The distance of time and the habit of rationalism rearranged events in his memory; he told himself he had realized the trespasser’s presence a split-second before hearing the words, words which only echoed the thoughts flashing that moment through his mind. He only believed he’d heard a voice. Those syllables, like the violin of the first night, were nothing but the strange breezes moving under the house and up the dry cistern in the basement, creating whispers and whistles just as breath does across the lip of a flute. The dome shape of the cistern chamber doubtless magnified the sounds. Loud enough, they would’ve created the illusion of an explosion, like the Moodus Noises did. It was only the blacksmith of the mind that forged the red sounds into recognizable shapes. Nor was Lyman’s fancy alone: Minerva had said people had heard fiddling in the stone house for years.
All of it was a distraction from the real question of who had been in the house and searched his belongings, and whether his (or even her) goal had been the money or some other inscrutable purpose. After their work together on the roof, Sutton stood tall on the list of possible suspects. Clearly the man doubted Lyman’s biography. But Lyman could not disabuse himself of the feeling Sutton had never been to the stone house before that day on the roof; by mannerisms and small indications, he had struck Lyman as a genuine stranger to the scene. Perhaps then the intruder had been another member of the farm. But whom among the more than two dozen?
This line of inquiry soon awoke a cynic within Lyman who suggested that the timing of his absence away from the house may not have been coincidence. Lyman could not imagine Minerva colluding with anyone to deceive him; but the Diogenes on Lyman’s shoulder stated his emotions were but rag dolls in her grip. No, Lyman insisted. Rather someone had been watching them and used the picnic as the opportunity to enter and rifle the house. Lyman reasoned that if the circumstances of the picnic were duplicated, the culprit might attempt his burglary again, providing a chance for Lyman to catch him in flagrante—or at least uncover some clue to his identity.
In sequel to their picnic, Lyman had invited Minerva to walk with him, to which she happily consented. It soon became a standing date where, every other afternoon weather permitting, they would meet at the stone house and explore the woods around it. Lyman often chose the route, planning long circuitous paths that would suddenly cut back into view of the house, where he could observe any disturbance or visitor. Yet always was he disappointed—the burglary, as far as he could tell, was never repeated—and Minerva, tired of staying so close to the farm, began prodding for their course to stray farther and farther distant.
This did not go unnoticed by the demon inside Lyman. As much as he tried to keep it gagged, there came a day it finally seized Lyman’s voice during their stroll. “I am very fond of the memory I have when you came to the stone house with a basket, and we picnicked some way in the woods.”
“I am too,” Minerva said.
“I’m glad. Yet something about it troubles me. Were your motives fully transparent, that afternoon? You can tell me if someone put you up to it. I won’t be upset.”
“What an odd question.” She looked at him sidelong. “If you want me to confess that my desire for your company was greater than the want of a comfortable lunch at the Consulate, then I confess it freely. But to suggest I am a puppet to someone else’s whims strikes me as a bit uncouth, Tom.” Her pace increased so that she walked several steps ahead of him.
Deep inside himself, Lyman throttled the demon with white knuckles.
He caught up to her. “I’m sorry,” he said very fast. “I’ve never told you this, but that day while I was out someone rummaged through the house. I suppose they were looking for money or silver.”
“So you believe I was in league with a thief?” Her face, usually so disposed toward him, now contorted with some opposite feeling. “That I was to distract you?”
“Absolutely not.” He stuttered and stammered. “What I’m trying to say—poorly, I realize—is that perhaps someone suggested the idea of a picnic lunch to you, and innocently—completely unknowingly—you took it as your own plan, and unwittingly abetted him.”
Minerva said nothing for a long moment. “The plan was my own, and I told no one about it.”
They walked in icicle silence.
“It may interest you to know,” she said, “that Joan Alby told me she has seen some men lurking about the edges of the property. Further, at dusk a few nights ago, my mother said she saw a stranger near the Consulate. When he spotted her, he ducked into the trees across the road as if he didn’t want to be seen. She told my father about it.”
“I hadn’t heard about this.”
“Of course you hadn’t. What women on the farm do you speak with besides me?”
Lyman made no parry to that blow. “What did your father say?”
“He said he would keep lookout for danger, but that jumping into ditches or behind trees is not a punishable offense in the state of Connecticut.”
“I see.” They continued, Lyman’s mind spinning like clock gears. “Well, that explains much. I apologize, Minerva—a thousand times I apologize. You understand what I meant? I would never imply you would intentionally aid some villain.”
She slowed to a stop and covered her face.
In that moment if Lyman could have stepped outside himself and laid his fist across his own jaw, he would have done it. “Minerva.” He gently laid his fingers upon hers to pry them away.
She let them be pried. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes damp.
