Betrayal at Blackcrest (23 page)

Betty came into the drawing room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face lined with grief, but she was curiously calm and serene. She had spent part of the morning at the chapel, and there was a noble resignation about her that only a strong faith can bring. She gently admonished me for not eating. I told her it was impossible. She stepped over to a table and began to polish the surface with the edge of her apron. I saw that she didn't want to leave just yet. She wanted to talk.

“I left that can upstairs myself,” she said quietly. “There was a terrible spot on one of the carpets, and I needed somethin' strong. I put the can in my broom closet. If I'd taken it back down, she wouldn't of used it. It's my fault.”

“No, Betty,” I said. “Don't talk like that.”

“My poor love, my angel. She didn't know nothin' about them cleanin' things. She must of thought it was just regular spot remover like I used on her clothes sometimes.”

“Don't,” I said. “Please don't.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Deborah. I know how you must feel—findin' her an' all. I just don't know what's goin' to happen now. Without my angel here this house won't be the same. I won't be able to stay. I'll have to leave, like Jake.”

“Where did he go?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“He has a brother in Devon who owns a nursery. Raises shrubs, rose bushes, an' things. He's wanted Jake to join him for a long time, was always writin' and askin' him to come. Jake's already left Hawkestown. He must be on his way to Devon right now. I'll write to him. He'll want to know. He worshiped Miss Honora, just like all the rest of us. I remember when she was a little girl an' had her own garden, an' he would help her with the flowers.”

“What about Neil?” I asked before she could continue with her reverie. “Is he with his father?”

Betty shook her head. She finished polishing the table and looked around for something else to do. She went over to the mantel and began to rearrange the Dresden figurines that sat on it.

“Does he know?” I asked.

“I told him this morning. I stopped to see him after I came out of the chapel. He's stayin' with a friend of his who lives at a boardinghouse in town. He was stunned. He couldn't say anything. I patted him on the shoulder an' left. He needed to be alone.”

“He must have taken it hard,” I said.

“He loved her, Miss Deborah. He was a wild one in ways, an' I was worried about Miss Honora at first, but he loved her. I know he did. I saw the way he was with her—protective an' all. He wanted to wait till she was of age, but it was her who was so anxious. She wanted to get away from
him
. He hated Neil. Just because the boy had all that hair an' drove a motorscooter an' worked at that place—” She paused, shaking her head. “Even if he did get in trouble once or twice, even if he did steal those radios from the hardware store, that didn't mean he was all bad. She was reformin' him. He stopped all that when they got serious.”

“I know, Betty,” I replied.

“They was still plannin' to run off together. Miss Honora ran after him yesterday after
he
threw the boy out. I heard 'em talkin' on the back steps. I was in the kitchen, an' I heard 'em makin' plans. She intended to meet him today. He wanted 'er to come with 'im right then, but she said she had to stay. She said she had to get back at
him
. She said she had something to tell—I don't know what. Neil told her she'd better forget about it an' not stir up trouble. He said there'd be trouble enough when they ran off.”

“I want to talk to him,” I said. “Tell me how to get to the boardinghouse.”

Betty gave me directions. I stood up, eager to be gone. There was something to do at last. I was wearing a brown-and-green plaid skirt and a dark green sweater, but I wouldn't take the time to change into something more appropriate. Neil would be stunned with grief. He wouldn't notice what I was wearing. Betty sensed my tension. She seemed to be a bit apprehensive about my going.

“Are you sure you ought to be drivin'?” she asked. “You're still in a state, an' that drug the doctor gave you—”

“I'm perfectly all right, Betty. Don't … don't tell anyone where I have gone. Will you promise not to?”

“Of course, Miss Deborah, but—”

“If anyone asks, just say you don't know. I must hurry.…”

I seemed to be in a trance. I drove mechanically, automatically doing all the things required of me but conscious of none of them. I saw none of the scenery, and the road was merely a gray-brown ribbon unfolding beneath the wheels. My mind was occupied with other things, and the driving might have been done by another Deborah Lane who was miraculously able to avoid an accident while I was thinking about Neil.

He would help me. I knew he would. After what Derek Hawke had done, he would be ready to stand up to him and see that justice was done. Betty had told me that Neil had warned Honora to “forget about it and not stir up trouble.” He knew. Honora must have told him. She had been in the cellars, waiting to meet Neil, and she had seen something. It was only natural that she tell Neil. He would help me now. He must. If only I could gain his confidence. If only he weren't so grief-stricken that he wouldn't be able to realize the importance of it all.

I dreaded going to him. I dreaded seeing his grief. For all his surly mannerisms and his rebellious facade, I knew that there was a deep sensitivity in his makeup. Otherwise Honora would not have loved him. He was very young, and the very young feel things so strongly. He would be bereft, and I would have to bring up painful things that wouldn't make his loss any easier to bear. It was not going to be pleasant.

I arrived at the edge of Hawkestown with a sense of shock. I hadn't paid the least attention to the road, and here I was already. I looked for the turnoff Betty had mentioned and drove a short way down a street lined with old frame houses with peeling paint and sagging roofs. The place I was looking for was at the end of the block, a three-story brown frame house with gables and an overabundance of gingerbread trim around the wooden veranda. I saw the motorcycle parked at one side of the house under a decrepit oak tree. Three dirty children in tattered clothes were examining the machine with wondrous eyes.

The woman who answered my knock had a face that looked as though it had long since lost the ability to express emotion of any kind. Her hennaed hair was wet and in steel curlers, and a shabby red chenille robe covered her plump middle-aged body. A cigarette dangled from her lips. She did not remove it when she spoke. I asked for Neil. She jerked her head toward the stairs and said he was in the second room on the left. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching me as I started up. Her black eyes were as void of life as a zombie's. The stairs were dark and creaked alarmingly as I went up them. The whole house reeked with the odor of recently cooked cabbage.

I heard the music as soon as I reached the second floor. It was one of the earliest Beatles records, and it blared brazenly. I wondered if whoever was playing it knew of the grief in the house. I stepped to the door of the room the woman had indicated, and I was rather perturbed to find that the music was coming from that room. I knocked loudly, hoping Neil could hear the knock over that blaring music. Music soothes, but I doubted if that particular kind of music could be said to qualify under these circumstances. There was a screeching whir as the needle was raked across the surface of the record, then blessed silence. I could hear his footsteps as he walked toward the door.

“What do you want?” he said sullenly, staring at me with dark eyes that didn't try to hide their dislike.

“I've come about Honora,” I told him.

“I've already heard about it. The maid told me this morning.”

“I … I would like to talk to you,” I said gently.

He hesitated for just a moment. Then he held the door open. “Be my guest,” he said in that same sullen voice.

I stepped into the room. It was dirty and disorderly. Pop posters were tacked all over one wall, and a pile of records leaned against the cheap portable phonograph that sat on the floor beside the unmade bed. I could smell sweat and grease and the odor of soiled clothing. Neil stood just inside the room, a defiant grin on his lips as he watched my reactions to the mess.

“I wasn't expecting company,” he said.

“That's quite apparent,” I replied coldly.

“Place belongs to a friend of mine. He's a slob.”

I must be fair to him, I told myself. It was only natural that he be rude and sullen. I came from Blackcrest, and Blackcrest was enemy territory. He might even think that Derek Hawke had sent me to deliver some message or make some threat. Naturally he would be uneasy and on guard. Nevertheless, I could feel his animosity, and I didn't like the way his dark eyes leered at me. Be fair, I warned myself as my defenses rose, be fair.

“Make yourself at home,” he said. “I'm busy.”

He stepped over to a chipped dresser and began to take clothes out of the top drawer. He chose to ignore me while he did this. I wondered how I was going to overcome his animosity. I wondered how I was going to penetrate that barrier. He wore black boots, skintight gray pants, and a silky gray shirt with enormous blue and purple flowers. The shirt hung loose over the pants, and the sleeves were full-gathered at the wrists. With his shaggy blond hair and full sneering lips, he looked like a virile young animal, uncouth and dangerous. I told myself that this was the boy Honora loved, a boy who was too proud to show his grief to a stranger.

“I … I know how you must feel,” I said. “I wish there were something I could say—”

“Spare me,” he snarled.

“Neil—I'm on your side.”

“Really?” He stopped what he was doing and looked at me, one brow arched arrogantly.

“I understand. Honora … spoke of you. She told me how she felt. I thought she was very lucky to be so young and … so in love.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” I said calmly. “She told me about the … opposition. I know how hard it must have been.”

“It's over now,” he said bluntly. “Water under the dam.”

“You don't know what Derek Hawke has done,” I protested.

“I don't particularly care.”

“If you knew—”

“Baby,” he said, “I'm busy. Get to the point.”

I cringed at the “baby.” I stared at him with frosty eyes.

“Very well. Honora told me she saw something down in the cellars, about six weeks ago. She was about to tell me about it, but we were interrupted. I … I need to know what she saw. It's imperative that I know. She said she was waiting for you at the time. She must have told you about it.”

“That?” he said, scowling. “She babbled about it for weeks. She was always seeing things, imagining things. She was nervous, jumpy. She said she saw Hawke going down in the cellars with a woman. She was hiding behind one of the wine racks. She said they were laughing and carrying on as they disappeared into one of the rooms. She heard a scream. When Hawke came out, the woman wasn't with him.”

So I knew now. It was a fact. There could be no more hope. I took it with amazing calm. The boy stood with his hands on his thighs, looking at me with a sarcastic smile.

“She was lying,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“He's cool,” Neil said, “real cool. He might commit murder, but he wouldn't be careless enough to do it in his own cellars.”

“Then why did Honora tell you that?”

He frowned, his lips curling in disgust. “She wanted attention. I didn't show that night. There was a poker game afterward when we closed up the joint. She was waiting for me, and I didn't show. She was still waiting when I came in—all hysterical. I told her to cool it. She was like that, always playing for attention, always wanting to know everything I did. It chapped.”

“Honora was telling the truth,” I said flatly.

He paused. He shook his head slowly. “Wow,” he said, stretching the word out.

“It's true. The … the woman was my cousin. Hawke murdered her. I found her scarf in the cellars. I … I've gathered evidence against him. A detective is working on the case.”

“No kiddin',” he said.

“Will you help me?” I asked. “Will you repeat what you've just told me to the detective? Will you sign a statement?”

He grunted. “Un-unh. Not this baby.”

“Of course you will,” I said.

“Look—I'm not getting involved,” he said slowly. “No cops, no statements. No commitments. Not this baby. Not me.”

“You can't mean that,” I said, stunned.

“I mean every word of it, baby. I'm leaving for London tonight. I don't intend to get messed up with this. You play girl detective all you want, but leave me out of it.”

“Neil! Derek Hawke committed murder! He … he may have murdered Honora—”

“Tough,” he said. His voice was flat, unmoved.

I stood there, unable to comprehend it. Neil took out a suitcase and began to toss clothes into it. He was calm, completely unperturbed by what I had just told him. The hideous silk shirt swung to and fro as he moved. The boots scraped on the bare wooden floor. He wiped a strand of hair away from his temple and continued to pack. I couldn't believe it. For a moment I simply couldn't believe it.

“But—you loved her—” I protested.

“Come off it,” he snapped. “Sure, I played around. For a while I thought there might be something in it. She wanted to elope. I knew he would have my hide—there was some trouble earlier with the cops, and he would bring that up. Why not? I thought. She was eager. I figured I had a good thing going. If I could hold her off till she was eighteen, I stood to make quite a haul. Wishful thinking. Hawke wasn't about to let anything like that happen. Shame,” he said, shaking his head, “but I'll latch onto something good in London. There's lots of lonely birds there with lots of money.”