Betrayal at Blackcrest (12 page)

Had Betty mentioned anything about a fence? I tried to remember. I recalled something about a rusty gate. Yes, she had told me to find the gate. Then I would pass under a series of arched trellises which would bring me out immediately behind the kitchens. I moved along the wall in search of the gate. The leaves of the shrubbery rattled noisily. A cat stalked along the top of the fence. It leaped in front of me. I let out a cry of terror. My heart pounded violently.

This is absurd, I told myself. I was shivering with cold, and although I tried to convince myself I was perfectly calm, I had almost had heart failure when the cat leaped. I felt weak, and my head throbbed. I had to stand still for a moment and pull myself together. The cat was at my feet, purring. It curled a long tail around my ankle. It took a tremendous amount of willpower to refrain from screaming again.

“Don't do that, kitty,” I said nastily.

The cat, offended, stalked away. I finally summoned enough courage to move on down along the fence. The gate was set inside the deep wall, its wrought-iron pickets crusted with rust. I unfastened it and pushed it open. The hinges creaked alarmingly. I had to stoop over in order to pass through the small opening. My hand trembled as I fastened the gate back. I whispered silent curses against one cat in particular and made unflattering remarks about the whole feline species.

The high, arched trellises made a long, twisting tunnel. Honeysuckle vines grew in thick walls on either side of the flagstone pathway, and long tendrils trailed down from the wooden network overhead. Moonlight seeped in through the leaves and gilded the flagstones with a misty blue sheen. The leaves cast dancing shadows at my feet, and the fragrance was stifling. There were small stone benches at regularly spaced intervals, a straw hat and a pair of shears on one of them. The sound of my heels tapping on the flagstones echoed up and down the tunnel. The sound was upsetting. I was tense, braced for another cat to leap out at me. The wind blowing through the honeysuckle vines made a noise like whispers. I contemplated whistling a happy tune but decided against it. I could see the end of the tunnel ahead.

I had almost reached it when a loud roar split the air. It soared for a moment and then died down to a muffled putting sound. Someone had just driven into the garage on a motorcycle. At least it sounded like a motorcycle. I could hear loud footsteps pounding on the walk along the stone fence, and a rasping screech as the gate was pulled open. I stepped into a tiny alcove behind one of the stone benches, moving quickly and instinctively. Tendrils of honeysuckle dripped down about my shoulders. I was completely in shadow, and I felt sure no one coming down the tunnel could see me. I heard the loud footsteps moving on the flagstones, strong, determined steps that came nearer and nearer.

It was Neil, wearing the black pants and leather jacket he had worn the first time I had seen him. He moved quickly through the patches of moonlight and shadow, his boots hitting the walk angrily. I felt foolish cowering there in hiding, but it would be far more embarrassing to step out now and let him see me. He moved past without glancing in my direction, but as he came to the end of the tunnel he hesitated for a moment and looked back. He seemed like a dangerous young animal, standing only a few yards away from me, silhouetted by the moonlight. I felt sure he couldn't see me, yet I could feel those fierce eyes sweeping over me. He hesitated for a moment longer, peering into the shadows where I stood, then walked on, disappearing into the yard.

I was shaken, and for some reason I felt guilty. I was a grown woman, and yet I cowered in shadows and held my breath and screamed like a bloody idiot when a cat leaped at me. I prided myself on my iron nerves, but they had certainly deserted me tonight. Here I was acting like the silliest female in the most ludicrous of early Hitchcock films. I scolded myself and walked resolutely out of the trellis tunnel. Neil was nowhere in sight. I was thankful for that.

Blackcrest cast heavy shadows over the yard, and several gigantic trees grew beyond the back steps. I could see the crumbling tower pointing like a broken finger at the dark gray sky. A light burned dimly over a small door to the side of the kitchens. I was sure it was the door my key fit. It was half a city block away, and I walked through the darkness toward it, stepping around the tree trunks and silently praising Betty for leaving the light on. I was halfway there when the light went out. I stopped, startled. The door opened, and someone stepped out onto the tiny flight of stairs. I could see the white blur of a dress, and as I peered closer, the silky sheen of platinum hair. Honora paused for a moment and then moved silently down the stairs and into the yard.

I stood beneath the hanging boughs of an oak tree, watching her. It was after midnight. Neil must have been coming home from his job at the station, and Honora must have been waiting for him. The fact that Derek Hawke had forbidden her to see the boy would mean nothing to her. I saw her gliding through the shadows, the white skirt flashing like iridescent wings as the moonlight touched it. She went into the formal gardens, passing the pond with cracked white fountain, passing the clumps of evergreen trees, and stopped by an arbor near the edge of the lake. Neil stepped out of the shadows to meet her, and the soft white splotch merged with the tall black form, too far away for me to see clearly. I sighed deeply.

How wonderful it would be to be seventeen and in love and fighting opposition and full of wild, romantic dreams, I thought. Then I remembered being seventeen and decided that twenty-four was a far better age, all romantic dreams long since dissolved and replaced by a most sensible caution. I shook these thoughts out of my head and hurried on into the house.

A light was burning in the hall, and I found the narrow stairs and went up them to the corridor that led to the tower room. The house was silent. The walls seemed to be listening to my footsteps as I went down the shabby corridor to the door of my room. Betty had left a lamp burning, and the bedclothes were turned back, a nightgown draped across my pillow. A small gas stove was burning low, and there was even a plate of cookies and a glass of milk sitting on the bedside table. I smiled as I saw the milk and cookies. Evidently I had won Betty over completely. The round room was snug and warm and seemed to be waiting for me.

I put the nightgown aside and slipped into a pair of vivid pink-and-orange silk lounging pajamas, frivolous things that nevertheless worked wonders for the morale when one was alone in a strange place. The bed was warm, the clean, coarse linen sheets smelling of soap, and I wasn't at all surprised to find a hot-water bottle tucked into the bedclothes at the foot. I sat up, propping the pillows behind my back, and reached for the milk and a cookie. Crumbs be damned, this was the kind of luxury I seldom indulged in. I must remember to thank Betty properly when she came to wake me up in the morning.

I was exhausted, so exhausted my bones ached, but I wasn't at all sleepy. I was wide awake. I could hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the wall that protected the staircase. It did indeed sound as though someone were creeping up the steps, but I was firmly resolved not to let the normal sounds of the old house bother me. Floors would creak, windows would rattle, mice would no doubt play in the walls, but I intended to ignore the noises. The room was comfortable, the bed was divine, and the milk and chocolate cookies were delicious.

I thought about Alex Tanner. I felt so much better now that I knew he was on my side. He had agreed with me that I couldn't go to the police with things the way they were, but he would put his friend in London on the case, and in the meantime I could try to find some proof that Delia had been here. Derek Hawke had denied it, and neither Andrea nor Betty had given any indications that they knew anything about it. If she had come here, it had been in secrecy. Still, someone might have noticed something, someone might suspect. Getting the job as secretary to Andrea Hawke had been a great stroke of luck. It would give me the perfect base to work from.

I reached for the last cookie. Chocolate crumbs were sprinkled all over the sheets, but I didn't care. I sat back against the pillows, reflecting. It seemed impossible that it was only yesterday morning that I had awakened in my flat in Chelsea, listening to the traffic noises outside the window and facing a long, dreary, jobless day. Had it been such a short time ago that I had sat curled up on the sofa with a cup of coffee, staring at the photograph of Delia and deciding on impulse to drive to Hawkestown? It seemed years ago. I brushed the cookie crumbs off the bed, knowing sleep would be impossible for a while.

I had brought one of Alex Tanner's books up to the room with me. It was on the bedside table now, a thing called
With Morgue in Mind
, the title picked out in bright blood red against a garishly colored background. I took it up and turned to the first page. It was surprisingly good. Alex had a wry way of expressing himself, and the story moved along in a series of violent shocks, body piling upon bloody body, suspense mounting as the slightly dim-witted heroine went to meet the killer at a dilapidated old cottage by the seashore.

I read for almost an hour, telling myself that this was not at all the kind of thing one should read in an isolated tower room, yet unable to keep from turning the pages. At first I was hardly aware of the sound outside. I thought it was the wind. I put the book down, giving all my attention to the sound. Someone was coming up the winding stairs. There could be no doubt about it. I heard the footsteps clearly, heard whoever it was stumbling on the landing outside my door. I could not remember if I had locked the door or not. My blood ran cold, truly cold, and I was ready to let out a piercing scream when the timid knock sounded on the door.

At first I could do nothing. I sat in the bed with my heart pounding. The knock sounded again, louder this time. The doorknob turned, rattled, but the door was locked. I tried to call out, but no sound would come.

“Miss Lane?”

“Who—who is it?”

“Honora.”

“My God,” I said.

“What did you say?”

“Just a minute,” I called.

I slipped on a pair of high-heeled pink mules and went to the door. Honora was standing there with a very pale face. I noticed grass stains on her skirt. Drafts of cold air swirled in from the landing. I pulled her into the room and closed the door, making sure that it was securely locked.

“I'm sorry to have disturbed you,” she said quietly.

“I've aged ten years in the past three minutes,” I replied, not in a pleasant voice.

“Did I frighten you?”

“That's hardly the word for it.”

“I'm sorry,” she repeated.

I started to make another sarcastic remark, when I noticed her pale face again. The girl looked shaken and distressed. I bit back the sarcastic words and forgot all about my own fright. I pointed to the overstuffed chair and told her to sit down.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I … I don't know.”

“I suppose this is just a friendly call. After all, it's only one-thirty in the morning. I'm delighted to see you. I'd offer you something, but I've already eaten the milk and cookies Betty left.”

Honora perched on the edge of the chair, her hands in her lap.

“What did you want?” I asked in softer tones.

“Nothing. I was just going to my room.”

“By way of the staircase and my bedroom?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Do you want to explain that?”

“My bedroom is right down the hall,” Honora said. “It's away from all the others. I … I wanted it that way. I can reach it by coming in by the kitchen and going down the hall and up the servants' stairs, but I … I didn't want to come in that way. The only other way is to come in through the basement door, up the tower stairs, and through this bedroom. I hated to bother you, but—”

She cut herself short and stared down at her hands. She was twisting them together nervously. She tilted her head back and looked up at me. Her soft pink lips quivered, and her blue eyes were full of doubt. She wanted to confide in me, but she was hesitating. I sat down on the bed and tried to pretend that I was accustomed to people dropping in to chat in the middle of the night.

“By ‘coming in,' you mean coming in from the back, don't you?” I said.

“How did you know?”

“I saw you. I also saw Neil.”

“He said he thought there was someone in the trellis tunnel,” Honora said.

“Me. He frightened me. I darted into the shadows. When I saw who it was, I felt like a fool and didn't want to step out.”

“I was worried. I thought it might be Derek—that's why I wanted to come back to my room this way. You see, we had that terrible quarrel last night, and he's been watching me all day. I think he saw me slipping out tonight.”

“And you thought he'd be waiting downstairs to confront you as you came in?”

She nodded, still twisting her hands.

“Well, we've tricked him,” I replied, as though it were a rather jolly conspiracy.

“I want to thank you for not mentioning seeing me last night. He suspected where I went, of course, but if you had told him for sure, I hate to think what he might have done.”

“I promised, didn't I?”

She looked at me for a long moment. She seemed to be searching for something in my face—sincerity, honesty, trustworthiness—and after a while she looked away, apparently satisfied. She relaxed, sitting back in the chair and arranging the grass-stained white skirt over her knees. I sat with one leg curled under me, my hand resting on the bedpost. The girl had a desperate need to confide in someone. I had just been elected.

“You
do
understand, don't you?” she said in a quiet voice.

“I think so. I was seventeen once. I'm not exactly in the grave right now.”

“Neil needs me. I need him.”

“Then you're both very lucky,” I replied.