Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 151, Nos. 1 & 2. Whole Nos. 916 & 917, January/February 2018

Ghosts of Christmas Past by Elizabeth Elwood

Playwright and short-story writer Elizabeth Elwood is the author of five collections of short stories that constitute an ongoing series, the Beary mysteries. She was born in England but lives in Vancouver, Canada, where her debut story for EQMM is set. She is also artistic director of a company that creates marionette musicals.

It was the harshest winter Vancouver had seen in half a century, or so my taxi driver had told me. Still, at my age, half a century is nothing, and for me, the icy wasteland of the park was just as I remembered it. I had not walked through Jericho Beach Park since the Christmas of 1946, and then, as now, the rime-coated grass had crunched underfoot and battalions of indignant ducks had stood like statues, staring mutely from their ice-covered ponds. That Christmas was the turning point. It had begun so full of promise, but everything changed after the murder. My happy childhood memories had been destroyed by that one final memory.

So many years had passed since then. After that tragic Christmas, I had been whisked away to Ottawa, had grown up, spent my married life and later my widowhood there. Returning now was troubling. I had no idea why Aunt Maud had left Craigdarroch to me. Granted her son, George, had died, single and childless, in 1987, leaving me as her only living blood relative, but given the animosity between Maud and my mother, the legacy was a surprise. My aunt’s other properties and the rest of her fortune had gone to charity. Only the oceanside mansion had come to me. I would have to sell it, of course, once I had catalogued her papers and fulfilled the one condition she had stipulated. The house would be far too expensive for me to maintain, and I would certainly have no desire to live in it, even though it had seemed like a grand adventure when I had first been brought there as a child.

I should explain the family connection and why I had lived in Craigdarroch as a child. My mother, Edith Fergusson, and her older sister, Maud, were daughters of a wealthy lumber baron, proud of his Scottish heritage, who had built his Tudor-revival Point Grey mansion in 1911. I never knew my grandfather, for he died in 1937 when Maud was twenty-three and Edith was twenty-one. Maud had always taken a keen interest in the business, and she used the cash portion of her inheritance to buy out Edith, who was more than willing to off-load her share in the family home. My mother had no desire to become a slave to the industry that had provided the family wealth. She was pretty, charming, frivolous, and, I suppose, a little selfish, and she wanted to travel and have fun.

Mother headed for Europe, where, if the stories she told were true, she was the belle of the Riviera for a dozen blissful months until, with war threatening, she crossed the Channel to England. Here she met and married my father, a dashing RAF pilot who died in action in 1944. By then, Mother had gone through most of her money — her prewar year in Europe had included a protracted romp through the Paris salons and Monte Carlo casinos — and what hadn’t been spent on haute couture or lost at the tables appeared to have been badly invested. She was now facing an impoverished existence while raising a three-year-old daughter alone. Well aware that her sister’s sense of family pride would not allow any relative to live in squalor, she wrote to Aunt Maud and asked for help.

Predictably, my staid, reliable aunt had prospered. The lumber business was thriving under her leadership, and in 1941, at the age of twenty-seven, she had married Gerald Brent, a charming opportunist who worked for the company. In 1942, their son, George, was born. However irritated Aunt Maud was with her sister’s frivolous approach to life, she had a strong sense of duty, and she invited Mother to return to the family home. The cousins could grow up together, and Mother could assist with the running of the household. Maud’s sense of duty was laced with a firm determination to get her money’s worth. Domestic staff was not so easy to come by after the war, and other than Martha Durban, a cook-cum-housekeeper, who, with her chauffeur-gardener husband Alfred, lived in a suite over the former coachhouse, Craigdarroch was kept ship-shape by a variety of dailies. The only other live-in employee was George’s nanny, Hazel Swan, a pretty twenty-year-old who was the daughter of Aunt Maud’s manager at the lumber mill.

As I get older, flashbacks from my childhood occur more frequently than my more recent memories, and while I walked through the park, visions from the past came tumbling back. I was startled to realize how much I did remember of that earlier Christmas. Perhaps my memories were prompted by the sight of the three boys who were playing hockey on the frozen pond. A frisky black Labrador raced alongside, stealing their puck and skittering off the ice into the bushes on the shore. There had been children playing ice hockey on the Christmas Eve of 1946 when Uncle Gerald had taken me to the park, along with my cousin George. George and I had been wildly excited, having already seen the colorfully wrapped treasures that lay below the tree at the foot of the staircase in the grand hall. Mother was busy in the kitchen helping Martha make mince pies and other delicacies and Hazel had been given the day off, so Gerald had been assigned the task of keeping us out of mischief and ensuring that we did not interfere with the preparations for the morrow.

George and I were delighted to be passed into Uncle Gerald’s care. Maud was the disciplinarian of the family, but Gerald was fun. He would buy us treats and invent exciting games for us to play. George adored his father, and genial little boy that he was, never minded sharing his beloved daddy with me. The afternoon had been a delight. Gerald had produced a bag of sugar mice for us to share as we rode downtown in his Alfa Romeo. He called it his Golden Arrow and it seemed to us children that it flew like an arrow, for he drove with cavalier abandon, unlike the soberly cautious Alfred, who handled Aunt Maud’s stately Rolls Royce. Our destination that day was that treasure trove of seasonal delights, Woodward’s Department Store. There, we visited with Santa; then we trekked up to the top floor, where Uncle Gerald bought a Hazelle marionette for me, a Dinky Toys fire engine for George, and, most exciting of all, a sleigh for the two of us to share. The shopping expedition ended with hot chocolate and cake in the tearoom, after which we headed back to Jericho. It was bitterly cold at the park, but there had still been an hour of daylight, so Uncle Gerald had bundled us up with the extra woolens that Martha had thrust into the backseat as we were leaving the house; then he whipped his ice skates from the trunk of the car, tucked us on the sleigh, towed us to the pond, and raced around the ice, pulling us behind him and darting back and forth amid the hockey players. We had returned home breathless, red-cheeked, and gloriously happy.

We had been so carefree that Christmas Eve, just as the children on the ice appeared to me today. I wondered if there had been an elderly lady watching us all those years ago, someone bowed with the cares of life, but unnoticed by two children who were too full of the joys of the moment to consider that their happy state could ever be shattered.

A sharp pain in my side jarred me back to the present, an agonizing shaft that thrust from my ribs up into the side of my throat. It was a familiar pain that came whenever I allowed my thoughts to dwell too long on troublesome things. I took a deep breath, knowing I must stand still until it subsided. I turned away from the pond and stared out towards the smooth grey expanse of the ocean. The light was fading. The pale winter sky was taking on a dusky tinge, yet there was a streak of white reflecting the glowing lights that had silently materialized on the North Shore. The mountainside was pink in the sunset, and as the light diminished, the sea darkened into streaks of purple and black and an icy chill wafted towards the shore. The pain in my side had eased, but I was shivering with the cold and I became suddenly aware that the frigid air was silent. I turned and saw that the hockey players had left the ice. I was alone in the park. It was time to go.

I had told the taxi driver to drop me at the park because I had a longing to see the location that had provided the last happy moments before the tragedy. However, now it was time to face the house itself. Craigdarroch was only a block away, but I walked slowly. The sidewalk was icy, the black patches particularly treacherous, and I had no desire to fall. Had we cared all those years ago? Probably not. We would have raced along, slithering and sliding, our minds focussed on the treats to come and the presents under the tree. It was only with age that one started to worry about the fragility of one’s bones. By the time I reached the end of the block, the pale sky had turned to a lustrous indigo. The houses along the street sparkled with Christmas lights, brilliant against the night sky, but Craigdarroch loomed black against the luminescent void. There was only one light on in the house, and with no glowing windowpanes to indicate occupancy, Craigdarroch took on a sinister hue.

The wrought-iron gates at the edge of the property stood open. The driveway was poorly lit, so I made my way slowly to the front steps. Using the dim light from the lantern above the portico, I pulled out the key that had been passed to me by the fussy solicitor who had served Aunt Maud for the past quarter century. Then, bracing myself, I climbed the steps, opened the front door, and stepped inside.

The huge chandelier that I remembered from my childhood still loomed dimly overhead, but the only light reflected in its crystals was from the wall sconces which enclosed the hall in an eerie mingling of golden circles and forbidding shadows. I was not surprised to see the furnishings and decor unchanged. Aunt Maud had moved to a palatial West Vancouver property in 1948, but had stubbornly refused to sell Craigdarroch, knowing that the scandal would automatically depreciate its value. Instead, she held on to it as a guesthouse for business associates, and whatever renovating she had done had simply been to keep the house in good repair. There had been no attempt to modernize or alter the style set in place by my grandfather. The Benares brass umbrella stand was still in place by the door. The same oak gateleg table stood in the alcove behind the grand staircase, my grandfather’s ghastly painting of the stag at bay on the wall above it, and his two carved wooden chairs — my mother had referred to these as his penance chairs — sat on either side. It was a depressing scene, as is any empty house past its prime, but what a change from the Christmas of 1946.

When George and I had burst through the door after our afternoon with Uncle Gerald, the hall had exploded with light. The chandelier glittered and sparkled, the Christmas tree glimmered with what seemed a thousand tiny bulbs, light beamed in from the open doorways of adjacent rooms, and the gallery high above was lined with lanterns that made the colors of the paper chains appear fluorescent. The living-room radio was on and I could even remember what had been playing. “Deck the Halls” had heralded our entrance and George and I had joined in, singing at the top of our voices. Did I really recall all those details or was I simply creating memories from what I’d been told? How much was garnered from later years, when, as an adult, I came across a chapter about the case in a true-crime book and read about my own contribution to my uncle’s death. I could never be sure, but as I stared around the drab, empty hall, the events of that day swept back with the clarity of a film unrolling before my eyes.

As soon as we’d come home, Uncle Gerald had disappeared, his duty over. I remember racing into the kitchen to see what my mother was doing. George and I licked the bowls clean and sampled the almond macaroons until we were shooed away by Martha. Aunt Maud emerged from the living room, her program over, sternly telling us that dinner would be an hour from now and that we were to go upstairs to the nursery and play quietly until then. Maud, believing children should be seen and not heard, had relegated the entire top floor — once the domain of household staff in the days when servants had lived in — to a nursery that included a big playroom, surrounded by bedrooms for me, George, and his nanny, Hazel, who, Aunt Maud informed us, was back from her day out. Maud, having issued this directive, had gone upstairs to change for dinner.

Being enclosed in our rooms did not appeal to us in the least, and having shaken and inspected our presents for the umpteenth time, we decided to play hide and seek. This was a challenging game in a four-story mansion with twenty-six rooms, an attic, and both front and back staircases to explore. When it was my turn to hide, I ran upstairs, deliberately pounding my feet on the treads so that George would hear my ascending footsteps as he hid his eyes and counted to one hundred. The gallery ran the width of the grand hall, but two corridors opened off from it, the first one leading to the suite occupied by my aunt and uncle, and also to the carpeted stairway to the upper floor where the nursery was located. The second corridor ran the length of the house and ended at the back stairs. Given Aunt Maud’s irritation if our games became too boisterous, George and I rarely ventured into the corridor that led to her room. The doors opening off the other corridor led to the bathroom, a rarely occupied guest room, my mother’s room, and opposite her door, Uncle Gerald’s study. The latter was part of his and Aunt Maud’s self-contained suite, but it acted as a buffer between us and my easily irritated aunt, so George and I always used the second corridor and the back stairs when going up and down to our rooms.

There was another reason that I had preferred the narrow back stairway with its linoleum treads and plain panelled walls. There was something sinister about the silence of our footfalls on the carpeted stairway by Aunt Maud’s suite and I was frankly terrified of the painting on the landing at the top. Who but Aunt Maud would have a depiction in oils of Andromeda Chained to the Rock at the entrance of the floor where the children of the family bedded down? Hazel had tried to reassure us, telling us the story of Perseus and how he rescued Andromeda, but I still hated the painting. The maiden’s terror and the horrific head of the serpent rising from the sea was enough to induce nightmares in any impressionable child. The bare walls of the backstairs were infinitely preferable to a sensitive young girl of little more than four years.

I had intended to run along the corridor and down the back stairs so I could hide in the mud-room closet by the back door. But when I reached the gallery I heard voices. I looked along the corridor and saw Uncle Gerald standing outside his room. Hazel was with him. Her gleaming golden head lay on his shoulder, and even from where I stood, I sensed that she had been crying. My uncle’s arms held her tightly and as she raised her head, he bent and kissed her. Then, still with his arm around her shoulder, they turned towards the gallery.

Anxious to avoid them seeing me and telling George where I had gone, I backtracked to the first corridor, quietly tiptoed past Aunt Maud’s door, and ran up the stairway to the top floor. From there, I could run to the back stairs and descend two flights instead of one to reach my destination in the mud room. I remember my flight up the carpeted stairway, for my steps on the thick carpet were silent and I was trying really hard to look at my feet and not see the painting on the landing. I reached the top, still with eyes averted from the wall, and was about to race past the landing.

The scream came out of nowhere. My head jerked up, startled, and my eyes lit on the painting. The terrible cries continued, and to my child’s eyes, it was Andromeda who was screaming and the serpent was coming closer and closer. I think I might have been screaming too, echoing those horrifying cries from downstairs. I remember nothing beyond that.

I learned the facts of the case much later. Hazel’s scream as she fell to her death had been cut off abruptly as she hit the tessellated floor of the hall, but poor George’s screams as he uncovered his eyes and saw what had happened to his pretty young nanny were heard throughout the entire household. My aunt came running down from her room, and my mother raced out from the kitchen. Martha had slipped over to the coach house to get one of her own platters to augment the household supply, but she had come back in time to hear George cry out and was right behind my mother as they burst into the hall. However, it was a few minutes before Uncle Gerald came downstairs. He arrived to find my mother and Martha comforting George, and Aunt Maud calling for an ambulance. My absence was not noticed until George had been calmed and whisked away to the coach house with Martha. When my mother realized I was nowhere to be found, she and my uncle searched the house. They found me curled up in the nursery cupboard. My hands were over my ears. It took them fifteen minutes to coax me out. Everything after that was blank, except that in the days that followed I vaguely recall that strangers came to the house and asked me questions, and I had a feeling of discomfort as if, somehow, I had been bad and the sorrow that afflicted the house was my fault. This feeling was reinforced when I realized that my mother and I were to leave Craigdarroch forever.

My mother, of course, gave me a sanitized version of events to explain why we were moving. She explained that Aunt Maud and George were upset because Uncle Gerald had to go away, and it was better for them to be alone while they mourned his departure. Once back in Ottawa, my mother remarried, a kindly man who conscientiously concerned himself with my welfare and raised me as his own daughter. My mother settled down, and it was as if her frivolous, romantic side had never existed, for the tragedy had had a sobering effect on all who had witnessed it. Mother never talked about Hazel’s death. In fact, she refused to say much about that period in Vancouver at all, and if asked, she would mutter that there was no sense in talking about ghosts from Christmas past. I was too busy with my own life to be more than marginally curious about events that my parents deemed unworthy of discussion, and although I was vaguely aware that there was a breach between my mother and my aunt, I gave the issue little thought. Life continued smoothly until my eighteenth year, when my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Throughout her illness she continued to be silent about those early years in Vancouver, but shortly before she died, she wrote to my aunt. I had a sense that she hoped for a reconciliation, but to my knowledge, my aunt never replied. Still, perhaps this belated legacy was the result of that letter. Who could tell?

It was not until I was twenty-two and engaged to a solidly respectable bank clerk that I learned about the events that followed Hazel’s death. Two years after my mother died, I came across a book of Vancouver historical murders and found our family tragedy analyzed in detail by an ambitious young writer who was skilled at finding topics that would ensure Canada Council grants to further her literary aspirations.

Reading about the case was disconcerting, because changes in perspective change what you see, and my perspective as an adult enabled me to understand nuances that had bewildered me as a child. It was like seeing an old movie years after a first viewing and finding my reaction so different that I could almost believe it was a different version from the film I had seen before. I had no recollection of being interviewed by the police, but there in print were the words of the little girl that I had been. Then I knew why my mother had taken me away and why she had been haunted by the tragedy. It had been my testimony that had sent Uncle Gerald to the hangman. The kindly police inspector had asked me if I had seen my uncle hurt Hazel and I had replied: “He wouldn’t have hurt her. He liked her. I saw him hug and kiss her.”

Genial Uncle Gerald. As a child, the phrases that described him had soared right over my head: Maud’s one indulgence in an otherwise sober life; a philandering charmer; a ladies’ man who knew which side his bread was buttered. But this time he had been caught out. Hazel, it transpired, had been to her doctor on her day off and he had confirmed that she was expecting a child. She had come home to tell Gerald the news and ask him what she should do. That was the scene I had witnessed in the hallway. Gerald’s response, so he informed the police, had been to reassure her that he would take care of her. He told her to dry her eyes, go downstairs, and act as if nothing was wrong. Then he had ushered her towards the stairway and gone back into his room. His delay in appearing when the screaming began was, he insisted, only because he had been in the small lavatory that adjoined his study.

Aunt Maud, however, was unable to confirm that her husband had come into their suite since she had been in her own room and had left via the door into the far hallway. When my own innocent testimony had been added to the statement of the doctor, along with another damning account from Hazel’s best friend, who knew all about the affair, the police drew their own conclusions: that Gerald had indeed comforted Hazel and directed her to go downstairs, but when he ushered her to the stairway, he had followed and pushed her to her death. It had been a callous, brutal crime to cover up his indiscretion. Aunt Maud, the article stated, had been stoic at the trial. Her only comment after it ended was: “His father was an irresponsible rake. I should have known better than to marry him. Blood will tell.”

When I read that last sentence, I knew that the writer had not invented my aunt’s callousness, for I remember my mother telling my stepfather how Maud used those words to dismiss anyone who failed to live up to her rigid expectations. My mother had a temper that could blaze instantly if something upset her, but once over, the quarrel would be forgotten. However, Aunt Maud’s unwavering calm concealed a cold fury that boded ill for anyone who had caused her grief. Censoriousness was in my aunt’s nature, and once Gerald had so publicly let her down, she had no qualms about letting him pay for his folly. The jury only took an hour to return with their verdict. And still protesting his innocence, my uncle went to the gallows.

I remember feeling a deep sorrow when I read the article and realized what had happened. Although I had only distant memories of those early years, somehow the figure of my uncle was associated with happiness and pleasure. Something of his personality must have been firmly imprinted on my mind, for two years later, I broke my engagement to the bank clerk and married a handsome airline pilot who had the same sparkling eyes and sense of fun as my uncle. Like Maud, I was to discover later that, for all that my husband could inspire passion in me, he was able and willing to inspire it in others as well. However, I was more like my mother than my aunt, and forgiveness was in my nature. Unlike Maud and Gerald, we had managed to weather the one really rough patch that had threatened our marriage and we had soldiered on until cancer claimed my husband in late middle age.

I took a deep breath, suppressed the wave of memories, and brought my mind back to the present. There was a condition to my inheritance that had to be met, and the sooner I dealt with it, the sooner I could sell Craigdarroch and guarantee myself a comfortable old age back in Ottawa where I belonged. The solicitor had informed me that Maud had arranged for her papers and diaries to be left for me in the study, and my task was to collate and catalogue these before donating the files to the historical society.

The study was at the back of the main floor, overlooking the water, although when I entered, I saw that the drapes were closed, blocking what would be a stunning view in daylight. The room smelled musty, which was hardly surprising given that the boxes piled in the corner contained diaries and letters from ten decades. There were eight large boxes, a lot of work to be sure, but not an overwhelming task. Some of it might be quite interesting, though much was probably dry company records. I estimated that the task would take me at least two weeks, but no more than four. I would not stay at the house, though. My hotel was comfortable and far more cheerful. I would come in each morning and work through the day, treating Craigdarroch as no more than an office. I would start tomorrow.

I turned to go, but my eyes lit on Maud’s desk and I saw an envelope there with my name on it. This I could examine before leaving. I picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside was another envelope, addressed to Maud but with a handwritten note along the lower edge: This was your mother’s last letter to me. With a thrill of curiosity mixed with an underlying sense of disquiet, I pulled the letter from the envelope and started to read.

Now that I have so little time left, I have to let you know the truth of what happened all those years ago, for the events of that terrible day have haunted me all my life. Dear Maud, you were always so good to me, and how I let you down. I know you think me selfish, but you are so strong and cannot understand the frailty of someone like myself. It was kind of you to provide a home for us after my husband was killed in action, and I had wanted it to work out for us all. I hadn’t meant to fall in love with Gerald, but it was as if a fever had taken hold of me. I couldn’t resist him, but even though our affair started soon after I moved in with you, we took every precaution to ensure that no one else knew and that you never found out. I truly believed that Gerald was as helplessly in love as I was, but, of course, I was every bit as vain as that foolish young nanny whose head was already being turned by his flattery. Gerald’s interest in me waned, at first imperceptibly, but I could tell things were not the same. By Christmas Eve, I was certain that he had transferred his affections to her, and when I saw through the open kitchen door that he had followed her up the back stairs, I resolved to go after them. Martha had gone to the coach house, so no one saw me leave the kitchen. I went quietly up the back stairs and when I reached the landing, I paused, for I could hear their voices in the hallway.

Maud, he told her he was intending to leave you. I heard him assuring her that they were going to be together for always. If I had been thinking rationally, I would have known that he was only trying to buy time, for in retrospect, I realize that however charming Gerald was, he was utterly unscrupulous. But I didn’t think. I was consumed with rage, furious that he would leave you, not for me, but for that silly young girl who was going to bear his child. I was mad with jealousy and hated Hazel with the core of my being. At that moment, I could have killed them both, but by the time I came into the hall, Gerald had stepped back into his room and closed the door. Hazel was approaching the stairway, and in a blind rage, I hurried after her and shoved her as she reached the top of the stairs. The moment I had done it, I was horrified, but frightened too. I ran to the back stairs and rushed down. I heard George screaming and knew I had to come into the front hall, for it would look strange if I ignored his cries. As I passed the kitchen, Martha came through from the back door and followed me down the passage. She assumed I had come from the kitchen, and we both hurried over to settle George down. You were already there checking to see if there was anything that could be done for Hazel, but even as you called for the ambulance, I think we all realized that she was gone. Will you ever forgive me, Maud? If you do so, it will mean you have forgiven yourself, for you could have saved him. If you had told the police that you had seen Gerald enter your suite before that first terrible scream, Hazel’s death would have been declared an accident. But I think your anger was as great as mine, and we both let him go to his death. Will you forgive me, Maud? I wonder if it is in your heart to do so.

With trembling fingers, I returned the letter to its envelope and tucked it inside the one addressed to me. I knew the answer to my mother’s final question. Maud had never forgiven her. My aunt’s response had been to reveal the truth to the one person my mother would have wanted to remain in ignorance. Knowing how my aunt calculated everything in dollars and cents, I realized that my legacy was her perverted way of compensating for the body blow she was delivering to my peace of mind. However, it had been left for me to decide whether or not my mother’s crime would be made public. I was in charge of the records. I could exonerate my uncle at the expense of my mother’s memory, but only if I wanted to do so. It was my choice. On the one hand, a gift; on the other hand, a mean little goad to twist my conscience and punish me for my own role in the events all those years ago. I had been too young to be blamed, but still a little rancor would have lingered, and after all, I was my mother’s daughter.

The pain gripped my side again and I took a deep breath, willing it to subside. I knew I had to get out of the house. I would call for a cab once I was on the street. My hand was still shaking as I flicked off the study light and stepped through to the hall.

The moon had come up, and a pallid beam filtered through the sidelight by the front door. The shaft washed out the golden circles of the sconces and cast a garish streak of yellow on the edge of the Benares brass umbrella stand before alighting on the tessellated floor where Hazel had fallen seventy years ago.

Determined to escape the oppressive miasma that permeated the house, I went out the front door and locked it behind me. Then, still breathing slowly, I walked down the flagstoned pathway. The pain was gradually subsidizing, and I stopped for a moment to look up at the moon. Its pale face was creased into a crooked, ironical smile, and as I stood there, quietly staring upwards, the ache in my chest ceased. I suddenly realized that I was still clutching the envelope. I opened my handbag, slipped it inside, and firmly closed the clasp. My mother’s secret would remain with me.

With my spirit finally calmed, I walked out onto the street and was warmed by the friendly blaze of Christmas lights from the adjacent homes. I took my cell phone from my handbag and called for a cab. Then I turned my back on Craigdarroch and waited for my taxi to arrive. Aunt Maud had shaken my peace of mind with her strange legacy, but I was beginning to realize that she had also delivered a release.

My charming but flagrantly unfaithful husband had only once allowed his liaisons to jeopardize our marriage. Our Hazel had been a neighbouring divorcée who used our children’s friendship as an excuse to book an adjoining campsite for three consecutive years when we took our annual holiday. She had smiled sweetly and pretended to be my friend, while all the time continuing a torrid liaison with my husband. I had struggled with feelings of guilt ever since I had given way to an impulse borne of rage and jealousy and pushed her into the turbulent waters of the Sydenham River, but now I felt a kind of absolution. My act was somehow predetermined and beyond my control.

Maud had been right when she had said that blood will tell. I was her living proof. I was my mother’s daughter, in all her strengths and weaknesses — and my mother’s ghosts from Christmas past had finally laid my own ghosts to rest.