for his
murder?
When Glynis turned north onto a dirt road
running off Fall Street, she was still finding it inconceivable
that Roland Brant could be dead. She remembered the Brant family's
arrival in Seneca Falls some ten or eleven years before, and since
then the man had been a leading figure in the village. A
philanthropic member of Trinity Church, he also contributed to
other charitable institutions. His importing business had been
highly successful, thriving even during financial recessions when
others had failed. Just within the past year, she heard that R.
Brant & Sons had purchased at foreclosure a large, stone
building along the canal and then converted the bankrupt
harpsichord factory into a company warehouse.
And Brant, from all accounts, had been
devoted to his family—his wife, two sons, and a daughter-in-law—all
of whom lived in the one large house. A house which, now that
Glynis thought about it, stood so far back from the road that its
isolation might have been purposeful. While the place was being
built, carriage traffic on Fall Street had been snarled for days by
dray wagons weighted down with deliveries of live evergreen trees.
Almost everyone in town had been inconvenienced by this project,
and almost everyone speculated about its cost. And to what purpose?
Rather than move half-grown trees, why not simply plant seedlings
that would mushroom in a few years' time like every other tree in
western New York?
As she reached the gravel drive nearly
hidden from view by a thick stand of hemlock, Glynis realized she
hadn't noticed how dense the trees fronting the road had become;
she had little reason to pass this way often and especially not at
night. It looked as if a forest had sprung up there, and if she
hadn't known that a house sat somewhere behind it, she could have
missed the drive altogether. Although Cullen had been right about
the moon, and the lantern wasn't really necessary, she had no
intention of extinguishing it until he appeared. When a light
breeze ruffled her hair, it brought the sound of hoof beats from
down the road. It must be the Morgan, so she might as well start
for the house, for while the night held the balmy warmth of the
day, it would soon start to cool.
Gravel crunched under her high laced shoes
as she followed the initial curvature of the drive and almost
immediately wished she had waited. The hoof beats seemed to have
faded, though it could be the trees were so dense they absorbed the
sound. It hadn't occurred to her that the entire length of the
drive would be overgrown, but to either side of it the trees and
shrubs had been pruned back only enough to permit the passage of a
coach. Other than that, they'd been allowed to reach the height and
density of impenetrable walls. Clearly, the Brants preferred
privacy. Which meant they did not want intruders. What had Cullen
been thinking when he sent her here? Likely as not, he hadn't been
thinking about anything other than a murder taking place in his
town.
Holding the lantern before her, Glynis
raised her skirt with her free hand to walk more quickly and
searched her mind for a distraction. Just how good was a librarian
who couldn't recall a few random phrases to divert herself?
Something soothing, such as poetry. Someone trustworthy, such as
Longfellow. What did he write about murmuring pines and hemlock? This is the forest primeval....
She should think of something else. While
she watched her feet, refusing to look anywhere but down, the lines
came to her in a rush: Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care
/ Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are. I, Macbeth shall
never vanquished be until / Great Birnam Wood.. .
This was not helping. Her fixation with woods she could understand, but Macbeth? One of the most
notorious murderers in all of literature?
Quickening her pace, and searching for words
to curse Cullen's idea and her own spineless compliance with it,
she tripped over a tree branch lying in the gravel. The
murder?
When Glynis turned north onto a dirt road
running off Fall Street, she was still finding it inconceivable
that Roland Brant could be dead. She remembered the Brant family's
arrival in Seneca Falls some ten or eleven years before, and since
then the man had been a leading figure in the village. A
philanthropic member of Trinity Church, he also contributed to
other charitable institutions. His importing business had been
highly successful, thriving even during financial recessions when
others had failed. Just within the past year, she heard that R.
Brant & Sons had purchased at foreclosure a large, stone
building along the canal and then converted the bankrupt
harpsichord factory into a company warehouse.
And Brant, from all accounts, had been
devoted to his family—his wife, two sons, and a daughter-in-law—all
of whom lived in the one large house. A house which, now that
Glynis thought about it, stood so far back from the road that its
isolation might have been purposeful. While the place was being
built, carriage traffic on Fall Street had been snarled for days by
dray wagons weighted down with deliveries of live evergreen trees.
Almost everyone in town had been inconvenienced by this project,
and almost everyone speculated about its cost. And to what purpose?
Rather than move half-grown trees, why not simply plant seedlings
that would mushroom in a few years' time like every other tree in
western New York?
As she reached the gravel drive nearly
hidden from view by a thick stand of hemlock, Glynis realized she
hadn't noticed how dense the trees fronting the road had become;
she had little reason to pass this way often and especially not at
night. It looked as if a forest had sprung up there, and if she
hadn't known that a house sat somewhere behind it, she could have
missed the drive altogether. Although Cullen had been right about
the moon, and the lantern wasn't really necessary, she had no
intention of extinguishing it until he appeared. When a light
breeze ruffled her hair, it brought the sound of hoof beats from
down the road. It must be the Morgan, so she might as well start
for the house, for while the night held the balmy warmth of the
day, it would soon start to cool.
Gravel crunched under her high laced shoes
as she followed the initial curvature of the drive and almost
immediately wished she had waited. The hoof beats seemed to have
faded, though it could be the trees were so dense they absorbed the
sound. It hadn't occurred to her that the entire length of the
drive would be overgrown, but to either side of it the trees and
shrubs had been pruned back only enough to permit the passage of a
coach. Other than that, they'd been allowed to reach the height and
density of impenetrable walls. Clearly, the Brants preferred
privacy. Which meant they did not want intruders. What had Cullen
been thinking when he sent her here? Likely as not, he hadn't been
thinking about anything other than a murder taking place in his
town.
Holding the lantern before her, Glynis
raised her skirt with her free hand to walk more quickly and
searched her mind for a distraction. Just how good was a librarian
who couldn't recall a few random phrases to divert herself?
Something soothing, such as poetry. Someone trustworthy, such as
Longfellow. What did he write about murmuring pines and hemlock? This is the forest primeval....
She should think of something else. While
she watched her feet, refusing to look anywhere but down, the lines
came to her in a rush: Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care
/ Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are. I, Macbeth shall
never vanquished be until / Great Birnam Wood.. .
This was not helping. Her fixation with woods she could understand, but Macbeth? One of the most
notorious murderers in all of literature?
Quickening her pace, and searching for words
to curse Cullen's idea and her own spineless compliance with it,
she tripped over a tree branch lying in the gravel. The
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