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