The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,316

in my sleeping car now.

“I shall post this as soon as I possibly can. And until such time, I shall carry the letter with me, on my person, hoping for what it’s worth that if anything happens to me the letter will be found.

“But as I write this I do not think anything will happen to me! It is over, this chapter! It has come to a ghastly and bloody end. Stuart was part of it. And God only knows what role the spirit played in it. But I shall not tempt the demon further by turning back. Every impulse in my being tells me to get away from here. And if I forget this for a moment, I have the haunting memory of Stuart to guide me, Stuart gesturing to me from the top of the stairs to go away.

“If we never talk in London, please pay heed to the advice I give you now. Send no one else to this place. At least not now. Watch, wait, as is our motto. Consider the evidence. Try to draw some lesson from what has taken place. And above all, study the Mayfair record. Study it deeply and put its various materials in order.

“My belief, for what it is worth at such a moment, is that neither Lasher nor Stella had a hand in the death of Stuart. Yet his remains are under that roof.

“But the council may consider the evidence at its leisure. Send no one here again.

“We cannot hope for public justice with regard to Stuart. We cannot hope for legal resolutions. Even in the investigation that will inevitably follow tonight’s horrors, there will be no search of the Mayfair house and its grounds. And how could we ever demand such a step be taken?

“But Stuart will never be forgotten. And I am man enough, even in my twilight years, to believe that there must be a reckoning—both for Stuart, and for Petyr—though with whom or with what that reckoning will be I do not know.

“I do not speak of retribution. I do not speak of revenge. I speak of illumination, understanding, and above all, resolution. I speak of the final light of truth.

“These people, the Mayfairs, do not know who they are anymore. I tell you the young woman was an innocent. I’m convinced of it. But we know. We know; and Lasher knows. And who is Lasher? Who is this spirit who chose to reveal his pain to me; who chose to show to me his very tears?”

Arthur posted this letter from St. Louis, Missouri. A bad carbon was sent two days later from New York, with a brief postscript, explaining that Arthur had booked passage home, and would be sailing at the end of the week.

After two days at sea, Arthur rang the ship’s doctor, complaining of chest pains and asking for a standard remedy for indigestion. A half hour later, the doctor discovered Arthur dead of an apparent heart attack. The time was half past six on the evening of September 7, 1929.

Arthur had written one more brief letter on shipboard the day before his death. It was in his robe pocket when he was found.

In it, he said that he was not well, and suffering from violent seasickness, which he hadn’t experienced in years. There were times when he feared he was really ill, and might not see the Motherhouse again.

“There are so many things I want to discuss with you about the Mayfairs, so many ideas going through my head. What if we were to draw off that spirit? That is, what if we were to invite it to come to us?

“Whatever you do, do not send another investigator to New Orleans—not now, not while that woman, Carlotta Mayfair, lives.”

Twenty-one

HE WAS KISSING her as his fingers stroked her breasts. The pleasure was so keen. Paralyzing. She tried to lift her head. But she couldn’t move. The constant roar of the jet engines lulled her. Yes, this is a dream. Yet it seemed so real, and she was slipping back into it. Only forty-five minutes until they landed at New Orleans International. She ought to try to wake up. But then he kissed her again, forcing his tongue very gently between her lips, so gently yet forcefully, and his fingers touched her nipples, pinching them as if she were naked under the small woolen blanket. Oh, he knew how to do it, pinch them slowly but hard. She turned more fully towards the window,