Through the Looking Glass by Lovesfox Headers in Prologue Part 15 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Diary of Liza MacGregor December 5, 1912 My own health continues to worsen. I must find a way to meet with Esther Marie, to tell her about the mirror and its curse. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Collingsworth Residence W. Dover St. 1:30PM The modest, one-story dwelling with its steep roof and shuttered windows was typical to New England, Scully thought to herself as they walked up the front path. Once again the word 'quaint' came to mind. Quaint and rustic, and very homey. Mulder shifted his portfolio to his left hand and lifted his right arm to knock on the blue-grey painted door that matched the shutters. He had to pull his hand back as it opened abruptly before he could make contact. A largish man filled the entryway, one hand coming up to rest on the doorjamb. He appeared to be in his late-sixties, and was tall, robust and weathered, with a military-like bearing, thinning hair and suspicious eyes. Cop's eyes. "Saw a car pull up and park in front, and old habits die hard," the man said with a jerk of his chin towards their rental. "You know what they say. Once a cop, always a cop." His gaze moved from Mulder to Scully and back again then. "I take it you're the FBI agents Marston called about?" Nodding, Mulder held out his hand. "Fox Mulder, and this is my partner, Dana Scully." "Dave Collingsworth," was the reply as he shook Mulder's hand, and then he turned to do the same to Scully. "Pleased to meet you both." Collingsworth's handshake was firm and no-nonsense, and appeared to have been equal for both of them. Scully smiled slightly as the older man stepped back and gestured she and Mulder in, and walked past his outstretched arm. Doing so took her into a tiny entryway that hosted an antique coat stand and a short-versioned deacon's bench, both made of oak. Shedding her jacket, she handed it to the waiting Collingsworth, who also accepted Mulder's and hung the two on the coat rack. She then followed the man's lead into a surprisingly roomy and homey kitchen, the decorative motif of which was cows –- wallpaper border, curtains and chair cushions, not to mention various knick- knacks. Noting Scully's perusal, Collingsworth reddened slightly and murmured, "Denise...my wife...likes cows." Then clearing his throat, he spoke more firmly, "I've got fresh coffee." Within minutes they were all seated at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee before each of them, and a large plate of cookies as the centerpiece. There was an awkward moment as no one seemed to know how to begin, and it was broken when both Mulder and Collingsworth spoke at the same time. "So, you're looking into the disappearances," the retired cop said. "Marston thought you might be able to help us," was Mulder's opening line. Collingsworth smiled slightly. "I hope I can." He took a sip of his coffee and then slid the mug out of the way. Reaching out and tapping Mulder's portfolio, he asked, "May I?" At Mulder's nod of affirmation, the man pulled the folder closer and opened it. There was silence for a few minutes while Collingsworth paged through the contents of the portfolio, broken only by the occasional grunt as he found something of interest. When he was finished skimming through everything, Collingsworth lifted his head and looked at Mulder. "Where do you want to start?" "Suspicions?" Mulder asked, cutting right to the chase. "Plenty," was Collingsworth's response. "None that could be proven however." There was self-defeat in his voice, and a trace of frustrated anger. "The Carringtons?" Scully interjected quietly. "Given that the disappearances seem to be linked to Starbuck House." Collingsworth brought one hand up and rubbed his chin, his expression thoughtful and considering. "John Carrington," he said after a moment, his hand dropping back to the table. "Senior, that is," he added when both Mulder and Scully reacted. "Nancy and John's father left Annabelle Carrington a few weeks after the disappearance of Doreen Walters in May of 1955, which was definitely a red flag to us. He was tracked down in Augusta, Maine and interviewed." Collingsworth shrugged, and then continued. "Course, we had nothing concrete to pin on him, and the case was eventually shelved. He was investigated again in 1962 when Allison Barton disappeared, but had a rock-solid alibi, as I recall." Mulder had read through the files again that morning, and the names of the missing women were locked in his memory. "There was another disappearance in August of 1970," he began, when Collingsworth fell silent. "A Sharon Smythe. Was John Carrington Senior a consideration then?" Collingsworth swallowed a mouthful of coffee and then shook his head. "Not really, but we did do a cursory check, and he hadn't left Maine in years." He paused, gaze focused inwardly, clearly remembering back. "Sharon Smythe's...disappearance was a bit different than the previous two," he said slowly, seeming to search for his words. "How so?" Mulder enquired, leaning forward with his hands on the table loosely clasped. "Sharon...Sharon always wanted to get away, to leave Nantucket," Collingsworth explained. "Wanderlust, my mother used to call it. From the time Sharon was old enough to work, she said she was saving up to move off-island. When she disappeared, must folks figured she'd finally found a way to up and do it." "Did your department attempt to locate her?" Scully queried, frowning slightly. "What about her belongings, were any found?" The retired cop sighed, shaking his head again. "Agent Scully, Sharon had only an elderly aunt who was not concerned in the least at her niece's leaving, and there were so many places she could have gone. We didn’t have the resources we have now to attempt to track people. A search was performed of the beaches and woods, but nothing was ever found. And as I recall, there were some personal items and a few articles of clothing in her room at Starbuck House, which her aunt later claimed. Nothing out of the ordinary." She nodded; understanding perfectly –- with no family member or close friend pushing for an answer, nor any signs of foul play, there had been no real reason to continue searching for the woman. Mentally, she shifted gears. When Mulder had mentioned the date of Sharon's disappearance, she had remembered the date of Annabelle Carrington's suicide. It had been just weeks after Sharon had left or gone missing. "Mr. Collingsworth, were you part of the investigation into Annabelle Carrington's suicide?" "It's Dave," Collingsworth corrected her with a quick small smile that slid away as he continued, "And yes, I was a part of that investigation. Why do you ask?" "Her suicide note read 'I can't take it anymore. The guilt is too great. I'm sorry'," Scully recited from memory, steadily holding Dave's gaze. "The use of the word 'guilt' implies there was something she had done that others would not approve of, or was perhaps harmful to another. Coming three weeks after Sharon Smythe disappeared, was Annabelle Carrington ever a suspect?" The older man looked troubled, and floundered for the words he finally spoke. "Annabelle was...well, she was always a strange one." He shook his head slowly, staring down at the table, lost in his thoughts. "She was never a healthy woman either, nor healthy as a child as I understand it, and once her husband left her, she became a bit reclusive. Eventually she turned to alcohol. I don't think many folks were surprised when she killed herself." Collingsworth lifted his head, met Scully's gaze. "As to whether Annabelle was a suspect," he shrugged. "She didn’t seem capable of hurting a fly, let alone causing harm to another human being, but then again, you never know. We did interview her, of course, as well as her mother Esther Dunford, but we learned nothing, and had zero evidence to support wrong-doing on either of their parts." Mulder stepped in then. "What about the older disappearances?" he asked. "Janie Wallace in 1940, and Teresa Gordon in 1947." "I joined the department in late 1940, a few months after Janie Wallace disappeared," Dave replied, "but when I was investigating Doreen Walters disappearance in 1955 I went back to some of the older files, and that case was ruled unsolvable due to lack of evidence." His fingers tapped lightly at the tabletop as he looked from Mulder to Scully. "I know it's no excuse," he went on, "but back then, while it certainly wasn't an ordinary or everyday occurrence, people did disappear for what seemed like no reason. Seasonal tides on the ocean-side are very rough, we've had the occasional drowning, and we've even had a tourist or two get lost in the marshes." Logical, believable reasons, Mulder thought to himself, and decided not to bring up the disappearances that had occurred before 1940. He was not ruling them out as being unrelated, however. His gut instinct was telling him they were all connected –- somehow. And quite possibly connected to Starbuck House and the Carringtons. "Matter of fact," Collingsworth said then, putting a halt to Mulder's musings. "Back in June of 1977 or 1978, a young male student was staying at Starbuck House while working in town, and he was found on Madaket Beach, an apparent drowning victim. Got caught by the tide, it looked like." The other man made a 'that's life' kind of gesture. Mulder nodded, and then changed the subject. "We met an interesting woman earlier today at the Pharmacy," he divulged to Collingsworth. "Betty Marchmont." Collingsworth coughed and tried to hide a smirk that won out in the end. Still smiling, he asked, "Did she tell you about her theory that the Carrington family is under a curse?" Scully hid a smile of her own as her partner nodded once again. "That she did," was Mulder's reply. "She readily told us of both Esther Dunford and Annabelle Carrington's health problems, and how Esther's mother had also committed suicide. Family saw a lot of misery and tragedy, it seems." "Aye, that they did," Collingsworth nodded, expression becoming somber. "Lot of older folks agree with Betty, but I myself don't hold much stock in curses and such. Sounds too much like a fairytale." Shrugging once more, he remarked, "Though it certainly didn't hurt the business any. In fact, I think it actually brought people to the Inn –- as if the house had a certain mystique to it, you know? Students staying for the summer wanted to work there, tourists and visitors seemed fascinated by the whole thing." Picking up his empty mug, Collingsworth asked if either of them needed a refill, and when they both declined, said, "Was there anything else you wanted to ask me?" Mulder glanced at Scully, who had turned her head to regard him after Collingsworth's question. His eyebrow lifted slightly, telling her silently he had nothing more. "This may sound unusual, Dave," Scully began, meeting the older man's gaze. "But do you happen to know how old Esther Dunford is?" Dave blinked, clearly a little surprised by the nature of her question, and then said, "As a matter of fact, I do. She's 102 years old, and the second oldest resident on the Island. My wife's great-aunt is the oldest, she turned 103 back in January." Scully capably did not show her own surprise, and merely murmured a quiet thank-you. The information was filed away for future reference. Rising from the table, Dave Collingsworth gathered up their mugs along with his and took them over to the sink. While he ran water into them, Mulder and Scully stood and moved aside to await the older man. As he was shrugging into his jacket, Mulder looked at Collingsworth, who was leaning against the kitchen doorjamb. "Dave?" he asked. "Gut instinct. What does yours tell you?" Sighing, the older man held Mulder's gaze steadily. "I always thought the Carringtons had to be involved. I just couldn't prove it." *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Diary of Liza MacGregor February 2, 1914 I enticed Esther Marie, or Essie as she is called, to my house with a promise of stories about her mother and grandmother. There I instead told her of the mirror and its curse. She scoffed. She is a fool, just like her mother and grandmother. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Starbuck House 3:40 PM By the time Mulder had pulled the car into the driveway of the Inn, the rain had returned with its earlier ferocity, and they'd had to make a mad dash to the house. In the process, her partner had hit a particularly deep puddle and soaked himself liberally with muddy water, resulting in the need for a shower. He was in there now; while she changed into dry clothing –- thick socks, soft fleece pants and a favorite, faded and equally soft sweatshirt. Scully needed their warmth and comfort after the wet, chilly day. After donning the outfit, she ran her fingers through her hair a few times to straighten it. While she debated darting into the bathroom to retrieve her hairbrush, there came a soft knock at her door. Opening it, she found Essie there in her wheelchair, with a tray that bore the familiar stoneware mug of tea resting on her lap. She had to muse about the woman's uncanny knack of knowing when to show up with her offering. About the friendliness of the older woman, and whether the service was part of the Inn's charm, and if all guests were treated thusly. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Essie how she had known to bring a cup of tea, but Essie was smiling with such friendliness that she did not. Instead she accepted the mug with gracious thanks, nodding her agreement at Essie's comment about the day being damp and cold, and a perfect time for a spot of tea. And indeed it was. The aroma drifted up on a cloud of steam, and upon inhaling cinnamon and nutmeg, Scully recalled her intention to query Essie about the ingredients of the tea. "Essie, I was wondering if I might be able to persuade you to share your secret recipe with me." Shifting to lean against the doorjamb, both hands now cradling the hot tea, she recalled her conversation with Mulder about Missy and her homeopathic healing, and she expanded on it, "My sister studied and grew her own herbs, and often experimented with brews." Essie nodded, an expression of polite interest on her face. "I noticed on my walk this morning with Mulder that you've got quite an extensive herb garden," Scully continued, "and I wondered if you use your own homegrown ingredients." As she said those words, she thought again of the possibility that one of those ingredients was the cause of her disorderly sleep. "I'll get to writing the recipe down for you, Dana," Essie replied, smiling and nodding again. "And though I don't cook like I used to," she continued, "I've tended my plants and flowers for many years, and you're right, dearie, some of the ingredients in my tea are grown in that there garden out back." Scully realized there must have been a look of perturbation on her face, for Essie's features showed sudden concern. "Is there something the matter, Dana?" the elderly woman asked, leaning forward slightly in her chair. "Have you another headache?" "No, I'm fine, Essie," Scully replied, shaking her head. "But I have another question for you. Is it possible anything in the tea might affect a person's sleep patterns?" Essie's concern was replaced by the return of her friendly smile. "Not that I'm aware of, dearie," she replied. "I've always gone by the notion that chamomile aids your sleep." They were interrupted then by the arrival of Lisa, the young student she and Mulder had met yesterday morning, coming down the hallway towards them. "Excuse me, Miss Scully, ma'am," Lisa said softly, coming to a stop beside Essie's wheelchair. "Nancy was wondering where you were, Miss Essie." "You tell her I'll be right along, Lisa, that's a good girl," Essie told the young woman, who bobbed her head and headed back downstairs. Facing Scully once more, she explained, "It's time for my medicine and my nap. The foibles of old age, I suppose." After Essie bade her good afternoon, Scully shut the door and locked it, and cradling the warm crockery, wandered over to look out a window. She peered out into the gloomy rain, sipping cautiously at the still hot, aromatic brew. The noise of the shower ceased a few minutes later, drawing her from her thoughts, and she realized she had meant to retrieve the diary and bible from her suitcase. As she turned away from the window, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cheval mirror. Her finger combing hadn't tamed her hair, she noted with a frown of embarrassment. Putting the half-empty mug down on the little table under the window, she stepped closer to the glass to rectify the matter. She never heard Mulder enter her room. Whistling under his breath, Mulder gave the bathroom a last once-over. Deciding it was clean enough to satisfy his neat and organized partner, he tapped lightly on the connecting door in announcement, and hearing nothing to dissuade him, stepped through. To find his partner standing before the full-length mirror in the corner, seemingly engrossed in her appearance. Approaching her, he had to call her name twice before she turned around, the blank expression on her face turning to one of surprise when she spied him there. Cheeks flushing, Scully murmured a startled, "Oh!" She hadn't known Mulder was there. He was standing a foot or so away, eyeing her curiously, his portfolio tucked under one arm and his glasses in one hand. At her quiet apology, he shrugged in response, a small smile curving his lips. Brushing past him, she crossed over to the other side of the bed, kneeling down to yank her suitcase from beneath, in order to retrieve the diary and bible. Tossing his portfolio onto Scully's bed and slipping his glasses on, Mulder moved over to the window to check the weather's progress, finding it was still raining quite heavily. A stoneware mug on the small table beneath the window caught his attention, and lifting it up, he swirled the remaining liquid gently. Raising the mug to his nose, he sniffed curiously, smelling cinnamon and an aroma whose name currently escaped him. "Hey Scully, I didn't know we had room service," he called out, turning in time to see Scully's head pop up quickly. "Hmmm?" she mumbled. "Oh, the tea." She disappeared again, and the rest of her reply was somewhat absentminded, the words muffled, "Essie brought it for me." Essie? Oh, the Carrington's grandmother, whom his partner had met yesterday. "Must be nice to get preferential treatment, partner," he ragged at her, but she did not reply. Shrugging, he returned the mug to the table and sauntered over to the bed. Lying down on his left side, he made himself comfortable, pulling his portfolio closer and opening it. Having unwrapped the diary and bible, Scully placed them on the bed and rose to her feet, after shoving the suitcase back beneath the bed. She brushed off her knees, located her glasses on the night table and after sliding them on, eyed Mulder with mild vexation –- his long, lean form took up most of the space on her bed. Smacking his socked foot, she ordered, "Move over." After he mock-grudgingly shifted a little, she took the small spot available at the end of the bed, easily sitting cross-legged, and reached for the bible. There was a companionable silence for a few minutes as she paged through the family history written within the bible, and Mulder read over his notes. Mulder lifted his chin slightly and peered at his partner above the rims of his glasses. It was rare that he saw her so casual and comfortable, and he had to admit she looked cute in her sweats, with her glasses sliding down her nose. "Anything interesting?" he asked. At the sound of Mulder's voice, Scully lifted her head to find him studying her with a curious little smile on his lips. "A record of births, deaths and weddings dating back to the mid- 1800's," she replied, her finger holding her place in the bible. "Strangely enough, there's no name entered for the father of Annabelle Carrington, and it appears Essie was never married." She arched an eyebrow at him. Waiting, he mirrored her action. "What're you thinking, Scully?" "I'm thinking that she'd probably been labeled a spinster, and rather daring for having a child out of wedlock. But other than that, nothing unusual, really." Mulder nodded, agreeing with her assessment, and then said, "Crack open that diary, partner." His earlier curiosity from when they had first found the diary had returned with a vengeance. Recalling its fragile appearance, he amended his words. "Carefully." "Very," she agreed, reaching over and lifting the leather-bound tome with delicate caution. It crackled alarmingly when she opened it, a slight odor of mildew and the mustiness of old paper rising to her nostrils and causing them to flare, several tiny pieces of paper crumbling and falling to her lap like aged confetti. Paging through it with care, she saw that the ink had faded to near- invisibility in some places, and that the handwriting was spidery and difficult to read. Portions of pages had been ripped or torn off, and here and there pages were stuck together, while others seemed to be missing altogether. "This is going to be difficult," she advised Mulder, who was watching silently, his brows drawn together in concern. *** End Part 15