Betrayal at Blackcrest (18 page)

“I don't believe you do,” I said. “You see—”

He held up his hand for silence, and furrowed his brows. There was a firm determination in his manner that would make argument futile. I gave a little sigh and delivered myself to his ministrations.

“That's better,” he said in senatorial tones. “Now, we'll just finish this puzzle. It'll relax you, make things easier later on.”

He sat me down at a card table on which a partially completed jigsaw puzzle was spread out. He had fit all the edges together and filled in one corner section. A formidable assortment of pieces was piled to one side of the table. “It's the Matterhorn,” he said, taking a chair across from me. “I spent most of the morning on it. I find them most stimulating, most conducive to thought. Some of my very best sermons have come to me while I've been fiddling with these things. I have over a dozen of them, but the Matterhorn is my favorite. It's so majestic! Now, you take the white, I'll take the blue. Sort them all out; then we'll try to fit them together. I've been searching for a piece with a rounded edge. There's a little green sprig at one corner.”

I was utterly bewildered, and trancelike, I obeyed. I gathered up all the white pieces, and in the process, found the piece the vicar had been looking for. He gave a little cry of glee, grabbed the piece, and slapped it in place as though he had a personal vendetta against it. The man had an amazing vitality, which made even something as sedentary as fitting together a jigsaw puzzle seem like a blood sport.

We worked industriously at the puzzle. The vicar seemed delighted to have someone helping, and in a short while we had the whole thing almost completed. I sat back in my chair and looked around the room. Two walls were covered with golden oak bookshelves crammed with books, magazines, and papers. A cocker spaniel with glossy brown coat was curled up on a brightly colored rag rug in front of the fireplace. The desk was cluttered with books and papers. A shabby old sofa covered with cracked brown leather stood against one wall. The room was a masculine lair, and it emanated the personality of the man who lived in it.

“There!” the vicar cried, slapping the last piece in place. “We've succeeded. Ah, Lucy. You've come at just the right time. Here, set it on the edge of the table!”

Mrs. Blackstock had come into the room with a tray holding a plate of cherry tarts, a tarnished silver teapot, and two chipped blue cups. She smiled at me and looked at the vicar with love. He treated her in a rather surly, masterful manner which I was certain delighted her. She poured the tea and waited for his next command. He unfolded his napkin and jerked his head, indicating dismissal. Lucy Blackstock left quietly, shutting the door behind her.

“Now,” the vicar said abruptly. “Who is this man? I can understand your loyalty, but we have to know his name if justice is to be done. No need for you to cover up for him any longer.”

I stared at him in amazement, unable to speak.

“Come, come,” he said sharply. “It's a little late in the game for you to start denying anything. Ellen called me this morning. She was in tears and told me all about the sleeping pills, told me she'd manage to send you over this afternoon for a little talk.”

“Ellen?” I said.

“Ellen Rogers! Your cousin. Come, child,” he said irritably. “I know all about it.”

“I've never met an Ellen Rogers,” I replied.

“What!” he roared. I thought he was going to leap across the table at me. “You're not pregnant?”

I shook my head. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said gently.

“This is outrageous!” the vicar cried. He pushed his chair back and marched to the door. He threw it open and shouted his wife's name. She came rushing down the hall, out of breath and obviously alarmed by this sudden loud summons.

“What is the meaning of this, woman! Why didn't you tell me this young woman wasn't Ellen's cousin from Devon? Here I've been running on like a bloody idiot, making an absolute ass of myself, and all the while she isn't pregnant at all! Explain yourself!”

“Ellen called and said her cousin was coming. I assumed—”

“You assumed!”

“Now, Robert …” his wife said quietly.

“Blast it, woman!” He smashed his fist into his palm and heaved his shoulders, trying to control his anger. His wife spoke soothing words I couldn't hear, and the vicar finally sighed. He turned to me with a sheepish expression.

“I must explain,” he grumbled.

“No need to,” I replied. “Evidently you took me for someone else. I quite understand.”

“Ellen's cousin just came to town last night, and she tried to swallow half a bottle of pills an hour after she arrived. Ellen said she'd send the girl over, and as I've never laid eyes on the cousin, I figured you were she. Please accept my apologies. Lucy's, too, I'm sure.”

“I'm terribly sorry …” Mrs. Blackstock began.

“Go on back to your jam,” the vicar snapped. “You've done enough harm for one day. Now, young woman, what did you wish to see me about?”

“My cousin,” I said.

“Is
she
pregnant?”

“I certainly hope not.”

The vicar looked a little disappointed. “Go on,” he said.

I explained my mission briefly, merely saying that Delia was missing and that I had reason to believe she had come to see him about wedding arrangements she had wanted to make. I showed him the photograph and described what I thought she might have been wearing. The vicar nodded his head vigorously, moved quickly over to the desk, and pulled out a small desk diary. He riffled through the pages until he found the entry he was looking for.

“Did she come to see you?” I asked hopefully.

“I believe so.” He frowned and flipped some more pages. “When did you say she was here?”

“Around the middle of April.”

“April 15!” he said. “I jot down a line or two about everyone who comes to see me. It's so easy to forget things otherwise. Here she is! Delia Lane, she said her name was. Is that your cousin?”

I nodded, my heart pounding.

“Yes, I remember her. Charming little thing—red hair. Full of sparkle, smiled a lot. Says here she wanted me to perform the ceremony in my church during the following week. She was vague about details but said she'd come back in a day or two for definite plans. It says here Friday. She was to come back on Friday for definite arrangements. She never came back. Peculiar. I often wondered what happened to her. Did she and the fellow have a tiff?”

“I … I'm not sure.”

“Family trouble, probably. She told me the family didn't know about the wedding yet—it was to be a surprise. Those things never work out. The man's family probably found out and raised a ruckus, thought she was after his money or something.”

“Did she tell you anything about the man?”

“Wouldn't give me his name. Stubborn about that. Said she didn't want it to get out yet. From the way she talked, I gathered that he was wealthy, from one of the best families. She's missing, you say?”

“Yes. I … I'm a little worried.”

“Probably gone off to nurse her wounds. Blow to her ego and all. Takes time to heal. Is there something I can do?”

“Not just now,” I replied. “Later you might be asked to repeat what you've just told me, but I … I don't want to alarm anyone just yet. Delia will probably come back.”

“Of course she will! Don't you worry.”

“I'll try not to,” I said.

I was elated with my success. Not only had the vicar remembered Delia, but he had also made an entry about her visit. It was the kind of proof I needed. He didn't press me for any details. He seemed satisfied with the little I had told him.

“You've been very helpful,” I told him.

“That's my duty,” he retorted.

“Thank you so much,” I said, preparing to leave.

He insisted that I stay and help finish the tea and tarts. We sat back down at the card table, and the vicar talked charmingly and volubly about his work. When he mentioned the leaking church roof, I insisted on donating some money toward repairs. He took the money with alacrity and stuffed it in the pocket of his jacket. His wife was waiting for me in the foyer as I was leaving. She thrust a jar of still-warm preserves into my hands and smiled at me with her lovely blue eyes, apologizing again for her error.

I left the house and stepped into the sunshine.

As I was opening the front gate, I saw a lumpy young woman with red-rimmed eyes and stringy brown hair trudging down the dirt road toward the vicarage. She sniffled audibly and dragged her feet. I knew she must be Ellen Rogers' unfortunate cousin and hoped the poor creature would be more responsive to the vicar's ministrations than I had been.

I hurried across the dirt road and into the park, feeling exactly like a modern-day Alice just back from her sojourn in Wonderland.

14

I drove down a lane shaded with tall elm and maple trees, turning down a narrower road that ran along the edge of the river. Alex had given me specific instructions, and I soon saw his cottage standing beneath a clump of maple trees. The leaves rustled, dappling the white brick with sunlight and shadow. Neat brown shutters were fastened at all the windows, and the roof was of brown shingle, a dusty red chimney sprouting up one side. There was a pleasant air of rustic seclusion about the cottage, and I could see why Alex had chosen this place in which to write. I parked the car and got out. Alex met me at the front door.

“I've been expecting you,” he said. “Have any trouble finding the place?”

“None at all. Your directions were perfectly clear.”

“Fine. I've just finished my daily stint at the typewriter and am in need of stimulant. I was just about to mix a drink. Can I make one for you?”

“Not this time,” I replied.

“I forgot,” he said, grinning. “Can I get you something else?”

“Nothing. But you go ahead.”

“I intend to,” he told me.

He led me into a large, airy room with off-white walls and a bright yellow carpet. Open French windows looked out over a small, somewhat shabby garden, and I could smell the soil and hear the birds. I sat on the long tan sofa while Alex mixed his drink at the portable bar. He was silent for a moment while ice cubes tinkled against glass.

I watched him mix the drink. He wore a pair of brown slacks and a light sport coat of tan-and-brown-checked material. A vivid red tie was knotted loosely about the collar of his white shirt. The clothes were a little rumpled, as though he'd been working in them, and his hair was untidy, yet even so he had a casual elegance about him, a comfortable air that was far more appealing than bandbox neatness would have been. I had never met any other man who put me at ease so completely, to whom I warmed so immediately.

“I phoned Martin Craig first thing this morning,” he said casually, coming to perch on the arm of the sofa. “He is quite interested in all this. Promised to phone me tonight if he's discovered anything. Are you sure you won't have something?” he asked, indicating his glass.

“Quite sure.”

“Can't say I haven't tried to be a genial host,” he replied, sipping his drink. “What do you think of this place?”

“It's enchanting.”

“Hardly that. I do like it, though. Provides just the right background for a man of letters, wouldn't you say?”

“Definitely.”

“I keep an apartment in London for playtime, but when I'm working, I rusticate here.”

“How is your book coming along?”

“Slowly. At the moment I am more concerned with this real-life mystery you've dropped into my lap. Martin seems to think there might be something to it.”

He stepped over to the bar to set the empty glass down. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me, suddenly grim. All pleasant banter was over now. His dark brown eyes were serious.

“We talked for almost half an hour. I told him everything you told me last night, then repeated it for his tape recorder. He's in between cases right now and is going to devote all his time to finding your cousin. He'll get to the bottom of this.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Alex frowned. “To be perfectly honest, I didn't pay much heed to it last night. I knew you were upset, and I knew you had reason to be, but I didn't think there was anything seriously wrong. I merely assumed your cousin had decided to go off for a while without telling anyone. I certainly didn't believe my cousin Derek could be involved. I'm not so sure now.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Martin Craig. He was very interested in that angle—Derek, the money he needed to cover his losses, the money your cousin had taken out of the bank. He asked me several pertinent questions. He made it quite clear that there was a possibility your suspicions might be correct. He seemed alarmed that you were actually staying at Blackcrest.”

“Really?”

“I told him I'd see to it that you left immediately. I've reserved a room for you at the hotel. I'll go to Blackcrest myself and see that your things are sent to the hotel.”

“You'd better cancel that reservation,” I said.

Alex shook his head slowly. “No, don't argue with me, Deborah. I've given this a lot of thought. God knows I don't want to believe that Derek is some kind of fiend—I can't accept that, I refuse to—but even if there's a remote chance he's guilty, then Blackcrest isn't safe. You have no business being there.”

“I'm not leaving,” I replied firmly.

“Deborah, you don't seem to realize—”

“You don't seem to realize what this means to me. Do you think I'd be able to sit in a hotel room while a man in London piddled around? I'm sure your friend is good, and I'm grateful to you for bringing him into it, but I can't just sit and hold my hands. Being at Blackcrest gives me a marvelous opportunity to work on it myself, and I've done a pretty good job of it today.”