The Thirteenth Tale

DECEMBER DAYS

Obeying Dr. Clifton's instructions, I spent two days in bed, eating and sleeping and reading Sherlock Holmes. I confess I overdosed on my prescribed treatment, gulping down one story after another. Before the end of the second day Judith had been down to the library and fetched another volume of Conan Doyle for me. She had grown suddenly kind toward me since my collapse. It was not the fact that she was sorry for me that altered her- though she was sorry- but the fact that now Emmeline's presence was no longer a secret in the house, she was at liberty to let her natural sympathies govern her exchanges with me, instead of maintaining a constantly guarded facade.

'And has she never said anything about the thirteenth tale?' she asked me wistfully one day.

'Not a word. And to you?'

She shook her head. 'Never. It's strange, isn't it, after all she's written, that the most famous story of all is one that might not even exist. Just think, she could probably publish a book with all the stories missing and it would still sell like hotcakes.' And then, with a shake of the head to clear her thoughts, and a new tone, 'So what do you make of Dr. Clifton, then?'

When Dr. Clifton dropped by to see how I was doing, his eye alighted on the volumes by my bedside; he said nothing but his nostrils twitched.

On the third day, feeling as frail as a newborn, I got up. As I pulled the curtains apart, my room was flooded with a fresh, clean light. Outside, a brilliant, cloudless blue stretched from horizon to horizon, and beneath it the garden sparkled with frost. It was as if during those long overcast days the light had been accumulating behind the cloud, and now that the cloud was gone there was nothing to stop it flooding down, drenching us in a fortnight's worth of illumination at once. Blinking in the brilliance, I felt something like life begin to move sluggishly in my veins.

Before breakfast I went outdoors. Slowly and cautiously I stepped around the lawn with Shadow at my heels. It was crisp underfoot, and everywhere the sun sparkled on icy foliage. The frost-rimed grass held the imprint of my soles, but at my side Shadow stepped like a dainty ghost, leaving no prints. At first the cold, dry air was like a knife in my throat, but little by little it rejuvenated me, and I rejoiced in the exhilaration. Nevertheless, a few minutes were enough; cheeks tingling, pink-fingered and with aching toes, I was glad to come back in and Shadow was glad to follow. First breakfast, then the library sofa, the blazing fire, and something to read.

I could judge how much better I was by the fact that my thoughts turned not to the treasures of Miss Winter's library, but to her own story. Upstairs I retrieved my pile of paper, neglected since the day of my collapse, and brought it back to the warmth of the hearth where, with Shadow by my side, I spent the best part of the daylight hours reading. I read and I read and I read, discovering the story all over again, reminding myself of its puzzles, mysteries and secrets. But there were no revelations. At the end of it all I was as baffled as I had been before I started. Had someone tampered with John-the-dig's ladder? But who? And what was it that Hester had seen when she thought she saw a ghost? And, more inexplicable than all the rest, how had Adeline, that violent vagabond of a child, unable to communicate with anyone but her slow-witted sister and capable of heartbreaking acts of horticultural destruction, developed into Miss Winter, the self-disciplined author of dozens of best-selling novels and, furthermore, maker of an exquisite garden?

I pushed my pile of papers to one side, stroked Shadow and stared into the fire, longing for the comfort of a story where everything had been planned well in advance, where the confusion of the middle was invented only for my enjoyment, and where I could measure how far away the solution was by feeling the thickness of pages still to come. I had no idea how many pages it would take to complete the story of Emmeline and Adeline, nor even whether there would be time to complete it.

Despite my absorption in my notes, I couldn't help wondering why I hadn't seen Miss Winter. Each time I asked after her Judith gave me the same reply: She is with Miss Emmeline. Until evening, when she came with a message from Miss Winter herself: Was I feeling well enough to read to her for a while before supper?

When I went to her I found a book-Lady Audley's Secret-on the table by Miss Winter's side. I opened it at the bookmark and read. But I had read only a chapter when I stopped, sensing that she wanted to talk to me.

'What did happen that night?' Miss Winter asked. 'The night you fell ill?'

I was nervously glad to have an opportunity for explanation. 'I already knew Emmeline was in the house. I had heard her at night. I had seen her in the garden. I found her rooms. Then on that particular night I brought someone to see her. Emmeline was startled. The last thing I intended was to frighten her. But she was taken by surprise when she saw us, and-' My voice caught in my throat.

'This is not your fault, you know. Don't alarm yourself. The wailing and the nervous collapse-it is something I and Judith and the doctor have seen many times before. If anyone is to blame, it is me, for not letting you know sooner that she was here. I have a tendency to be overprotective. I was foolish not to tell you.' She paused. 'Do you intend to tell me whom it was you brought with you?'

'Emmeline had a baby,' I said. 'That's the person who came with me. The man in the brown suit.' And after I'd told what I knew, the questions I didn't know the answer to came rushing to my lips, as though my own frankness might encourage her to be candid in return. 'What is it Emmeline was looking for in the garden? She was trying to dig something up when I saw her there. She often does it: Maurice says it's the work of foxes, but I know that is not the truth.'

Miss Winter was silent and very still.

'The dead go underground, ' I quoted. 'That's what she told me. Who does she think is buried? Is it her child? Hester? Who is she looking for underground?'

Miss Winter uttered a murmur, and though it was faint, it instantly awakened the lost memory of the hoarse pronouncement launched at me by Emmeline in the garden. The very words! 'Is that it?' added Miss Winter. 'Is that what she said?'

I nodded.

'In twin language?'

I nodded again.

Miss Winter looked at me with interest. 'You are doing very well, Margaret. Better than I thought. The trouble is, the timing of this story is getting rather out of hand. We are getting ahead of ourselves.' She paused, staring into her palm, then looked straight at me. 'I said I meant to tell you the truth, Margaret. And I do. But before I can tell you, something must happen first. It is going to happen. But it has not happened yet.'

'What-?' But before I could finish my question, she shook her head. 'Let us return to Lady Audley and her secret, shall we?'

I read for another half hour or so, but my mind was not on the story, and I had the impression Miss Winter's attention was wandering, too. When Judith tapped at the door at suppertime, I closed the book and put it to one side, and as if there had been no interruption, as if it were a continuation of the discussion we had been having before, Miss Winter said, 'If you are not too tired, why don't you come and see Emmeline this evening? '

SISTERS

When it was time, I went to Emmeline's quarters. It was the first time I had been there as an invited guest, and the first thing I noticed, before I even entered the bedroom, was the thickness of the silence. I paused in the doorway-they had not noticed me yet-and realized it was their whispering. On the edge of inaudibility, the rub of breath over vocal cords made ripples in the air. Soft plosives that were gone before you could hear them, muffled sibilants that you might mistake for the sound of your own blood in your ears. Each time I thought it had stopped a hushed sussuration brushed against my ear like a moth alighting on my hair, then fluttered away again. I cleared my throat. 'Margaret.' Miss Winter, her wheelchair positioned next to her sister, gestured to a chair on the other side of the bed. 'How good of you.'

I looked at Emmeline's face on the pillow. The red and the white were the same red and white of scarring and burn damage that I had seen before; she had lost none of her well-fed plumpness; her hair was still the tangled skein of white. Listlessly her gaze wandered over the ceiling; she appeared indifferent to my presence. Where was