Aurelia was very fast. “In the novel, the lover of Lady Chatterley is the gamekeeper, Mr. Mellors.”
“Right.”
“Okay. The opposite. If Mr. Mellors was the lover in the novel, then Professor Mellor was not the lover in the real world. That's what the message means.”
“Right again.”
“Don't give me that hangdog look, Eddie. I do this for a living.” She kissed him. “Okay. Very clever. Now, let's get back to work.”
1957: Junie vanishes with her friend Sharon Martindale. Both become members of the radical group now called Agony, or Jewel Agony. Junie is one of the group's leaders from early on. Sharon evidently becomes a leader later.
Late 1950s: Agony becomes active.
1959: Junie gives birth to a second child.
Early 1960s: The Council becomes concerned that the testament has not been found. Kevin Garland says the Project is out of control.
1960: Matty Garland is killed.
1963: Birmingham attack is the first action by Agony to take lives.
1965: Kevin Garland is killed in an explosion. The target might have been Senator Lanning Frost. It might have been Kevin. The authorities say Agony took the credit. Sharon Martindale denies to Eddie that Agony was involved.
Aurelia needed another minute. This time she asked Eddie to stay with her. They wound up walking the yard together. She said it reminded her of Ithaca. She pointed to a scrawny tree, its trunk gray-white.
“It's a birch. A dwarf birch. A birch tree can't survive by itself, Eddie. You need a grove of them. Otherwise, it's going to die.” She licked her lips. “It's so lonely out there.”
“We're not birches, honey.”
“I think sometimes we are.”
Back to work.
Mid-1960s: Junie Wesley is expelled from Agony after renouncing violence. She disappears to look for her children. Agony goes into decline.
Late 1960s: Remnants of Agony are folded into Weatherman. The weakened Palace Council comes under the sway of what Benjamin Mellor calls a “Third Force,” presumably Margot Frost, carrying out her late father's wishes with the aid of Mr. Collier. Perry Mount hides Mellor in southeast Asia, but later joins the Third Force.
Late 1960s: Eddie is tortured in Hong Kong, probably by Perry Mount, to discover whether he knows where his sister is.
Late 1960s: Congressman Byron Dennison urges Aurelia to get back together with Eddie.
“Enough,” said Aurelia, drained.
“Enough,” Eddie agreed, scarcely doing better himself.
That night, they went to dinner and a movie, dating publicly for the first time. Nobody recognized them, and Eddie found himself vaguely disappointed. In bed later, Aurelia told him she had to get back to Ithaca. “I have to think of some way to tell the kids.”
“Kids tend to figure things like this out for themselves.”
Aurelia stretched against him. Her body was warm. Her voice was sleepy and complacent. “You can drive me as far as New York. I'll fly from there.”
“I can drive you all the way.”
“I could also fly from here. But we're stopping in New York for a reason.”
“What reason is that?”
“To pick up the testament.”
Eddie sat up. “You know where it is?”
“So would you, if you did crossword puzzles.”
“Where is it?”
“You'll find out when we get to the city.”
No matter how hard he tickled, she refused to tell.
CHAPTER
59
The Testament
(I)
“Y
OU'RE A SILLY MAN
,” said Aurelia, turning the seed pod over and over in her smooth fingers. “Did you know that, dear?”
“It's been said.”
“I'm saying it again.” She put the pod down on top of the note. They were sitting in the study of the apartment Eddie still maintained at 435 Convent Avenue. They had left in the late morning in Eddie's Cadillac and arrived in Harlem just past four. Eddie was all set to go hunting, but Aurelia, amused, had told him they could not get the testament until dark.
Why not? he had asked.
Because we have to break in, she answered, eyes twinkling.
Now she said, “You should have guessed for yourself, Eddie. You're supposed to be the one who reads history. Why didn't you show this to me in the first place?”
Eddie stood in the window, looking out at Harlem. None of his old crowd remained. Langston Hughes had died while Eddie was in Vietnam. He often wondered why he kept the apartment. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Which first place are we talking about?”
Aurelia smiled. “The note,” she said, tapping the paper. “His wife has it.”
“I know what the note says.”
“And I know who his wife is. I even know who
he
is.” A beat. “Which you obviously don't.”
Eddie came back to the table, sat down, took her hand. She was wearing one of his robes, and seemed uncommonly brown and beautiful. A package of Virginia Slims lay between them.
“Please tell me,” he said, and Aurelia found herself impressed by his ability to be gentle after all the years of searching.
She picked up the pod again. “This is a burr, Eddie. You know, a burr? Like Aaron Burr? The Vice President a hundred fifty, hundred sixty years ago?”
“So?”
“Oh, honey. How could you live in Harlem for so many years and not know? I thought everybody knew. Aaron Burr was the second husband of Madame Jumel. He stole her fortune.”
He dropped her hand. “Madame Jumel? You're sayingâ”
Aurelia nodded, delighted at her coup. “Castle's testament is hidden in Jumel Mansion.”
(II)
T
HEY STOOD
on Jumel Terrace, across from the shuttered townhouse that had once belonged to Shirley Elden, where a thousand years ago Harlem society had celebrated Aurelia's engagement to Kevin, and Eddie had walked out in a huff and discovered Philmont Castle's body. The cobblestone street was empty. The mansion loomed white and silent in the darkness. It was surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence, the pikes very sharp. They had searched for breaks in the fence and found none, meaning they would have to climb. Old Harlem tales insisted that the house was haunted by the ghost of Madame Jumel. Standing on the sidewalk as mist swirled around them, they found the tales harder to dismiss.
Why had he not thought of the mansion before?
This was where Castle had been killed. He had not, as Eddie thought, been dumped here after his murder. He had been followed onto the grounds by whoever strangled him. The killer plainly had no inkling of the testament, or he would have searched that very night.
“I have to go first,” said Aurelia.
“Why?”
“Because there's no way I can boost you over the fence.”
So Eddie boosted her, and she snagged her sweater on one of the wrought-iron spikes and had to tear it to jump down. He scrambled up after her, leaped, landed badly, and hurt his ankle. They stood inside the fence, sheepish grins on their faces. “Some secret agents we are,” said Aurie.
A swoosh of movement made them turn, but it was just a night bird, swooping low as it foraged.
“We need to calm down,” said Eddie. “Nobody knows we're here.”
“We hope.”
They followed the stone walk to the mansion, studied its foundation by flashlight, selected a basement window. Eddie picked up a heavy tree branch.
“What if there's an alarm?” said Aurie.
“Then we abort.”
“That should be fun, trying to get back over the fence with the police on the way.”
Eddie looked at her. “It's a little late to bring that up.”
“And you were a little late showing me the burr.”
In response, he struck the window. It shook but did not even crack. He laughed nervously, tried again. Same result.
“The branch is too long,” she said. “You don't have any leverage.”
“What?”
“You were never a vandal, Eddie.” Even in the darkness he could hear the smile in her voice. “That's the problem with having a dad who's a pastor. Vandals use small objects. You can't break a window swinging a branch. Either kick it in or throw a rock.”
“Why didn't you suggest this before?”
“Because you're the kind of guy who'd try it your own way no matter what I said.”
About to snap back, Eddie smiled. She was right. He found a rock, threw it, missed. He kicked and made a tiny crack.
“Harder,” she ordered.
“You're bossy.”
“Get used to it.”
He kicked again, harder, then a third time. The glass did not shatter. Not at first. Instead, the whole window fell in, crashing to the basement floor with enough noise to wake the dead. Or the neighbors, if there were any.
They waited, shivering.
Then Eddie said, “This time I'll go first and then help you down.”
Aurie peered into the darkness. “I think that's a good idea,” she said.
(III)
T
HE BASEMENT TURNED OUT
to be just a basement. Ancient and musty and dank, yes, but containing what any basement did: a furnace, a water heater, endless pipes along the ceiling, few of them insulated. Boxes were stacked here, extra furniture there. Several trunks stood near the stairs, stacked head-high.
“This is a perfect hiding place,” said Eddie, despairingly. He ran the beam of his flashlight around the space a third or fourth time. “It would take us a week to go through all this junk.”
“Fortunately, we don't have to.”
“Why not?”
“Because the testament isn't down here.”
He turned toward her, intrigued by her certainty. “What do you know that I don't, Aurie?”
She used a hand to shift the beam away from her face. “For one thing, I know better than to shine a light in my boyfriend's eyes.”
“Sorry.” He glanced around. “So, we're going upstairs?”
“Two flights.”
Somewhere up above, a floorboard creaked. Just one, and the sound did not repeat. And then, faintly, it did.
“The house is settling,” said Eddie.
“Or somebody's up there,” said Aurie.
“Or both.”
She shifted her beam. “We can't turn back now.”
“At least tell me where we're going.”
“His wife has it. That's what the card said, right?”
“Yes.”
“But his wife is dead, Eddie. She's a ghost. And everyone who claims to see her sees her in the same place. Her bedroom window.”
Another creak. “The bedroom,” he repeated.
“That's right.” She gestured toward the stairs. “Lead the way.”
The basement stairs led to a door, but the door was not locked. It opened at the first push and did not even creak. They were in the grand foyer, large rooms on all sides, and the sweeping staircase to the second floor on the north wall.
“Keep going,” said Aurelia. “I've got your back.”
“Swell.”
Midway up the grand staircase, they heard another soft creak, this time down below, perhaps in the dining room. More settling, or somebody trying too hard to be quiet? But nobody could have followed them. In the emptiness of the street and the grounds, they would have noticed.
“A rat, maybe,” said Eddie.
“Or the ghost.”
Upstairs, they made their way to the rear of the house. The doors were all open, except one. A moment later, they stood in the bedchamber. Closed for renovation. Their flashlights picked out the bed, four posters, currently without canopy. An old dresser, but not old enough. Incongruously, a file cabinet, with the look of having been moved hastily from somewhere else. So the locked-off room, like the basement, was used for storage. Aurelia moved closer. The beams found the dingy chandelier, then swung jointly toward the door as something skittered in the darkness.
They stood very still.
“The ghost,” said Aurie, giggling weakly.
Eddie, struggling against his own growing fear, gestured toward the square of smeary light from the filthy window. “That's where she sits and looks out and scares the kids.”
“You thinkâ”
“It has to be here. Where his wife sits.”
Both beams flashed that way, found the settee, and whatever curled on the sagging cushions rose, huge and rotten and fetid, uttering a snarly cry as, eyes redly glowing, it soared toward them through the shadows. They leaped back. Aurelia screamed. Eddie's head bumped one of the bed posters, and his flashlight went flying. The pain sent him to his knees. The ghost swooped down. Beating devil's wings struck his face. He grabbed and shoved, was clawed and scratched in return, then saw, by the light of Aurelia's beam, that he was wrestling a huge barn owl. Eddie ducked away. The owl was as scared as he was. With a final glare, the creature sailed majestically off into the hallway.
Aurelia knelt beside him. This time her mirth was genuine. She touched his bleeding face. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”
“I want you to stop laughing.”
“Then you have to stop being so funny,” she said, and kissed him anyway.
They stood and crossed to the settee. It was sagging and sprung. They peered underneath, coughed in the dust, found only mouse droppings. They shook the heavy frame, but nothing fell out. They began tugging at the fabric. Aurelia pricked her finger on a freshly uncovered coil but refused to stop.
That footstep again.
On their knees, they swung around, both beams at the door.
Nothing.
“We need to calm down,” said Eddie.
“We need to hurry,” said Aurelia.
“Why?”
She shuddered. “Can't you feel it?”
And he could, a growing pulsing miasmic stirring, as if the ancient house was slowly waking, its ancient haunts with it. The eaves whispered in the wind, and the whispers were clever and old. Floorboards creaked as the house settled, and the creaking meant that whatever evil the house nurtured was climbing the stairs. They tore faster, desperation in their hands, and found nothing. No envelope, no papers, no hidden photographs. They looked at each other.
“We were wrong,” said Eddie.
“We can't have been.”
“This is the window where she sits. I don't know where else it could be.”
Aurelia stood up, stretched, leaned on the sill. She pointed. “It's nailed shut.”
“So?”
“Soâshe can't possibly lean out.”
“She's not real. She's a ghost.”
“What I mean is, people see her lean out, with the window open. Or they used to, anyway.” She leaned close. “Eddie, these nails are new.”
He crouched. They were tarnished. “They're not new.”
She lifted her light, ran a finger along the paint. “Look at this. Look how it flakes. See? There isn't any here. Where the nail holes are.”
“You're sayingâ”
“Somebody drove these in just a few years ago.”
Eddie's excitement grew. “And nobody noticed because the room was closed off.”
“Or, if they did notice, they just thought somebody official had done it.”
“So what do we do?”
She tugged. “We take the nails out.”
Comedy. The nails were driven deeply into the sill, and neither of them had thought to bring a hammer. They hunted around for a tool.
“The office downstairs,” said Aurie.
“I'll go,” said Eddie.
“Not without me.”
Halfway down the sweeping staircase, they heard the footsteps again. “No ghosts,” said Eddie.
“No ghosts,” Aurelia echoed, teeth chattering.
The door to the office was locked. They forced it. They found desks, file cabinets, bookshelves, boxes of souvenirs to be sold out front.
“Bingo,” said Aurelia, emerging from the small bathroom.
A toolkit.
Back upstairs, the nails yielded easily, and as they lifted the lower sash, the higher one fell, very hard, nearly mashing their fingers. Glass splintered. The sound echoed. Eddie and Aurelia scarcely noticed. Drifting to the floor was a long envelope that had been hidden between the panes, covered by the wood trim where the sashes met when the window was open. Aurelia tore it open, and Eddie extracted the contents: eight pages in Philmont Castle's tight, spidery hand.
The testament.
Eddie beckoned Aurelia, but she was already reading over his shoulder. Here, at last, was the answerâand, God willing, the road to Junie. Together, they read by flashlight:
My name is Philmont Castle. I am a member of the Bar Associations of the City of New York, the State of New York, and the Supreme Court of the United States. I am writing these words in the hope that, should I not survive, someone will read them and be able to prevent the madness that I have helped to plan. I could do nothing to stop it, because my family stood hostage to my loyalty. I only pray that whoever discovers my testament will have the fortitude to stop what must be stopped. The details I shall disclose will be sufficient to put an end not only to the Project itself, but to the careers of the men who designed it.
In the second week of August 1952, a meeting was held at the summer home of Burton Mount on Winemack Street in the town of Oak Bluffs on the Island of Martha's Vineyard, for the purpose of planning a crime of grandeur, audacity, and stupidity, in the name of building a better America. The meeting began with dinner, but no spouses were permitted. Mrs. Mount was visiting friends on the Island, I believe the Powells. Two maids laid out the food en buffet and then were dismissed. Burton as usual provided an excellent repast, beginning with sautéed scallops and mussels in an excellent cream sauce, bridging the courses with berry-filled crêpes instead of sorbet. Burton next served lobster tailsâ¦