THE WINDOW IN THE VAULT
Pat Barnwell
I. The Mysterious Letter
The letter from my cousin Nicholas came as quite a shock at a time when I hardly needed another shock, having learned just the day before of the unexpected death of my father in an automobile accident. While struggling with waves of grief and despair as I made arrangements for father's funeral, the sound of my door buzzer startled me so badly that I jumped from my chair. Wondering what could be next, I opened the door to find myself facing my postman. Why would he be here this late in the day? Dusk was moving in. My eyes followed his nod to the clipboard in his hands.
"Special delivery. Certified letter. Your signature, please, sir."
I snatched the clipboard from his hands, perhaps a bit too roughly, impatient to see who had sent the letter. I recognized the name "Nicholas Candler" immediately, though I'd neither seen, nor thought of, my father's late brother's son in many years. I hadn't thought of him because my memories of him were far from pleasant. As cold as this might sound, I had chosen to forget him and wished he could have remained forgotten.
With a despondent sigh, I scrawled my name and thanked the postman. I waited until seated again and emotionally braced before opening the letter. I suspected Nicholas had already gotten wind of father's death, but couldn't imagine how, or why he'd be writing me now. Surely he wasn't foolish enough to expect an inheritance. I unfolded and read it.
September 21, 1937
Dear Nathan:
How are you? Grieving, I would expect. I know that Uncle Norman will have died by the time you read this. It will be our turn soon, yours and mine, unless we take action to prevent it. I must see you at the house as soon as possible. Please give me a call, and we'll arrange to meet there. I cannot stress too greatly the urgency of this meeting. Our lives are at stake, and much more. I'll explain all when I see you; please don't ask for details until then.
Respectfully,
Nicholas Candler, Jr.
(651) 336-6624
Of all possible messages I might have expected from Nicholas Candler, this did not remotely resemble any one. Was he insane? Did my grief-addled brain misunderstand the little he had said? How could he possibly have known that my father would die the day before this actually occurred? It was, however, not a natural death, but rather an accidental -- or apparently accidental -- one. And now Nicholas was saying he and I were to die also? How could that be? He seemed to be intimating that my father's death, then, was murder. Why? Norman Candler was not the sort of man who made enemies. I couldn't imagine him becoming involved in any sort of criminal or even questionable activity. Why would anyone want to kill him?....or to kill me? Frankly, though, it would not come as a surprise to me that Nicholas had made an enemy who would want to kill him. What had he done now? Was he responsible for my father's death...as he was for his own father's?
Anger and hatred rose within me. Nicholas Candler might be in greater danger of being murdered by my hand than by any other's, if, indeed, he had any involvement at all in my father's "accident".
I picked up the telephone and dialed the number in the letter. A woman's voice answered querulously, "H-hello? Candler residence."
"I must speak with Nicholas Candler. He's expecting my call."
"Your name, sir?"
"This is Nathan Candler, his cousin."
"I heard her whisper "Nathan", then a familiar but unwelcome male voice shouted, "Nicholas! It's so good to hear your voice!"
"I just read your letter. What is this all about?"
" I can't give you any more information yet. We have to meet at the house. State a date and time that's convenient for you, and I'll accommodate you."
Well, if he could be so readily available, most likely he was "between jobs" again.
"I'm in the midst of making arrangements for my father's funeral. I don't have time for games."
"Did you read my letter, Nicholas? I meant exactly what I said. This is not a game. When can you be at the house?"
"I told you, I can't..."
"You MUST. You won't regret it. You will, however, regret it very much if you fail to meet me there."
"Tomorrow, then. But in the evening. I don't suppose you'll be coming to the funeral..."
"Oh, yes. I fully intend to be there. Tomorrow evening, then. What time?"
"Nine? No, let's make it earlier. Eight."
"Eight it is. I'll see you then."
As I settled the receiver into its cradle, a loud "THUD" upon the wall beside me gave me another start. Lord, how much more would my heart withstand? What could have struck the side of the house with such force?
I ran to the door, flung it open and stared into the dark shadows that enveloped that wall. Something was amiss, but it took me a moment to grasp what was wrong. As my eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness, I could distinguish the shape of what appeared to be a fairly large portion of a shingled roof lying on the ground a few yards from the wall...but this was not from my own house. It appeared to be the type of roofing that was above the porches and balconies of our old family home....
II. At the House
I faced with courtesy and composure the friends and family members who came to my father's "viewing", although, in fact, there was nothing to view except for the closed casket, his injuries having been too great for the mortician's art to disguise. Perhaps that was better. I've always felt uncomfortable with the unnatural, paintlike facial makeup morticians apply to their male subjects, causing them to look artificial, doll-like rather than lifelike. As is usually the case with sudden and unexpected death, many people who had barely known and rarely seen father felt obligated to appear now and offer condolences, I supposed to assuage their feelings of guilt for not having shown their appreciation of him while he was yet alive. I patiently expressed my gratitude to these visitors and tried to chat amicably, but my attention continued to stray back to my extraordinary conversation with Nicholas, and the perhaps even more extraordinary phenomenon of the roof segment that had struck the side of my own house on an evening which was not in the least windy. I couldn't fathom how, but felt there must be some connection between the two incidents.
Weary but relieved upon the closing of the funeral home at 7:00 P.M., I climbed into my auto and began the journey to our family home. Concentrating on the road kept my mind occupied. Away from the bright street lights of the city, the forest-lined roads that led to the Candler Mansion, "Threnody", were dark and rugged, difficult to navigate in daylight, let alone after dark. Fortunately, having traveled them often while father occupied the house, I was familiar enough with their layout. I pitied the stranger who sought to find Threnody after nightfall. I suppose, though, that this must have been my grandfather's intent when he built there. Our then wealthy family's estate was surrounded by a depressed, uneducated, impoverished hill populace, and it was not unreasonable to take precautions against theft.
Through the trees I saw lights in the windows as my vehicle finally approached the building. This I hadn't expected; perhaps the caretaker had left them on for security; or perhaps Nicholas was already inside, though he should not have had keys to the property. If, indeed, Nicholas were there, I wanted to know how he had gained entry!
I parked clumsily beside the driveway, eager to get inside. I was shocked and angry to find the doorknob yielding even before I had placed my key in the lock. Who had left the front door open? If the caretaker had been so careless, he'd be looking for another position.
"Davis? Davis!! Nicholas? Who's here?"
Cold silence answered.
Only then did the possibility enter my mind that someone may have forcibly entered to commit robbery. Even if cash were not kept in the house, it was widely known that the Candlers were once wealthy and owned antiques and obets d'art of high quality. Indeed, might a burglar still be on the premises?
I very cautiously made my way down the entrance hallway, trying to make as little sound as possible while listening intently for sounds around me. I cautiously entered the library at the hall's end. I was startled by the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut. It hadn't occurred to me that the prowler might be lurking outside the house. I hadn't locked the door behind me.
"Who's there?" I demanded in the most forceful voice I could muster.
Only footsteps approaching answered. A head peered around the doorframe.
" I should have known you'd be early." Nathan remarked.
"Then it was you?! How did you get in here?"
"How did I get in here? I walked in. Did you forgot to lock the door, Nathan? Anyone could have strolled in."
"It was unlocked when I arrived, and the lights were on. God, then it wasn't you..."
"I just got here. Were there any other cars parked near the house?"
"I didn't see any vehicles...from the front...but I didn't search the premises. I...didn't think of that. I thought it was you."
"I don't have keys to the house, Nathan. Who would have entrusted keys to me?"
"And whose fault is it that we don't trust you, Nicholas?"
"That's what I'm going to explain to you tonight, Nicholas, if you can open your mind enough to hear what I have to say."
"I'll listen, but I won't blindly accept anything you tell me.
(ENTRY IN PROGRESS - TO BE CONTINUED)
Of
Table
of Contents 
NEXT STORY
