Betrayal at Blackcrest (9 page)

“In the tower?” I asked.

“Yes, over the cats and the study. I have the master bedroom. It's Regency and rather dull, but I have to stay there. I couldn't
sleep
in the tower. People would think me peculiar.”

I remained discreetly silent on this point.

“But I spend most of my time there,” she continued. “Come, I'll show you.”

We walked down a dark, narrow little hall and came to a flight of flimsy wooden stairs that led down to what I assumed was the basement. I felt drafts of cold air swirling up to meet us as we descended. I understood the fur coat now. We reached the concrete floor. I could barely see the damp walls with pipes running along them. We seemed to be in a vast subterranean dungeon.

Andrea Hawke fumbled along one wall and touched a switch. A naked light bulb hanging overhead came to life, illuminating the area. I saw something large and gray scurrying along the floor and gave a little cry as it disappeared.

“Rats,” Andrea said, shaking her head in exasperation. “The cats help a little, but I'm afraid there're just too many of them. You aren't going to be alarmed, are you?”

“N-no,” I stammered.

“They're harmless, really. Come. This is the basement. That hall leads to the cellar door. The cellars go on forever, so damp and cold. The kitten will be petrified if Morris doesn't find it. We keep all the rubbish and rejects in the basement, and the cellars are lower, entirely underground. No one goes down there, besides Jessie, of course. We have a magnificent stock of wine, you see, and she nips. The tower is this way.…”

We walked down a long, damp hall away from the direction Andrea had pointed. I felt the sagging weight of Blackcrest overhead and wondered if the ceiling would collapse. Bits of plaster hung down, and the beams looked rotten. At the end of the hall there was a large area with part of a circular wall visible. A heavy oak door was in the middle of the wall, and to one side I could see a walled-in staircase winding up into the darkness. This must be the bottom room of the tower, I thought.

“There were once six rooms,” Andrea explained. “But time and ruin, you know. The top three rooms simply aren't there anymore, just the outside wall, and bricks dropping from it every day. The cats stay down here in the basement room. Can you hear them?”

I nodded. From behind the oak door I could hear a screeching din. Andrea cocked her head to one side and smiled. Stacks of chipped purple dishes stood beside the door, and I noticed two unopened cartons of cat food, the most expensive kind. That explained the rats. What cat in his right mind would hunt rats when he could get food like that without effort, I reflected. The creatures inside seemed to be aware of Andrea's presence. They began scratching at the door, and the mewing took on an unmistakably plaintive note.

“We won't disturb them now,” Andrea said. “You must be anxious to see the study and your room.”

She hesitated. We heard footsteps coming down the hall toward us. There was something decidedly sinister about the sound, I thought. The basement was full of echoes. Even as we spoke in normal voices I could hear the walls tossing back the sound with soft embellishments that made me uncomfortable. I peered into the darkness at the other end of the hall. I could barely see a dark figure moving toward the pool of light spilled from the single naked bulb.

It was the boy called Neil. He wore a pair of tight denim pants and a black sweat shirt. The heavy blond hair was like a lion's mane. When he saw me, he paused, obviously startled. For a moment he looked very young and vulnerable, about to retreat back into the shadows, and then his dark eyes grew flat and expressionless and he continued toward us with an exaggerated swagger. He carried a toolbox at his side. Andrea fluttered, delighted to see him.

“Here you are! The cats are freezing, Neil. This is Miss Lane, my new secretary. Neil's planning to go to Oxford.
Must
you wear your hair like that, child? I suppose it's a symbol. Everything's a symbol nowadays. Masculinity? Samson, you know—”

“Hello again,” I said quietly.

“How do you do,” he said. His voice was very polite and formal. He stared at me for a moment with expressionless eyes, then turned all his attention on Andrea.

“I've come about the heating unit,” he said.

“Of course. It's gone out again. The gas pilot, I suppose. Something's wrong with it. The poor angels have been shivering all morning. Neil's so handy with these things,” she told me. “I can't imagine why he wants to waste his time at Oxford. What we need is people who can
do
things. Everyone can read Latin nowadays, but no one can repair a stone wall or fix a leaky faucet—”

“I have the tools,” he said, interrupting her.

“Oh? Tools?”

“The heating unit,” he replied.

“Hurry along,” she said peevishly. “The cats are freezing, and you stand here making idle conversation.”

Neil stepped into the tower room, opening the door cautiously. I saw a swarm of furry creatures before he closed the door. Andrea led me to the stone staircase that wound up around the tower rooms. The steps were steep, and there was hardly enough room for one person to move between the outside wall and the wall of the room. It was damp and dark, and there was no railing. I could smell moss and lichen. When I touched the wall, it felt slimy. We reached a small landing, and Andrea opened the door to a room identical in size and shape to the one below.

“This is the study,” she said, leading me inside. “Here's where I write and compose my letters and get away from everyone. It's messy—I have forbidden Agnes and Betty to touch anything—but it's all mine.”

The room was perfectly round, surprisingly large, yet snug and intimate. The walls were plaster, painted a dull brown, with three narrow windows set high up, mere slits that would afford little light. An old sofa covered with worn orange velvet sat to one side, the springs sagging in the middle, its surface littered with newspapers and books, a brown cup and saucer perched precariously on one arm. A rolltop desk, incredibly cluttered, sat beneath one of the window slits, a tall lamp with a beaded shade standing beside it. There was a blue chair, a footstool to match, a plump tailor's dummy, a tarnished golden harp, and a table laden with priceless Dresden figurines. One could hardly take a step without stumbling over piles of books and magazines.

For all its disarray, the room had personality. I stepped over to the wall to examine a print that I was sure was an original Hogarth. A delicious smell of lavender pervaded the whole room, mixed with something I thought must be peat moss.

“Here they are,” Andrea said, picking up a stack of lined yellow tablets that sat on the desk beside an ancient typewriter. In the various compartments of the desk top were letters, news clippings, oil cans, glue, fountain pens, pill bottles, and a gorgeously bejeweled snuffbox. It might have been a Fabérgé. Andrea waved the tablets.

“My memoirs,” she said proudly. “They're going to shock the pants off the natives! So delightful! Such a lot of typing to do. You shall have your own hours. All I want is to see that the typing is done. Can you manage it in a week?”

“I'm certain of it,” I replied.

“A few hours during the day. I'm sure there are many other things you'll want to be doing, and I don't believe in sweatshop labor.”

“As a matter of fact, I
am
interested in exploring Hawkestown.”

“What ever for? It's a dreadful place, not an interesting person in the lot, and such abominable shops. The Tea Shoppe used to be rather nice until that awful woman was hired as hostess. Tottie? You can't convince me that anyone is actually named Tottie.”

I murmured some reply. The name on the cover of one of the books at my feet caused me to lose track of what Andrea was saying.

“My nephew actually
sees
her. Can you imagine anything so scandalous?”

“Derek?”

“No, no. He wouldn't pass the time of day with such a loathsome person. Alex.”

“Alex,” I said.

I picked the book up. It was called
Bloodstains on Bella
, and the author was Alexander Tanner. On the back of the jacket there was a photograph of the man who had changed my flat tire the night before. He was wearing a tweed jacket, a pipe in his hand, his hair windblown. There was a wry grin on his wide mouth, as though he considered the whole bit a marvelous lark.

I knew now why his name had sounded familiar. He was the author of innumerable popular thrillers, and Delia had devoured them by the dozen. Copies of his books had littered the flat, and though I had never read one of them, I had listened to Delia babble excitedly about them all. He was her favorite author, the only one she read regularly.

“He wrote that dreadful thing,” Andrea informed me. “Such garbage! A homicidal maniac who butchers men every time there's a full moon! Perfectly disgraceful!”

“Alex Tanner is your nephew?”

“Haven't you been listening to me, dear? I just told you—”

What a coincidence, I said to myself.

“Every time one of them is published, he sends half a dozen copies to Blackcrest. I know he does it just to aggravate me! As if I could ever bring myself to read such—well, occasionally, just to see what horrors he can imagine. Alex and I do
not
get along, not at all. And now that he's taken up with this Tottie—”

“Tottie?”

“The tea hostess.”

“Oh.”

“Derek can't stand him! Every time Alex comes to Blackcrest, there's a quarrel. Jessie adores him, of course. He dedicated one of his books to her. Every time he comes, she cooks the most divine meals. He actually tried to lure her to his cottage—”

“Jessie?” I said, horrified.

“To cook for him. Tried to steal her right out from under my nose. Shocking conduct.”

“I should say so.”

“He's just like his mother—irresponsible, flip, irreverent. He drives around in that shocking red car and thumbs his nose at everyone. And writing those books—”

I studied the photograph. There was a strong family resemblance between Alex Tanner and his cousin Derek. Each had the wide mouth, the twisted nose, the dark eyes and unruly hair, but whereas Derek Hawke was hard, angular, stern, Alex Tanner appeared loose and relaxed, wry and good-natured. Derek Hawke's hair was jet black, and I remembered his cousin's as being a rich brown. Hawke's eyes were piercing, while Alex's were friendly and warm; yet the fact that they both came from the same family pattern was quite evident.

I commented on this, and with typical verbosity and conversational excursions, Andrea Hawke explained the relationship. Her husband, Stephen Hawke, had a younger brother, Vincent, who was Derek's father, and a sister, Marcia, who married a ne'er-do-well named Tanner and gave birth to Alex. The Tanners were family outcasts, spending most of their time in Nice and Cannes and squandering money outrageously. Their son had every one of their bad qualities, plus some of his own. His parents were dead now, but he managed to carry on in the grand tradition,
i.e
., scandalously. Derek came to Blackcrest when his parents died, and he was going to inherit everything.

“But isn't that unfair to Alex?” I inquired.

“Unfair? That that scoundrel should get a penny from me! He laughs at Blackcrest. That young wastrel shall reap exactly what he's sown!”

“Which should be quite a sum,” I remarked. “I would imagine the royalties on his books are staggering.”

“Shocking,” she said, shaking her head, “quite shocking. But we mustn't waste time talking about him. I'll show you your room now.”

We went up the dark, twisting staircase again. I almost slipped on one of the stairs, but Andrea ran blithely up them, chattering about the room we were to see. I was rather dubious about it after seeing the one we had just left, but I was pleasantly surprised. The walls were painted a light blue, and there was a worn dark blue carpet on the floor. The bed had an enormous headboard of carved black wood and a counterpane of burnt orange satin. There was an overstuffed chair, a dressing table and mirror, a large carved black wardrobe. A vase of vivid orange marigolds sat on the dresser.

“It's delightful,” I said. “There's an extra door—”

Andrea opened it and pointed down a long hallway which she told me was the west wing of the house. This bedroom was the only tower room to connect with the rest of Blackcrest, and I could come and go in the house without going up and down the spooky staircase every time I wanted to go somewhere.

“You won't be afraid, will you?” she asked.

“Afraid? Why should I be?”

“It's so isolated—away from everyone else. The tower, the staircase, the basement and cellars—all so”—she searched for the proper word—“so … scary.”

“Not at all. I'll adore the privacy.”

“There are noises, of course. The wind, you know. It blows through the cracks in the outside wall and makes it sound as though someone were creeping up the stairs. I
could
give you another room.”

“I wouldn't think of it.”

“Betty has agreed to do your room every morning. You'll dine with us, of course.”

“Uh—not tonight,” I replied hastily. “I have an appointment. An old friend is meeting me in Hawkestown.” I did not intend to tell Andrea Hawke that I had a dinner engagement with her disgraceful nephew.

“That's fine, dear. Now …”

We discussed the work, and I agreed to start on the memoirs after lunch. At my request, Betty brought a tray to my room. Morris brought my suitcase to the tower. I gave him my car keys so that the car could be moved to the garage in back of the house. After lunch I changed into sweater and slacks and joined Andrea in the study. I had some difficulty in reading her handwriting, but after a while I was able to decipher it. By five o'clock I had typed the whole first chapter, and Andrea was delighted as she read her words neatly typed on bond paper, clipped into a black cardboard cover. She left the room, and I spent the next fifteen minutes tidying the desk and setting things up for tomorrow's work session.