down, not at the open thorax, but at the face of the woman whose innermost secrets were now being revealed to a room full of strangers. She was so lovely, he thought. Aurnia Tate had been in the full bloom of womanhood.
— If you'll gather 'round, — said Dr. Sewall, — I should first like to point out an interesting finding in her pelvis. Based on the size of the uterus, which I can easily palpate right here, I would conclude that this subject has quite recently given birth. Despite the relative freshness of this corpse, you will note the particularly foul odor of the abdominal cavity, and the obvious inflammation of the peritoneum. Taking all these findings into account, I'm willing to offer a conjecture as to the likely cause of her death. —
There was a loud thud in the aisle. One of the students said, alarmed: — Is he breathing? Check if he's breathing! —
Dr. Sewall called out: — What is the problem? —
— It's Dr. Grenville's nephew, sir! — said Wendell. — Charles has fainted! —
In the front row, Professor Grenville rose to his feet, looking stunned at the news. Quickly he made his way up the aisle toward Charles, pushing through the students crowded in the aisle.
— He's all right, sir, — Wendell announced. — Charles is coming around now. —
On stage, Dr. Sewall sighed. — A weak stomach is not a recommendation for someone who wishes to study medicine. —
Grenville knelt at his nephew's side and patted Charles on the face. — Come come, boy. You've just gone a bit light-headed. It hasn't been an easy morning. —
Groaning, Charles sat up and clutched his head. — I feel sick. —
— I'll take him outside, sir, — said Wendell. — He could probably use the fresh air. —
— Thank you, Mr. Holmes, — said Grenville. As he stood up, he himself looked none too steady.
With Wendell's help, Charles rose shakily to his feet and was helped up the aisle. Norris heard one of the students snicker, — It would have to be Charlie, of course. Leave it to him to faint! —
But it could have happened to any one of us, thought Norris, looking around the auditorium at the ashen faces. What normal human being could watch this morning's butchery and not be appalled?
And it was not yet over.
On stage, Dr. Sewall once again picked up his knife and coolly eyed his audience. — Gentlemen. Shall we continue? —
Eleven
JULIA DROVE NORTH, fleeing the heat of the Boston summer, and joined the weekend stream of cars headed north into Maine. By the time she reached the New Hampshire border, the temperature outside had fallen ten degrees. Half an hour later, as she crossed into Maine, the air was starting to feel chilly. Soon her views of forest and rocky coastline vanished behind a bank of fog, and from there northward the world turned gray, the road curving through a ghostly landscape of veiled trees and barely glimpsed farmhouses.
When she finally arrived at the beach town of Lincolnville that afternoon, the fog was so dense she could barely make out the massive outline of the Islesboro ferry docked at the pier. Henry Page had warned her that there'd be limited space aboard for vehicles, so she left her car parked in the terminal lot, grabbed her overnight bag, and walked onto the vessel.
If there was any view to be seen out the ferry window that day, she caught no glimpse of it during the crossing to Islesboro.
She walked off the boat into a disorientingly gray world. Henry Page's house was just a mile's walk from the island's terminal? — A nice stroll on a summer's day, — he'd said. But in thick fog, a mile can seem like forever. She stayed well to the side of the road to avoid being hit by passing cars, and clambered off into the weeds whenever she heard an approaching vehicle. So this is summertime in Maine, she thought, shivering in her shorts and sandals. Though she could hear birds chirping, she couldn't see them. All she could see was the pavement beneath her feet and the weeds at the side of the road.
A mailbox suddenly appeared in front of her. It was thoroughly rusted, affixed to a crooked post. Staring closely, she could just make out the faded word on the side: STONEHURST.
Henry Page's house.
The one-lane dirt driveway climbed steadily through dense woods, where bushes and low branches reached out like claws to scrape at any passing vehicle. The farther she climbed, the more uneasy she felt about being stranded on this lonely road, on this fog-choked island. The house appeared so suddenly that she halted, startled, as if she'd just encountered a beast looming in the mist. It was made of stone and old wood that, over the years, had turned silvery in the salt air. Though she could not see the ocean, she knew it was nearby because she could hear waves slapping against rocks and seagulls crying as they wheeled overhead.
She climbed the worn granite steps to the porch and knocked. Mr. Page had told her he would be home, but no one came to the door. She was cold, she'd brought no coat, and she had nowhere to go except back to the ferry terminal. In frustration, she left her bag on the porch and walked around to the back of the house. Since Henry wasn't home, she might as well take a look at his view? if there was one to see today.
She followed a stone path to a back garden, overgrown with shrubs and scraggly grass. Though the grounds were clearly in need of a gardener's attention, she could tell this once must have been a showplace, judging by the elaborate stonework. She saw mossy steps leading downward into the mist, and low stone walls enclosing a series of terraced flower beds. Enticed by the sound of waves, she headed down the steps, past clumps of thyme and catmint. The sea had to be close now, and she expected at any second to catch a glimpse of the beach.
She stepped down, and her heel met empty air.
With a gasp, she scrabbled backward and her rear end landed hard on the stairs. For a moment she sat staring down through shifting curtains of fog to the rocks a good twenty feet below. Only now did she notice the eroded soil on either side of her, and the exposed roots of a tree that was barely clinging to the crumbling cliffside. Gazing down at the sea, she thought: I'd survive the drop, but it wouldn't take long to drown in that frigid water.
On unsteady legs she climbed back toward the house, fearful the whole way that the cliff would suddenly collapse, dragging her down with it. She was almost to the top when she saw the man waiting for her.
He stood with stooped shoulders, his gnarled hand gripping a cane. Henry Page had sounded old over the telephone, and this man looked ancient, his hair as white as the mist, his eyes squinting through wire-rimmed spectacles.
— The steps are unsafe, — he said. — Every year, another one drops off the cliff. It's unstable soil. —
— So I found out, — she said, panting from her quick climb up the stairs.
— I'm Henry Page. You're Miss Hamill, I presume. —
— I hope it's okay that I took a look around. Since you weren't home. —
— I've been home the whole time. —
— No one answered the door. —
— You think I can just sprint down the stairs? I'm eighty-nine years old. Next time, try a little patience. — He turned and crossed the stone terrace toward a set of French doors. — Come in. I already have a nice sauvignon blanc chilling. Although this cool weather might call for a red, not a white. —
She followed him into the house. As she stepped through the French doors, she thought, This place looks as ancient as he is. It smelled of dust and old carpets.
And books. In that room facing the sea, thousands of old books were crammed in floor-to-ceiling shelves. An enormous stone fireplace took up one wall. Though the room was huge, with the fog pressing in against the sea windows, the space felt dark and claustrophobic. It did not help that there were a dozen boxes stacked up in
