O' Artful Death - By Sarah Stewart Taylor Page 0,101

this was the stone that was to mark her grave. He had been working feverishly at it for the weeks before they were to leave and toward the end, as he was finishing it, J.L.B. was in such a hurry that he forgot to sign it.

It was such an incredible, fantastical story that by the time I returned to the house, I could scarcely believe it had not been a dream and I sat down immediately to write these words, in order to convince myself.

September 3, 1890

Today, Mary Denholm’s very odd gravestone was put in place down in the little island cemetery. We were quite an odd party watching its installation and her parents looked embarrassed by it, as though it were a monstrosity. Afterward, I heard G. and Louis Denholm saying something about a piece of land and when I asked M. about it, he said that Louis Denholm had been trying to get G. to buy a worthless strip of land between the two properties for years and that now it looked as though he would have to do it, to secure Mr. Denholm’s silence.

M. and G. have once again implored me to be silent on the subject of J.L.B. and Miss Mary Denholm and I have decided to tear these pages from my diary in order to keep them from being read by unintended eyes. I shall keep them in a secret hiding spot, should I ever need proof of these events.

“Ruth Kimball didn’t know,” Sweeney said, thinking out loud. “At least I don’t think she did. She believed that one of the artists had killed Mary.”

“Ethel might not have known,” Ian said.

“You’re right. The parents probably wouldn’t have told her. But I think she must have picked up on something, thought there was something odd about her cousin’s death, and I think she must have talked to her granddaughter, Ruth Kimball, about her suspicions. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Well, once I’d figured this all out, I was a bit paralyzed. I thought if I could meet Mrs. Kimball and kind of see what the situation was, it would be easier to figure out what to do next. Then it got complicated, you see. After researching the family at the historical society, I realized that Ethel was a cousin, not a sister, and that Mary was the only direct descendant. I didn’t know if they knew this or not and I didn’t want them to think I was after their house or something. I don’t know. It seems so silly now, but I just thought that I should break it to them more, I don’t know, more gently. After Christmas.”

“And then Ruth Kimball died.”

“Exactly. And there seemed to be some suspicion about whether it was suicide. By then, I couldn’t come out with this big announcement, you know ‘Surprise! Mary wasn’t really dead. Hello! I’m your long, lost relative.’ ”

“God, it’s incredible. So what happened to Mary and Jean Luc? He was so talented. Why haven’t we ever heard of him?”

“He was talented. But his career seems to have ended when they moved back to Europe. I always had the idea that she became his art. It was a great love, you know. Unusual in those days. But, of course, they’d married for love, and they’d sacrificed much for it. He came into some family money and they were able to live on that. Mary, I’m afraid, wasn’t a very good poet, but they had this little medieval society and they put on plays and made little books and things. I have a few of them. What are we going to tell Patch and Britta?”

“I think we better keep it between us for now,” Sweeney said. “It might just muddy the waters.”

He nodded and they were both silent for a minute.

“So that’s that then,” he said. “You know my secret. Have you stopped thinking I’m a murderer?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “But what I can’t figure out is why you always seemed to be watching me. And why you went to Boston.”

“I thought—I think—that you’re interesting,” he said simply. “I was telling you the truth before. I had to go to Boston anyway and I just . . . I just wanted to see where you lived.” He was unashamed, and his open face made her shrink back as though she had seen something ugly or predatory there. He saw her do it and he stood up and went over to the fireplace, where he fiddled with a little