Two Graves

stocked with a variety of nicely preserved antiques, and appeared deserted save for a well-coifed woman of a certain age—also nicely preserved—who sat in a rocking chair, doing needlepoint.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Felder replied. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

“I’d be happy to answer what I can. Please have a seat.” The woman indicated a rocking chair across from hers.

Felder sat down. “I’m doing some research into the painter and illustrator Alexander Wintour. I understand that his family came from this area.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, that’s true.”

“I’m interested in his work. Specifically, his sketchbooks. I was wondering if they still exist, and whether you could give me a lead on where I should start searching for them.”

The woman placed the needlepoint carefully in her lap. “Well, young man, I can tell you with some assurance that they almost certainly do exist. And I know where you can find them.”

“That’s very good to hear,” Felder said, feeling a little thrill course through him. This was going to be easier than he had hoped.

“We know quite a bit here about the Wintour family,” the woman went on. “Alexander Wintour never really reached the top shelf, you might say. He was a good illustrator with a fine eye, but not what you would call a real artist. Still, his work is interesting from a historical point of view. But I’m surely telling you what you already know.”

She smiled brightly.

“No, no,” Felder hastened to assure her. “Please go on.”

“As far as the family went, his brother’s son—his nephew—made an excellent match. Married the daughter of a local shipping magnate. Alexander, who never married, moved out of the Wintour family bungalow on Old South Road and into his nephew’s much grander residence nearby.”

Felder nodded eagerly. “Go on.”

“This shipping magnate was an avid collector of literary memorabilia—books, manuscripts, the odd lithograph, and in particular epistolary material. It’s said he obtained the complete collection of Albert Bierstadt’s correspondence from his 1882 trip across California, including dozens of sketches. He also managed to procure a series of love letters written by Grover Cleveland to Frances Folsom, before she became his wife—he was the only president ever to have a wedding in the White House, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Felder said, leaning in a little closer.

“Well! And then there are the letters Henry James sent to his editor at Houghton Mifflin during the writing of The Portrait of a Lady. Really, a most impressive collection.” She folded her hands over the needlepoint. “In any case, Alexander Wintour died young. He never married, and his sister was said to have inherited much of his artistic output, beyond a collection of paintings that were donated to, I believe, the New-York Historical Society. The albums and notebooks must have been passed on to her son. The son and his wealthy wife had only one child of their own—a daughter, Alexander’s grandniece. She’s still alive and living here in Southport. We at the museum have little doubt that Wintour’s sketchbooks are still in her library, along with her grandfather’s collections of letters and manuscripts. Naturally, we would dearly love to have them, but…” The woman smiled.

Felder practically clasped his hands together in excitement. “This is wonderful news. Tell me where she lives, please, so I can call on her.”

The woman’s smile faded. “Oh, dear.” She hesitated a moment. “Now, that’s a bit of a problem. I didn’t intend to get your hopes up.”

“What do you mean?”

The woman hesitated again. “I told you that I knew where you could find the sketchbooks. I didn’t say you’d be able to see them.”

Felder stared at her. “Why not?”

“Miss Wintour—well, not to put too fine a point on it, but she’s been an odd one ever since she was a little girl. Never goes out, never has company, never sees anyone. After her parents died, she remained shut up in that house. And that dreadful manservant of hers…” The woman shook her head. “It’s a tragedy, really, her parents were such pillars of the community.”

“But her library—?” Felder began.

“Oh, many people have tried to gain access—scholars and the like, you know, the Henry James and Grover Cleveland letters in particular have historical and literary importance—but she’s turned everyone away. Every last one. A delegation from Harvard came down expressly to examine the Bierstadt letters. Offered a tidy sum, so people say. She wouldn’t even let them in the front door.” The woman leaned forward, touched the side of her head with a fingertip. “Batty,” she whispered confidentially.

“There isn’t… anything I could do? It’s terribly important.”

“Frankly, it would be a miracle if she let you in. I hate to say it, but I know of quite a few scholars and others who are waiting—” she dropped her voice—“for a time when she won’t be around any longer to block access.”

Felder stood up.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

Felder sighed. “I’ve come all the way up from the city. As long as I’m here, I might as well try to see her.”

A look of pity came over the woman’s face.

“Can you tell me where I can find her house, please?” he asked. “There’s no harm in knocking on her door, is there?”

“No harm, but I shouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”

“I won’t. If I could just have the address—” Felder took out his handwritten note, preparing to jot it down.

“Oh, you won’t need that. You can’t miss it. It’s that big mansion on Center Street, just down from the library.”

“Not… not the one that’s falling apart?” Felder asked, his spirits sinking farther still.

“The very one. Dreadful how she’s let the family estate go to rack and ruin. A real eyesore to the community. As I said, quite a few around here are waiting…” Her voice trailed off decorously as she picked up her needlepoint again.

21

DR. JOHN FELDER DROVE—SLOWLY, VERY SLOWLY—DOWN Center Street, the dead December leaves skittering and whirling in his wake. He kept his head low, as if not wanting to look much past the dashboard of his Volvo. The dejection he felt seemed quite out of proportion to the disappointment he had just experienced. He realized he’d allowed himself to believe this one trip to Connecticut might already be the end of his quest.

It was still possible. Anything could happen.

The houses slid by, one after the other, with their crisply painted fronts and well-tended plantings, mulched and protected for winter. And then the prospect ahead seemed to darken, as if a cloud was passing over the sun… and there it was. Felder winced. He took in the wrought-iron fence, topped with pitted spikes; the dead, frozen weeds covering the front yard; the dreary mansion itself, with its too-heavy gabled roof beetling over the dark and discolored stone of the facade. He half imagined he could make out a huge crack, running, Usher-like, from foundation to roofline; all it would take was a puff of wind from the wrong direction to bring the whole thing shivering down into perdition.

He pulled over, killed the engine, and got out of the car. As he pushed the gate open with a hollow groan, red grains of rust and chips of black paint came off on his hands. He made his way up the cracked and heaving concrete walkway, trying to think of what to say.

The problem was, Felder realized, that although he was a psychiatrist by profession, he wasn’t any good at