle of the two trains subsided and once more she stared at the landscape. She laughed at herself and realized her own book had fallen to the floor. She retrieved it. There was no body beneath the seat.

Midnight's Mirror
by Barbara Bailey Bishop. Faith had never read anything by the bestselling author and thought she'd better at least skim the book. Barbara Bailey Bishop was her employer and her house on Bishop's Island was Faith's final destination.

 

“Of course I'm flattered that she wants me, but it's impossible. You understand, don't you? I can't leave Tom and the kids to fend for themselves for a whole week.”

“Don't you ever think about what might be best for you and your business? An endorsement from Barbara Bailey Bishop would be priceless.” Faith's sister, Hope, had sounded more than a little exasperated.

“I know that, but I simply can't take that much time off. If her island were within commuting distance of Aleford that would be different, but it isn't from what you're saying.”

“No, it isn't. It's not commuting distance from anywhere and that's why she likes it. You know how it is, the richer you are, the more remote you can be. But back to my point. Everything can certainly be worked out. In fact, I
have
worked it out and there's nothing to stop you from taking the job.”

Faith had been surprised her sister hadn't started with her plan, including transportation instructions and a list of what to pack. Motherhood—Hope's little Quentin was almost a year and a half old—hadn't cramped either Hope's or her husband's style. They still prided themselves on their workaholic lifestyle—could Quentin the father really be billing ninety hours a week? Doable with the aid of a nanny and a housekeeper, both absolute treasures, and the BlackBerry chip that seemed to be implanted in Hope's brain. The only change had been to move from a choice apartment on Manhattan's West Side to a choice town house on Manhattan's East Side.

Her sister's call had come just as Faith was leaving for her own place of employment, the Have Faith catering kitchen on the outskirts of Aleford. Hope had been so excited that it had taken a few moments for Faith to understand what this “once-in-a-lifetime” job entailed. Apparently the author, Barbara Bailey Bishop, was hosting a mini-reunion of her Pelham College chums on her own private island and wanted Faith to cater it. There would be ten people in all, counting Faith. When she wasn't feeding them, Faith was to consider herself one of the guests, a novel approach to help and a first for her.

“The house sounds fantastic—ten bedrooms all with private baths, a spa, indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, gardens. Your dream kitchen, I'm sure,” Hope
had gushed. Faith's first cynical thought had been to wonder about the septic system, knowing from the Fairchilds' own small vacation abode on an island off the coast of Maine—sans spa—what a strain multiple baths could mean, but apparently “BeBe,” as her fans called her, had this all figured out.

Hope had pressed on. “It's only January, so you have plenty of time to work things out with Niki and the rest of your staff for any dates you've already committed to for that week in June. Ben will be out of school and in camp by then and Amy can come with me to the house in Amagansett. You know how much she adores being with the baby, and I'm planning to work from there a lot this summer, just like last year.”

“And Tom?” Faith had asked ruefully.

“You know very well that once his groupies hear you're out of town they'll be falling all over themselves to bring him horrid casseroles and loaves of disgustingly healthy bread. Plus, your friends will invite him to dinner,” Hope had said dismissively.

Faith knew it was true. Those dedicated handmaidens of the Lord's representative here on earth, privately referred to by Faith and Hope as “Tom's groupies,” would make sure that he wanteth for naught. The same with the Fairchilds' circle of friends. It might be the twenty-first century, but a woman alone while her mate is away contents herself with Lean Cuisine and
Desperate Housewives
reruns while a man alone is the toast of the town.

“If for no other reason, think about the money, Faith!”

Faith
had
been thinking about the money ever since Hope had mentioned the fee, an astronomical amount
that was easily double what she had ever made on any prior job.

“Why does she want me in particular? Did her secretary say anything about that?”

Hope had made little tsk-tsking noises. “If you undervalue yourself, everyone else will, too.”

“That's not what I mean. I know I'm good, but how does she know? It's been years since I worked in the city.”

“According to her secretary, Owen, that's exactly why she does want you. She was at the Stansteads' Christmas party and a number of other events you handled, including the ones at Gracie Mansion. He said something about her never having forgotten the fennel soup you did and some kind of special New York chocolate dessert bars.”

“‘Manhattan Morsels' I called them. They
were
good. I used to add a little applesauce, as in the Big Apple, to keep them moist. Hmmm, I should do those again.”

“And you can. In June for Barbara and her Pelham friends. It will be fun. You know how much I love getting together with my Pelham buds. These women are older—I think they graduated in sixty-nine or seventy—but—”

Faith had interrupted her sister. “I know, I know. Pelham women are special.” Pelham was one of the nation's oldest and most prestigious women's colleges and Hope's loyalty bordered on fanaticism. Yet it was true that an inordinate number of the college's graduates had made names for themselves—and Pelham—in everything from politics to the silver screen. Having attended single-sex schools from kindergarten on, Faith had opted for a
coed university, but when she was with Hope and her Pelham friends, she often thought she might have made a mistake.

“She saw you in the alumnae magazine. I sent in a picture of little Quentin's christening, the one with my classmates, and since you're his godmother, you were in the middle holding him, next to me, ‘sister, Faith Sibley Fairchild.' You should thank Pelham and me!”

Her sister had figured it all out. It was
the
job of Faith's career. Barbara Bailey Bishop was notoriously reclusive. No one, except presumably her agent and publisher, knew what her real name was, not even her alma mater, Hope had revealed. The author was very generous to the college, but with the proviso that she not appear and not be known. Virtually anonymous donations. Fans guessed at the year she had graduated, but no one knew which Pelham “girl” she had been. She made J. D. Salinger look like Paris Hilton.

Interviews with Barbara Walters and others were conducted in the manner of Mafia informants. Ms. Bailey appeared completely in the shadows. The author photos on her book jackets were dark silhouettes, changing little over the years, which suggested the classic profile and tumbling tresses might now owe more to art than nature. She didn't tour or attend conventions. Print interviews, when granted, were conducted by phone or through her longtime secretary. Her oft-stated reason for all this was that she wanted to have a life of her own, and if easily identified she would never be able to walk around in public. Although Faith thought the Garbo act a bit extreme, there was no doubt that the author would be mobbed wherever she went in virtually every corner of
the world. Her books, a combination of romance and suspense, were hugely popular with both men and women. She'd won enough awards for a bank of trophy cases in the U.S. and started at the top of every bestseller list, staying there for months, yet it was the Europeans who treated her as a
femme sérieuse
on a par with Proust. She had been awarded every French and Italian literary prize. Every year the literati bemoaned the shortsightedness of the Nobel committee. Symposia abroad, with scholars debating the meaning of the color of the heroine's Capri pants and the like, were held in increasing numbers each year.