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selected—heavy, dark
mahogany, with the unique sheen produced by decades of well-trained
housemaids. It was a somber room on dark days, with its dark maroon
hangings and heavy carpeting of the same shade. Now the afternoon sun
flooded the room, making the deep pile of the carpet glow like aged
Burgundy, reflecting blindingly from the tall pier mirrors in their
gilt frames. Another of Grandpa’s vanities, those mirrors. Gordon
looked a lot like him, according to the family pictures.
    Tiptoeing, in stockinged feet, she ventured cautiously
into the room, casting a frustrated glance at the door that opened into
the hall. She wished there were some way of locking it, so she would
have warning if anyone came. But the smooth dark surface of the door
was unmarred by bolt or chain. She turned to look at the back of the
door by which she had entered the room. No—no bolt there either. So, he
had never had one put on.
    Why had she supposed that he would? Because she had done
so. That was illogical. She knew what he would say if anyone asked
him—any one of those few who knew what had happened on That Night.
Barring his door to her would have been a symbolic thrusting away, a
rejection of need and a denial of trust.
    She crossed the room. Carefully, touching only the ornate
brass knob so that no smudge would mar the gleaming wood, she pulled
open the top drawer of the dresser. Handkerchiefs, neat, plain, pure
white, without even a monogram. She put out her hand and then drew it
back, biting her lip. Damn Haworth and his neatness. It would be
impossible to touch anything without leaving a sign of disturbance. The
corners of the folded handkerchiefs might have been aligned with a
ruler. And damn Gordon, too. He was a fanatic about neatness, he had
trained Haworth, and he would be the first to notice the slightest
irregularity.
    More drawers. Pajamas, neatly folded. Coiled belts,
looking like flat, curled snakes. Leather boxes, containing studs, cuff
links, and his grandfather’s ornate rings—one of the old gentleman’s
habits that Gordon had not emulated. More underwear. Nothing else.
Nothing else visible.
    She would have to risk it. Her lower lip caught between
her teeth, she turned back to the top drawer and delicately lifted a
pile of handkerchiefs. There was nothing underneath except the
immaculate lining of the drawer. Her hands began to shake as she
returned the handkerchiefs to their place and went to the next pile.
    Still nothing.
    It was hard to control her hands, they shook so. The
silence of the room was unnatural; her ears rang with it. No—it wasn’t
her ears, it was a fly, trapped against one of the windows. Stupid
insect. There was an open window within a few inches of its frantic
lunges against the glass. For a long moment Linda stood perfectly
still, staring at the small, frantic black dot. The buzzing droned in
her ears. She turned back to her self-appointed chore with an
abruptness that swept a pajama jacket out of alignment. What was under
it?
    Nothing. Nothing except the lining of the drawer.
    Gradually her movements became quicker, jerkier. She
shoved at the last drawer of the dresser, turned, before it had stopped
moving, toward the tall bureau.
    Sweaters. Folded neatly, encased in plastic bags. Nothing
under the sweaters. Scarves. Nothing…
    Slowly, like a creeping stain, the yellow path of
sunlight from the window moved across the rug. As its warmth brushed
her arm, Linda flinched and jerked around. It was late, dangerously
late. How much longer before the conference ended, before Gordon came
up to dress for dinner?
    It didn’t matter. She had finished the search. There was
nothing here, and she ought to have known there would be nothing. Only
her desperate desire for something concrete, some proof that might
affect an unprejudiced mind, had driven her to what she knew would be a
wasted search. It was his study she ought to investigate. His study, or…
    The sunlight seemed brighter; it hurt her eyes.