The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,358

talk to us, Aaron,” Scott said. “How could they? They kill people. It’s over. At least for now.”

“They always killed people, Scott,” I said weakly. “But Deirdre Mayfair doesn’t kill people. I want my diary.” The cramps became unbearable. The doctor came in and started to prepare me for an injection. I refused.

“Aaron, he’s the head of toxicology here, impeccable reputation. We’ve checked out the nurses. Our people are here in the room.”

It was the end of the week before I could return to the Motherhouse. I could scarcely bring myself to take any nourishment. I was convinced the entire Motherhouse might soon be poisoned. What was to stop them from hiring people to put commonplace toxins in our food? The food might be poisoned before it even reached our kitchen.

And though no such thing happened, it was a year before such thoughts left me, so shaken was I by what had occurred.

A great deal of shocking news came to us from New Orleans during that year …

During my convalescence I reviewed the entire Mayfair history. I revised some of it, including the testimony of Richard Llewellyn, and a few other persons I’d seen before I went to Texas to see Deirdre.

I concluded that Cortland had done away with Stuart, and probably with Cornell. It all made sense. Yet so many mysteries remained. What was Cortland protecting when he committed these crimes? And why was he engaged in constant battle with Carlotta?

We had in the meantime heard from Carlotta Mayfair—a barrage of threatening legal letters from her law firm to ours in London, demanding that we “cease and desist” with our “invasion” of her privacy, that we make “full disclosure” of any personal information we had obtained about her and her family, “that we restrict ourselves to a safe distance of one hundred yards from any person in her family, and any piece of family property, and that we make no effort whatsoever to contact in any way shape or form, Deirdre Mayfair,” et cetera, and so forth and so on ad nauseam, none of these legal threats or demands having the slightest validity.

Our legal representatives were instructed to make no response.

We discussed the matter with the full council.

Once again, we had tried to make contact and we had been pushed back. We would continue to investigate, and for this purpose I might have a carte blanche, but no one was going near the family in the foreseeable future. “If ever again,” Reynolds added with great emphasis.

I did not argue. I could not drink a glass of milk at the time without wondering if I was going to die from it. And I could not get the memory of Cortland’s artificial smile out of my mind.

I doubled the number of investigators in New Orleans and in Texas. But I also warned these people, personally by phone, that the objects of their surveillance were hostile and potentially very dangerous. I gave each and every one of our investigators full opportunity to refuse the job.

As it turned out, I lost no investigators whatsoever. But several raised their price.

As for Juliette Milton, our socialite undercover gossip, we retired her with an unofficial pension, over her protests. We did everything we could to make her sensible that certain members of this family were capable of violence. Reluctantly, she stopped writing to us, pleading in her letter of December 10, 1958 to understand what she had done wrong. We were to hear from her again several times over the years, however. She is still living as of 1989, in an expensive boarding house for elderly people in Mobile, Alabama.

DEIRDRE’S STORY CONTINUES

My investigators in Texas were three highly professional detectives, two of whom had once worked for the United States government; and all three were cautioned that Deirdre was never to be disturbed or frightened by what we were doing in any way.

“I am very concerned for this girl’s happiness, and for her peace of mind. But understand, she is telepathic. If you come within fifty feet of her, she is likely to know you are watching her. Please take care.”

Whether they believed me or not, they followed my instructions. They kept a safe distance, gathering information about her through the school offices and from gossiping students, from old women who worked the desk in her dormitory, and from teachers who talked freely about her over coffee. If Deirdre ever knew she was being watched, we never found out.

Deirdre did well in the fall semester at