Edith Nolan watched the cherries wobbling on Maud Welsh's hat as the
woman perched in the witness chair, a sparrow ready for flight. T. J.
Hunter purred and soothed. "Your occupation, Miss Welsh?"
"Guess you could say housekeeper." The voice was dry, brittle as the
woman's skin. Merciless morning light played on Maud's wrinkles; bad
judgment had tricked her into using dabs of make-up.
On her two visits to the Shanesville house, Edith had been aware of Maud
as not much more than a background flutter and squeak; Callista had
filled Edith in on the family history that explained her. Long ago, long
before Herb Chalmers and Callista's mother were married and while Herb's
father Malachi Chalmers was still alive, Cousin Maud had been asked to
come and keep house. She stayed. Father Malachi had been a Full
Professor, also a sort of _fin de siecle_ Great Man who wrote a book (or
something) and whose memory, Edith gathered, served as a squashy but
invincible paperweight holding down the remainder of Herb's polite life.
Maud Welsh had evidently done much to keep that memory functional. By
the power of the meek, and because she _was_ useful _and_ a cousin, she
just stayed, a small household tyrant given to vigorous church
attendance and good works, enlarging on the time when the Professor was
alive as a golden age to keep his degenerate son in line, dusting and
sweeping intensely at unseasonable hours, putting up interminable
preserves, and carrying on a picayune war with Victoria Chalmers, a war
of sniffles and grievances which (Callista said) both of them enjoyed so
much that there was never any serious question of sending Maud on her
way. In the cellar, said Callista, there were five six-foot shelves of
plum jam alone--Maud's atomic reserve. Anyhow, she raised quiet
Presbyterian hell if any of it was used. And Callista in the studio had
drawn a pen-and-ink of Maud lurking all alone underground in a
desolated world, grown obese (in garments meant for a thin woman) on a
thick diet of plum jam. Edith had said: "Oh, damn it, Cal, after all!"
and kept the sketch.
"Where are you employed at present, Miss Welsh?"
"Well, see, I'm kin to--"
T. J. Hunter showed half-amused worry wrinkles. "Just my question,
please. You know, limit your answers to the question."
"Oh, you did tell me that, didn't you? Well, I live in with the
Chalmerses, I mean Dr. and Mrs. Herbert Chalmers of Shanesville."
"Doctor--that's an academic degree, isn't it?"
"Uh--oh yes. A Ph. D." Her voice made it an ailment.
Hunter's morning sleekness annoyed Edith, who felt dowdy and unkempt
after a bad night. Aspirin, insomnia, a dripping faucet in the bathroom,
meaningless noises in the studio--probably mice.
"Is there a street number on the Chalmers house?"
"No, just Walton Road. Same's when The Professor was alive and we lived
in Winchester, all you had to say--"
"Yes, I understand. Just limit your answers, please."
"I'm sorry. I'll try."
Judge Mann also was dark under the eyes, as if his sleep had been poor.
He was not busy with his pencil. His ignoring of Hunter's wry glance was
perhaps a way of saying: She's your chicken. Callista, drooping and
still-faced, was again partly hidden by Cecil Warner, who looked a
little better this morning with a fresh shave. The flowers last night,
the rather elaborate too-expensive dining out, the antique
gallantry--very sweet of him, Edith thought, and in his idiom not at all
strange. He had wanted of course to talk about Callista, but at dinner
and later, after toiling upstairs to the studio for drinks and quiet, he
had hardly been able to, seeming happier when Edith carried the
conversation away to more impersonal regions.
Edith twisted in her seat, winning a timid nod from Herb Chalmers, a
calm glare from Victoria. Back of them was Jim Doherty, again with
Father Bland. Jim did not acknowledge her glance either, but probably
because he didn't see it, a man alone on an island and hurt, trying to
interpret contradictory voices in the wind. Edith twitched her skirt
back into place and settled herself to endure the first day of
testimony.
"Are your duties as housekeeper fairly general, Miss Welsh?"
"Might say so. I do everything but heavy cleaning, we have a woman on
Tuesdays for that. I cook, see to things."
"You go away on vacations?"
"Visit my sister in Maine two weeks every summer, two in the fall."
"You did so this year?"
"In June, not the fall. Because of the trouble, I thought I should stay,
couldn't do less."
"Were you in Shanesville on Friday, August 7th of this year?"
"The 7th--oh, the picnic. Yes, I was."
"No, limit your answers, _please_. I just want to verify your presence
on certain dates. Were you at Shanesville all day Sunday and Monday,
August 16th and 17th?"