Entombed

28

"Our head groundskeeper, Mr. Phelps, tells me you made his acquaintance at the gorge the other evening, is that right?" Zeldin asked.

At the prearranged time, Sinclair Phelps had knocked on the door of Zeldin's office to take him down to a minivan that had been specially fitted with a ramp for his wheelchair.

"Yes, we've met," I said, greeting the groundskeeper and introducing him to Mercer.

"Tell them, Sinclair. They don't seem to believe I hadn't heard of the doctor's unfortunate drowning by the time I left my office on Tuesday."

"If there's any question of that, Mr. Chapman, I'm the one who made the notifications," Phelps said. "The only call I made, other than to nine-one-one, was to the director of the gardens. He cautioned me himself not to tell any of the staff until the police investigators left the park."

Phelps was wheeling Zeldin to a large elevator, which delivered us all to the ground floor. "You're welcome to leave your car here and drive with us in the van."

"Where are we going?" Mike asked.

"To the snuff mill, Detective," Zeldin said, laughing. "It's the unofficial headquarters of the Raven Society, for the time being."

The wheelchair locked in place in the rear of the van. Mike sat in the front passenger seat with Mercer and me behind him. "Snuff what?"

"If you go back to the seventeen-forties, Detective, six hundred acres of this prime country real estate was owned by the Lorillard family. Pierre Lorillard was a French Huguenot who settled in this part of Westchester and began his tobacco industry in Lower Manhattan. But he moved it here, to this very site, to take advantage of the swift flow of the river just below the gorge.

"Yes, this was all Lorillard land when Poe came here on his peregrinations, isn't that right, Phelps?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sinclair's been here about as long as I have. It's thanks to his conspiratorial nature that I've been able to give a home to the society's papers."

"You like Poe, too?" Mike asked.

"No, sir. Not particularly. I like Zeldin, though. And the mill is too handsome not to put to some use." Phelps didn't smile. I figured that was a good thing because the cracks in his weathered skin looked as though they would split open like an eggshell if they moved at all.

"Tobacco was actually milled here?" I asked.

"Yes," Phelps said. "The waterfalls you saw the other night, they're what powered the tobacco mill in the eighteenth century. That's the only reason the Lorillards' business could thrive here. There are no other falls in New York City. The first botanical plantings in this area were rose gardens. That was purposely so the rose petals could be used to add scent to the snuff."

"And to think the Bronx always gets such a bum rap," Mike said. "What's over there?"

The road curved and on our right was an enormous Victorian structure, crisp white paint outlining its form against the powder blue sky, countless glass windowpanes reflecting the rare February sun.

"That's our conservatory," Zeldin said. "It's the largest crystal palace in America. You must come back and allow us to guide you through it. It's full of the world's most exotic plants, set out like an ecotour in its eleven galleries."

"Pretty spectacular greenhouse," Mike said.

"The first one was built in London-Palm House, at Kew, Detective-for Queen Victoria and her royal gardens. The idea was to construct these enormous, shimmering structures, allowing all sorts of tropical and rare gardens to be under one roof, exposed to the sunlight. Remarkable sight, isn't it?"

"I remember coming here as a child, but I thought it had been closed," I said.

"Just reopened a few years back, with twenty-five million dollars worth of improvements. This treasure was built in 1901. In fact, a few of them were erected-I guess the most famous was at the Chicago World's Fair. But as large as they seem, they're extremely fragile."

The gleaming cupola of the rotunda was the centerpiece of the structure, with long transparent arms stretching out on both sides.

"That's one entire acre beneath that roof," Zeldin said. "Seventeen thousand panes of glass hold it together, each one specially made to fit in the curves of the old iron frame."

The van wound around the vast grounds of the gardens, stripped now of all the colorful flowers and plants that would blossom again in another couple of months. Within minutes, we had left all the buildings behind and appeared to be driving through a rambling countryside that more closely resembled the foothills of the Berkshires than an urban park. Ahead for as far as I could see were thick stands of trees, which looked as chillingly foreboding as they had when we drove in a couple nights back to visit the scene of Ichiko's death.

"Into the woods?" Mike asked.

"This is the only remaining native forest in New York City," Phelps said.

"I didn't even know there was one."

"Fifty acres' worth. It's a first-growth, mixed-hardwood forest. This is what most of the Bronx looked like when the Europeans arrived," he said.

"What are the trees?"

"Hiawatha and his hemlocks," Zeldin said. "Don't you remember your Longfellow poems, Miss Cooper? The most common tree throughout these low hills of the Bronx is hemlock, and we've got all that's left of them."

"Did Poe use…?" Mercer began.

Zeldin interrupted before he could finish. He delighted in showing off his unique mastery of Poe and the local flora. "Hemlock appears in only one story. It's called 'Morella.' But in his letters, as I told you, he wrote often about walking in this very forest."

We crossed over a bridge and stopped before a handsome stone building, two stories high and covered with ivy, which appeared to be a meticulously restored structure from the early nineteenth century.

I stepped out of the car and the only thing I heard to break the silence in the snow-carpeted forest was the running water of the river directly below us.

Phelps opened the rear of the van and lowered Zeldin's wheelchair down the ramp. We followed them to a dark green wooden door of the old mill at the back of the building, fronting the river. This was a third floor, below ground level, which wasn't visible from the approach on the roadway. Phelps unlocked the combination that hung on the hinge and turned on the lights as we entered.

"The administration hasn't really figured out how to use this building," Zeldin said. "Frankly, after the Palace, I think it's the structural gem of the whole institution. So for the meantime, the upstairs is almost like storage space for the garden's library, but Phelps has helped me outfit this area for the Raven Society."

One-half of the basement was a large open space. It was furnished with several oversized sofas and armchairs that looked as though they had come from the Salvation Army. The other side was a series of small rooms set up like a small office suite. The entire wall was ringed with bookshelves. An assortment of ravens in all shapes and sizes-stuffed birds, porcelain ones, and carved ebony figures-were mounted on every flat surface.

"Is this where you meet?" I asked.

"Rarely. But this is the repository for all our documents and research. Some members just enjoy coming here for the ambiance. Sitting in a comfortable chair, gazing out at the forest, and reading a good book."

"And the members just come and go as they like? They all have the combination to this lock?" Mercer asked.

"We're fortunate that Phelps lives here."

"Here, in the snuff mill?" Mike asked.

"No, no," the groundskeeper said. "Did you see the carriage houses we passed before we reached this building? I live in one of those."

I had noticed three buildings, smaller than the mill but in the same old style with wooden gables over the door and windows.

"Obviously, people can only come here to the mill on the days the gardens are open," Zeldin said, "because the entire perimeter of the park is gated, of course. But that's most of the year, except for major holidays. And yes, members are free to come and go from these rooms as they please."

He rolled into the first alcove and beckoned us to follow. Once inside the office, Zeldin steadied himself on the edge of the desk and hoisted his body out of the wheelchair. For the several minutes it took him to open a file cabinet and remove the papers we had asked for, he balanced against the desktop.

I watched Mercer and Mike staring at him, knowing they were trying to determine the strength of his legs and the extent of his movement to figure whether he was capable of playing a role in any of the recent crimes. But Zeldin lowered himself back into the chair before any of us could gauge his mobility.

"Here's what you've asked for, Detective. The list of our members," he said. "You may have that copy, and I trust you'll treat them kindly."

Mike put the papers on the desk and I leaned in next to him to read with him. The pages were divided by cities, and I quickly scanned the out-of-towners for familiar surnames, finding none. Baltimore, Boston, Philadelphia, Richmond-most of them lived in places where Poe had also spent time. The rest of the members lived in New York City. Other than Zeldin, I was disappointed to see that there was not a name I recognized.

Mike turned to the last paper, which was headed with the initials PNG. We both stared at one of the names that jumped out at us. "Help me here," Mike said to Zeldin. "Who are these guys?"

" PNG? Personae non grata, Mr. Chapman. Not everyone in the group knows the institutional history as well as I do, Detective. There are some people who might try to reapply to the society after old-timers like myself are no longer alive. This is to make sure certain people never enter our fold."

Mike pulled out the desk chair and sat down. "I'd like to start right here, if you don't mind. Why is Noah Tormey on this list?"