The Shape of Night(61)

    It’s time for me to learn the truth.

I empty my wineglass into the sink and climb the stairs, fully sober, to bed.





Twenty-Three


By noon the next day I am in my car driving south toward Cape Elizabeth, where Arthur Sherbrooke lives. He is the late Aurora Sherbrooke’s only living relative and the one person who probably knew her best—if, indeed, anyone really knew her. How many people, after all, really know me? Even my own sister, the person I love most, the person I’m closest to, does not know who I am or what I’m capable of. We keep our darkest secrets to ourselves. We keep them, most of all, from those we love.

I grip the steering wheel and stare ahead at the road, eager to focus on something else, anything else, besides Lucy. The history of Brodie’s Watch has been a welcome distraction, a dive down a rabbit hole that keeps me digging ever deeper into the lives and deaths of people I have never met. Do their fates foreshadow my own? Like Eugenia and Violet, Margaret and Aurora, will I meet my death under Captain Brodie’s roof?

    I have visited Cape Elizabeth once before, when I spent the weekend at the home of a college classmate, and I remember handsome homes and manicured lawns sweeping to the sea, a neighborhood that made me think if I ever won the lottery, this was where I’d retire. A tree-lined road leads to a pair of stone pillars where Arthur Sherbrooke’s address is mounted on a brass plaque. There is no gate barring my way so I drive down a road that winds toward a salt marsh, where a coldly modern concrete and glass house stands overlooking the reeds. The house looks more like an art museum than a residence, with stone steps leading through a Japanese garden to the front door. There a wooden sculpture of a fierce Indonesian demon stands guard—not the friendliest face to greet a guest.

I ring the bell.

Through the window, I spy movement, and the pebbled glass makes the approaching figure look like a spindly alien. The door opens and the man who stands there is indeed tall and lanky, with chilly gray eyes. Although Arthur Sherbrooke is in his early seventies, he looks as fit as a long-distance runner, and his focus is laser-sharp.

“Mr. Sherbrooke?”

“Professor Sherbrooke.”

“Oh, sorry. Professor Sherbrooke. I’m Ava Collette. Thank you for seeing me.”

“So you’re writing a book about Brodie’s Watch,” he says as I step into the foyer.

“Yes, and I have a ton of questions about the house.”

“Do you want to buy it?” he cuts in.

“I don’t think I can afford it.”

“If you know anyone who can, I’d like to get rid of the place.” He pauses and adds, “But not at a loss.”

I follow him down a black-tiled hallway to the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the salt marsh. A telescope stands at the ready, and a pair of Leica binoculars sits on the coffee table. Through the window I spot a bald eagle soaring past, followed by three crows in hot pursuit.

    “Fearless buggers, those crows,” he says. “They’ll chase away anything that invades their airspace. I’ve been studying that particular corvid family for ten generations, and they seem to get more clever every year.”

“Are you a professor of ornithology?”

“No, I’m just a lifelong birdwatcher.” He waves at the sofa, a haughty command for me to sit down. Like everything else in the room, the sofa is coldly minimalist, upholstered in stark gray leather that looks more forbidding than inviting. I sit facing a glass coffee table which is uncluttered by even a single magazine. The entire focus of the room is the window and the view of the salt marsh beyond.

He offers no coffee or tea but just drops down in an armchair and crosses his stork-like legs. “I taught economics, Bowdoin College,” he says. “Retired three years ago, and ironically enough find myself busier than ever. Traveling, writing articles.”

“About economics?”

“Corvids. Crows and ravens. My hobby’s turned into something of a second career for me.” He tilts his head, a movement that’s unsettlingly birdlike. “You said you had questions about the house?”

“About its history, and the people who’ve lived in it over the years.”

“I’ve done a bit of research on the subject, but I’m by no means an expert,” he says with a modest shrug. “I can tell you the house was built in 1861 by Captain Jeremiah T. Brodie. He was lost at sea over a decade later. Subsequent ownership passed through several families until it came to me thirty-some years ago.”

“I understand you inherited the house from your aunt Aurora.”

    “Yes. Tell me again how these questions are relevant to this book you’re writing?”

“My book is called The Captain’s Table. It’s about traditional foods of New England, and the meals that might have been served in the homes of seafaring families. My editor thinks Brodie’s Watch, and Captain Brodie himself, could serve as the focal point for the project. It would give the book an authentic sense of place and atmosphere.”

Satisfied by my explanation, he settles more deeply into his chair. “Very well. Is there anything specific that you’d like to know?”

“Tell me about your aunt. About her experiences living there.”