FLORENCE ESTHER MURDOCH
— 1971
"Home at Last"
In the rain and the gloom I stared down at it, just as I'd done in front of my father's grave only a few days before. Was that why I was here? It was hardly the time or place for self-analysis, though you had to wonder…
But then I peered harder.
For my father's grave, year after year, was mute, ignoring the questions I put to it — while Florence's, to my surprise, eloquently answered them all.
It was a fluke, of course, my being there. But then I would have found out eventually, either from James Murdoch when I'd spoken with him — the moment I laid eyes on him — or even from the preacher. But that wasn't necessary. For now, on one side of the stone, completely spoiling its dignity, I saw an oval, silvery protrusion about six inches long. To be charitable, it looked like a large locket; to be accurate, the hood ornament of a '55 Dodge. It had a hinged lid, like the metal flaps that cover outdoor electrical outlets, and I bent forward, half kneeling, to lift this up. Underneath was a smooth plastic, or porcelain, oval — again, vaguely reminiscent of a brooch — and on this, transferred by some new miracle of mortuary science, was a color photograph of the deceased.
I stared at it, and swore under my breath.
She was a pretty blond thing, I remember…
Well, not exactly.
Just possibly, Harry Brightman had been May's father — but Florence Raines, this very black woman, had never given birth to such a lily-white child.
6
I drew myself up and stepped back from the grave. Lifting my eyes, I watched the rain glitter against the gloom, beyond the low, crouched shadows of the headstones lay a sagging wire fence and then a muddy field, jagged with the broken stalks of last summer's corn. The fence grated and squeaked in the wind. From the field, alarmed at my presence, two old crows lurched into the air and clumsily lumbered into he dusk. They cawed twice, then disappeared.
I didn't move. For a moment I was too stunned to feel anything, even the rain. But as the numbness began to wear off, hat I felt was so strong that I shuddered. I felt fear — but not y own fear, someone else's. A long-buried odor was finding its way up from this grave. Now it was loose: the smell of fear that springs from mortal danger. I looked down at the headstone. Men hide many things, from treasure to shame, but their motive is always the same — fear of loss, fear of discovery, fear of treachery, but fear of some kind. And what I'd discovered today was proof that someone had once been terribly afraid. Just then I turned around. A light had come on at the side of the church. The side door swung open, a figure emerged. And in the spill of light from the door, I could see he was black. Of course. This was a black Baptist church, these mean concessions comprised some sort of black enclave, and here black Florence Raines had been brought to her grave. Bent over and clutching a plastic raincoat closed at the neck, this figure pulled the door shut behind him, then turned. At which point he saw me. All things considered — the gloom, the rain, my umbrella hoisted above the headstones — I suppose I made an arresting sight. And, indeed, he froze in his tracks. For a moment we stared at each other. Then, just as I expected him to shout, I shook my umbrella in acknowledgment and began walking toward him. He watched me every step of the way— through the gate, through the trees, up the path — but as I drew closer, and my respectability became a little more evident, I could see him relax. Gradually, his broad, chubby features assumed an expression, both solemn and welcoming, that would have told me he was a pastor even if I hadn't caught the white flash of a collar inside his coat.
"Good evening," I said.
He nodded. "May I be of assistance? Were you looking for a particular stone? It's quite dark…" He was a rotund little man, almost bald except for a few stiff curls of white hair over his ears. His expression, fixed and determined, both noted our difference in color and refused, resolutely, to raise it. His suspicions of me — so his expression seemed to say — had a completely different cause.
"Thank you, Reverend. I apologize. I'd intended to call, but there didn't seem to be a light."
"Oh no. That's perfectly all right. This is a public place, and you're entirely welcome. I only wondered… because of the hour, you see."
I nodded. He wasn't wearing a hat, and he had no umbrella, but I could sense that he would have refused any offer to shelter under my own.
I said, "I'm interested in a woman who's buried here, I believe a former parishioner. Her name was Florence Murdoch."
"Yes. She did attend here. A very fine woman. I only knew her in the last years of her life, but she was very devoted… to the church, to her family. Her husband still comes to us, as do two of her daughters… I take it you were a friend?"
"No. I never met her."
"Then I'm afraid I don't understand."
"It's confidential, Reverend. I'd like to tell you, but I shouldn't."
He stiffened, then frowned; and then this frown became more quizzical than angry. "Tell me," he said, "is it important — to this confidential matter — that Florence Murdoch be black?"
I hesitated. "She was, of course?"
"Of course."
"And why should that be important, Reverend?"
"I've no idea — but it was important to that other man."
"What other man?"
"He came to see me, about a week ago. And that's what he asked me — was Florence Murdoch black? He was… unpleasant about it. 'Black, like you,' he said. I told him, 'No; black like a Negro.' Which is the word I prefer… however old-fashioned it makes me."
His face turned up to me, almost challenging, while the ceaseless drum, splash, and drip of the rain filled up the silence. Another man, asking after Florence Raines. Brightman? "Was this was an older man… still vigorous, a big fellow, but—"
"No. He wasn't like that at all. This man was short, with red hair. I remember what he looked like."
I shook my head. "Then I don't know him."
Except I did… it was the red-haired ghost who'd flitted through Brightman's house while I was looking through his study.
"Well," the Reverend said, "let me tell you what I told him. Leave her alone. Let her rest in peace. If she sinned, her sins were paid for long ago."
"Reverend—"
But now he smiled and held up his smooth, pink palm. "Really, that is all I have to say. The church is closed, but if you wish…? No… Well then, I'll say good night." And he turned, his plastic raincoat stiffly rustling, and headed down the path.
Standing there, soaked despite my umbrella, I watched him go; and as he disappeared around the corner, that odor of ancient fear came back more strongly. Another man who knew Florence Murdoch's secret… or was it hers at all? Poor Florence: she'd presumably been a patient of eager, idealistic Dr. Charlie. Still standing there, getting soaked, I swore softly under my breath. How shrewdly the old man had lied. In journalism, you meet more than your share of professional liars, but I suppose nothing beats the inspired amateur. His cool had been breathtaking and I'd been taken in all the way. Let's not mince words, Mr. Thorne. We both know that money changed hands…
With another curse, I drew the umbrella tight against my head and slogged back to my car. It was full dark now; as I started the engine, the black night glimmered in the headlights and the rain flashed in the beams. There was no one about: the Reverend was gone, the road empty. Turning onto the highway, I put my foot down, impelled now by a sense of urgency that seemed fully justified by that odor of danger I couldn't dispel. I thought of May: she'd been afraid. Had she lied, like Grainger? And who was this other man burrowing into Florence Raines's past? Whatever I'd thought before, everything was different now; everything had changed before that black woman's grave.