Free Mrs. God by Peter Straub Page A

another high vast room that seemed cold and museumlike after the library.
    Before them, across an expanse of dark carpet and through the middle of a double row of stiff chairs like soldiers, was another set of carved doors.
    â€œDining room can be reached through there,” Wall said, indicating the far doors, “and the main staircase which takes you up to the Inner Gallery and the Fountain Rooms is directly ahead of you. Until we meet again, then. We will see to your car tomorrow. Don’t give it a thought.
    The two men began to move down past the soldierly chairs.
    â€œI can’t help but wonder what happens to the place once Edith’s children die. Who inherits the place?”
    â€œI’m afraid there’s no proper answer to that.”
    â€œWhat does that mean? That you can’t tell me?”
    Instead of answering, Wall opened the door at the far end of the uncomfortable room, and stood waiting for Standish to go through. For a moment he reminded Standish of the landlord of The Duelists.
    â€œI’m sorry if that was an awkward question.”
    â€œI’m sorry if you didn’t like my answer. But if you want to know anything else, ask away. You may have three questions.”
    â€œWell, I guess I’m curious about Isobel. I mean I know she died here, and I guess I always assumed that she had some illness. Do you remember anything about it?”
    Wall continued to hold the door and look down at Standish. His expression had not changed in any way.
    â€œDid she have influenza?”
    â€œIs that your second question?”
    â€œWell, I know there were influenza epidemics around then.… Do you remember Isobel at all? I’ve never even seen a picture of her.”
    â€œThat is your third question. Of course I remember Isobel. It was a great loss for all of us when she died. Everyone here cared for her deeply.” He motioned Standish through the door, and followed him out into the great hall. “She died in childbirth, to answer your real question. I’m rather surprised that you should not have known.”
    â€œI didn’t even know that she’d had a child,” Standish said.
    â€œThe child died too.” Wall smiled and stepped away. “You do remember how to get back to the Fountain Rooms?”
    When Standish reached the top of the wide staircase he turned to look back down at Robert Wall, but the entire first floor of Esswood was dark. He heard a burst of female laughter from beneath him, as if it had risen up the stairs like smoke.
    In the bedroom he undressed and discovered that the sheets were delightfully cool and the bed just as firm as he liked a bed to be. He heard the lights in the Inner Gallery click off. Far away a door closed softly.

five
    S tandish and a number of other men were being held captive in a large bare cabin with a plank floor and rough wooden walls. Armed guards in brown uniforms lounged against the walls, idly watching the prisoners and speaking to one another in low unintelligible voices. At one end of the huge wooden room was a low raised platform where a man whose gray hair had been shaved close to his bullet head sat behind a desk. Stacks of pages lay on the surface of the desk, and the man examined papers one by one before transferring them from one stack to another. He was dressed in a baggy gray suit and a wide florid necktie, and the points of his shirt collar turned up. Like the uniformed guards, he looked bored. The faces of all the men, the guards and the official behind the desk, were broad, fleshy, masculine, roughened by alcohol and comfortable with brutality and death. Through windows cut into the sides of the building Standish saw snow falling steadily onto a white landscape. At irregular intervals a man holding a rifle and bundled into a heavy dark coat and a fur cap struggled past the windows, gripping the leashes of two straining dogs. All of these men were at ease with the cold and the