Free Conspiracy of Silence by S. T. Joshi Page B

fringe of the Catskills, I made my way past Binghamton and Elmira, then headed north. The Bislands lived in a place called Moravia, a tiny village about twenty miles northeast of Ithaca. As I drove into the town, I saw that it was little more than a main street with a number of streets branching off of it, situated a few miles south of Cayuga Lake. And yet, it was a surprisingly bustling and prosperous place: I even saw an opera house there, and recalled that Caruso had performed there a few decades before.
    The Bislands lived in a house called the Jewett Mansion. For a mansion, it was on the smallish side, but its brick façade and several towers were imposing, not to mention the acre or more of land that encompassed it. Once again, I’d decided to come unannounced, but I was prepared to stay until I got something out of these folks.
    My knock was answered, of course, by a butler, and when I announced my business and handed him my card, he looked down at it—and up at me—as if I were some kind of derelict who had come here by mistake. But my gaze made it pretty clear I wasn’t going anywhere, so he grudgingly let me in.
    In a short period of time, a middle-aged woman came down the curving stairs to greet me hesitantly.
    â€œMister . . . er, Scintilla,” she said, peering down at my card, which the butler must have given to her, “I’m Norma Bisland. I’m not sure how I can help you . . . .”
    I came to the point. “I understand you were present at Thornleigh when Frank Crawford met his death.”
    At that, she flushed a deep crimson. Norma Bisland was a would-be aristocrat who didn’t quite have the bearing and the manner to pull it off. She was short, dumpy, and not particularly attractive. Her gray hair and coarse features were an ill match to the expensive elegance of the dress she was wearing. She would have been more appealing if she’d made fewer attempts to conceal the middle-class housewife that she obviously was.
    â€œI . . . I don’t know what there is to investigate,” she said blunderingly.
    â€œI’m pursuing several angles. I wonder—”
    She interrupted me: “May I ask on whose behalf you’re making these . . . these inquiries?”
    â€œOn behalf of Lizbeth Crawford, the daughter of James Allen Crawford.”
    â€œLittle Lizbeth!” she exclaimed. “But she’s only a child!”
    â€œNot anymore,” I said bluntly. “She’s eighteen, and she has the money to pay me.”
    â€œEighteen! My, how the time goes . . . ,” she trailed off.
    â€œMrs. Bisland, I wonder if I may speak to you and your husband on this matter. Is Mr. Bisland available?”
    Once again she flushed. “Well, I don’t know . . . I think he’s out . . . .”
    â€œYou think? Don’t you know?”
    She attempted to give me an imperious stare, as if it was not my place to speak to her like that; but she only managed to look scared and outraged.
    â€œIf he’s not around,” I pursued, “I’ll be happy to wait.”
    Mrs. Bisland was getting so flustered that I wondered if she would faint on the spot. But her butler, whatever his name was, came to her rescue. Appearing as if out of nowhere, he sidled up to her and said: “Madam, shall I call the master?”
    She looked at him as if he were a kind of lifeline and said: “Yes, please do . . .”
    A bit ineffectually, she directed me into a sitting room. We both sat down, I in a fancily upholstered wing-back chair and she on a sort of divan. I looked at her stonily, saying nothing. She tried to look everywhere but at my face.
    After an excruciating several moments, a large, stocky man entered the room. Daniel Bisland, too, seemed not quite suited for the role of landowner and squire of the manor. He had the build of a prizefighter, and the bearing of one. The dark suit he wore seemed to hug his frame so tightly that it