Instruments of Night by Thomas H. Cook Page A

here,the police investigation, everything that could be located, even the newspaper clippings from the time. I’ve also instructed Saunders to be available for interviews. Saunders can tell you a great deal about Riverwood. He’s sort of our unofficial historian.”
    Graves decided to mention the only name he’d come upon so far, look for a response as he knew Slovak would. “Saunders mentioned a young girl who came to Riverwood just after the war. Greta Klein. She was here the summer of the murder.”
    “She’s still here,” Miss Davies said. “Unfortunately, Greta hasn’t been in good health for the last several years. She stays in her room most of the time. I think Saunders is probably a considerably better source. He remembers everything. And as you’ve probably garnered, he doesn’t mind talking.”
    A second name occurred to him. “What about Mrs. Harrison? Faye’s mother. Would she talk to me?”
    “I hadn’t thought of that,” Miss Davies said. “But I suppose Mrs. Harrison might be helpful to you. She lives at a place called The Waves. It’s a home for elderly people just outside Britanny Falls. I can arrange for you to meet her, of course. As early as this afternoon, if you like.”
    Graves nodded, his eyes drifting over the top of the desk, where a green blotter had been placed, along with a stack of notepads and a tray of fine-point pens. But it was something other than these that drew his attention—a small silver frame that held a photograph of Faye Harrison.
    “Faye was only thirteen when I took this,” Miss Davies said as she picked up the photograph and handed it to him. “I thought you might glance up from your desk from time to time and see how lovely she was.” She smiled slightly. “It’s something Slovak does, isn’t it? He studies pictures of the victims, imagines the lives they might have had.”
    This was true enough, but Graves knew that there was arather serious problem with the way Slovak imagined the abruptly shortened lives of Kessler’s victims. In Slovak’s mind, the unjustly dead would always have had good lives, happy, fulfilled, brimming with achievement. Unlike real life, murder never saved them from something even worse.
    “I sometimes think of what she lost,” Miss Davies added. “The future she would have had. I suppose one always does that. It’s part of the curse, don’t you think? This sense of what might have been.”
    Graves glanced back down to the photograph. “In the pictures you sent me in New York, one of them is of Faye in front of a big rock. Was that Indian Rock, the place you thought of as a secret place?”
    “Yes, it was,” Miss Davies answered. “We’d gone for a walk in the woods that day.” She drew the picture from Graves’ hand and stared at it. “Faye was quite wise. Beyond her years. She understood life better than anyone I’ve met since.” She returned the photograph to the desk, then looked at Graves pointedly. “There was nothing naive about Faye.”
    Graves’ question came spontaneously, something thrown up by his own experience. “Then why would she have gone into the woods alone?”
    “I wish she hadn’t done that,” Miss Davies said brusquely. She seemed reluctant to go on, but forced herself to do so. “Faye came to the house that morning. The last one. She came to the front door. I’d been sitting in the dining room, when I heard my father and my brother talking in the foyer. I walked to the entrance of the dining room. You can see the front door from there. That’s when I saw Faye. Through that window by the door. She was wearing her blue dress. The one I’d given her for her birthday the year before. She saw me too. I know she did, because she gave a little nod. I think perhaps she wantedme to meet her at Indian Rock.” She shook her head. “I’ve often wondered what might have happened if I’d gone to the door. Or stepped outside to meet her. We might have gone into the woods together. Up to Indian