certificate was presented to us, I paid the two dollars and we leaned over it eagerly, my eyes skidding past the name MEERLOO and down to the cause of death:
a
, it read,
intracranial hemorrhage; b, basalar skull fracture.
It was signed by Timothy Cox, M.D.
“
Not
pneumonia,” I said flatly. “
Not
heart attack.”
Joe shook his head. “Skull fracture.”
“Like maybe a blow on the head,” I said. “Joe, let’s get to the newspaper office and see if we can find an obituary.”
He nodded, and it surprised me how startled he looked. I suppose until now his interest had been spasmodic and academic and the thought of foul play unreal; he had come along only for the ride, so to speak, and to humor me. Now his attention had been wrenched away from me—I didn’t begrudge it for a moment—and was fastened upon five words on a certificate that couldn’t be lightly explained away by anyone who had read Hannah’s note. The possibility of a murder was just becoming real to Joe for the first time, I could actually see it happening.
The Anglesworth newspaper was on the main street, and its office so small that I was afraid they might not have files of back issues; but I was wrong: the officewas small but its basement ran under all the other shops in the building.
“You might as well come down with me if you’re doing some kind of research,” the woman clerk told us. “It’s a bit clammy down there but there’s a table for reading, and chairs; 1965, you said?”
“July 25, 1965,” I reminded her.
“Well, that’s easy enough, we’ve only microfilmed up to 1963. The newspaper,” she added in a pleased voice, “was founded in 1897.”
The Anglesworth
Tribune
was a weekly paper, which was disappointing, but it explained why the plastic-bound volume for 1965 could be easily carried to the table and deposited there by one person. The clerk went upstairs, and Joe and I eagerly opened the looseleaf jacket and riffled through the pages to May.
“Obituaries, obituaries,” I murmured, running my finger down the index on the first page of the July 28 issue.
Joe said in a strange voice, “You don’t have to look for the obituaries, Amelia.”
I followed his pointing finger to the headline on the first page of the
Tribune:
NOTED RESIDENT DIES IN BIZARRE ACCIDENT .
“Bizarre accident,” I repeated aloud. “Joe, it says bizarre accident.
They must have gotten away with it.
”
And then I saw the subheadline: “Hannah Gruble Meerloo, Philanthropist and Author, Dead at 40.”
My eyes were caught—trapped—by the word author and the word Gruble. Only with an effort did I wrench them free to skim the page, my heart literally pounding, my breath suspended … and there it was, down near the end of the column: “
in 1950 Mrs. Meerloo, using her maiden name of Gruble, published a book for young people entitled ‘The Maze in the Heart of the Castle,’ of which the New York
Times
wrote, ‘a small classic,a book for adults as well as children, full of enchantments and insights.’ It is the only book Mrs. Meerloo is known to have written.”
I whispered, “Joe, she’s H. M. Gruble—
my
Gruble. She
wrote
the book.”
“Take it easy for heaven’s sake,” Joe said. “You look as if you’re going to faint, Amelia. Are you all right?”
I just stared at him, my head spinning. No, not my head but the thoughts inside of it …
and so she went beyond the horizon into the country of the dawn.… If search you must then I can only give you this advice, the important thing is to carry the sun with you, because there will be a great and terrifying darkness … But I must clear up one detail, my dear young lady, that is not a hurdy-gurdy but a mere hand organ … They’re going to kill me soon—in a few hours I think … Look, whoever this is, she has to be dead now, which makes you some kind of a nut, doesn’t it?
and Amman Singh saying to me,
Trust the wind. Someday you will understand.
I said in
a
, it read,
intracranial hemorrhage; b, basalar skull fracture.
It was signed by Timothy Cox, M.D.
“
Not
pneumonia,” I said flatly. “
Not
heart attack.”
Joe shook his head. “Skull fracture.”
“Like maybe a blow on the head,” I said. “Joe, let’s get to the newspaper office and see if we can find an obituary.”
He nodded, and it surprised me how startled he looked. I suppose until now his interest had been spasmodic and academic and the thought of foul play unreal; he had come along only for the ride, so to speak, and to humor me. Now his attention had been wrenched away from me—I didn’t begrudge it for a moment—and was fastened upon five words on a certificate that couldn’t be lightly explained away by anyone who had read Hannah’s note. The possibility of a murder was just becoming real to Joe for the first time, I could actually see it happening.
The Anglesworth newspaper was on the main street, and its office so small that I was afraid they might not have files of back issues; but I was wrong: the officewas small but its basement ran under all the other shops in the building.
“You might as well come down with me if you’re doing some kind of research,” the woman clerk told us. “It’s a bit clammy down there but there’s a table for reading, and chairs; 1965, you said?”
“July 25, 1965,” I reminded her.
“Well, that’s easy enough, we’ve only microfilmed up to 1963. The newspaper,” she added in a pleased voice, “was founded in 1897.”
The Anglesworth
Tribune
was a weekly paper, which was disappointing, but it explained why the plastic-bound volume for 1965 could be easily carried to the table and deposited there by one person. The clerk went upstairs, and Joe and I eagerly opened the looseleaf jacket and riffled through the pages to May.
“Obituaries, obituaries,” I murmured, running my finger down the index on the first page of the July 28 issue.
Joe said in a strange voice, “You don’t have to look for the obituaries, Amelia.”
I followed his pointing finger to the headline on the first page of the
Tribune:
NOTED RESIDENT DIES IN BIZARRE ACCIDENT .
“Bizarre accident,” I repeated aloud. “Joe, it says bizarre accident.
They must have gotten away with it.
”
And then I saw the subheadline: “Hannah Gruble Meerloo, Philanthropist and Author, Dead at 40.”
My eyes were caught—trapped—by the word author and the word Gruble. Only with an effort did I wrench them free to skim the page, my heart literally pounding, my breath suspended … and there it was, down near the end of the column: “
in 1950 Mrs. Meerloo, using her maiden name of Gruble, published a book for young people entitled ‘The Maze in the Heart of the Castle,’ of which the New York
Times
wrote, ‘a small classic,a book for adults as well as children, full of enchantments and insights.’ It is the only book Mrs. Meerloo is known to have written.”
I whispered, “Joe, she’s H. M. Gruble—
my
Gruble. She
wrote
the book.”
“Take it easy for heaven’s sake,” Joe said. “You look as if you’re going to faint, Amelia. Are you all right?”
I just stared at him, my head spinning. No, not my head but the thoughts inside of it …
and so she went beyond the horizon into the country of the dawn.… If search you must then I can only give you this advice, the important thing is to carry the sun with you, because there will be a great and terrifying darkness … But I must clear up one detail, my dear young lady, that is not a hurdy-gurdy but a mere hand organ … They’re going to kill me soon—in a few hours I think … Look, whoever this is, she has to be dead now, which makes you some kind of a nut, doesn’t it?
and Amman Singh saying to me,
Trust the wind. Someday you will understand.
I said in
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