Jamintha (27 page)

Calmer now, my heart beating normally, I moved quickly over to the door and knocked lightly. I could hear someone stirring inside, the crisp rustle of material. Relieved, I waited, eager to be out of the dark hallway, eager to hear the rest of her story. The rustling noise continued, but no fan of light appeared beneath the door, no footsteps sounded. I knocked again, louder this time. Perhaps she hadn't heard the first knock.

One minute passed, then two. She did not open the door, and I knew she must have heard my knock. My flesh was suddenly cold and clammy. I felt a tingling sensation along my spine. I knew, I
knew
, even before I turned that doorknob and stepped into the room.

It was flooded with bright silver-blue moonlight. One of the windows was wide open, the draperies flapping in the wind, billowing out, falling back, rustling. I called her name softly, but I knew she wouldn't answer my call. I
knew
. I could feel the malevolence, an atmosphere so thick and real it was almost overwhelming. It seemed to seep from the woodwork and hang in the air like an invisible pall. The room itself breathed evil, retained the impressions of what had happened here. What I had felt earlier, those nervous fancies, were as nothing compared to the sheer, stark horror that gripped me as I stood in the middle of that room.

Hands trembling, I re-lighted the lamp. The room was neat and tidy. The bed was made up, satin counterpane gleaming smooth. There was a slapping, sucking noise as the long draperies flapped in the wind. The air was as cold as icy water, but I hardly noticed it. I was looking at the small mahogany table with the marble top. A bottle of ink rested on the table, an old-fashioned quill pen in an onyx holder, a piece of pale blue paper with three words scribbled over it:

Charles, Forgive me
.

The door of the storage closet wasn't securely closed. It hung open perhaps two inches. I touched the doorknob with frozen fingers. The door swung open, creaking loudly. I raised the lamp. She was wearing the same purple dress she had worn this morning. A stool had been turned over on the floor directly beneath her feet. Looking up, I saw the strong black cord fastened to a rafter. I saw her head hanging limply to one side, her face almost as purple as the dress, her eyes wide open, her tongue hanging out. The body dangled in space, swinging back and forth. As my screams filled the air, I don't think I even realized they came from my own throat.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Far, far away I could hear voices. They were strangely distorted, diffused. Heavy, solemn, muffled through gauze, Charles Danver spoke. “Yes, she discovered the body, Constable. Great shock. Went to pieces. I carried her back here to her room and sent for Doctor Green immediately.”

“Dreadful thing, dreadful,” the constable replied.

“Will you need a statement from my niece?”

“Not necessary. It was suicide, no question about it. That note—”

“I feel terrible about this.”

“Understandable. The woman was obviously deranged.”

“She'd been acting—peculiar for quite some time, but I never expected anything like—”

Something terrible had happened. What? It didn't matter. It surely wasn't important. The clouds drifted, and I sank deep into their billowing substance. Something ugly was trying to tear the clouds from under me and send me hurtling into the abyss. I tensed. I moaned. A hand stroked my forehead. I could see Susie's face suspended above me, and then it was gone and I was floating again.

“How is she?” It was Brence.

“She's still under.” Her voice was sharp. “I may as well tell you, Master Brence—Johnny wants me to leave this place. He doesn't like me being here, not one bit. Far too many things've been happening. Cook's already gone, bag and baggage. Left first thing this morning—”

“You're going, too?”

“And leave Miss Jane in this condition? I should say not! As soon as she gets well, maybe, but not until. I told Johnny so. He says—well, I needn't tell you what he says.”

“I want you to watch over her, Susie. I've got to go to the mill today. It's absolutely necessary. I probably won't be back until late.”

“And Mister Charles?”

“He's in the village, making—arrangements. Will she be all right? What did Green say?”

“He gave her a healthy dose of laudanum. She slept all night. She'll probably sleep the rest of the morning. There's no need for you to hang about here, Master Brence.”

“You're a good girl, Susie. I intend to see that you're rewarded for this.”

The voices faded. The clouds began to evaporate. I groaned. I opened my eyes. I was in my bed. The room was filled with bright sunshine, but everything was distorted, seen through the mist. The tall white wardrobe seemed to expand, growing fat and rubbery, and the large green chair melted. The carpet undulated like waves. My cheeks were hot. My hair was damp with perspiration. Curiously objective, I watched the walls billow like the walls of a tent, and somewhere deep inside of me a calm voice informed me that it was all right, it was the laudanum wearing off.
Laudanum is a polite name for opium, Jane. Remember Coleridge and “Kubla Khan,” De Quincey and his bizarre visions
.

“You're awake,” Susie said.

“Yes.”

“How do you feel?”

“I'm still a bit foggy.”

“I've brought some soup. I made it myself. Cook left. She won't be back.”

“Leave it, Susie.”

“Now I want you to eat it, Miss Jane. You need it. I'm going to sit right here until you've eaten every bite.”

I ate the soup. I had a curious sensation that I was underwater, that Susie and I were on the bottom of a clear, crystal pool, and I thought it strange that I could be eating the soup, that we could both be here down below surrounded by clear rippling waves and not be wet. I set the bowl aside and frowned. I spoke, but my voice sounded distant.

“She killed herself—”

“Try not to think of it, Miss Jane.”

“But she didn't, you see. Not really.”

“That drug hasn't worn off yet. You'd better try to sleep.”

“That's what he wanted people to believe.
He
did it—”

“Now, Miss Jane—”

“I
knew
it. I knew it before I opened that door—”

Gentle hands pushed me back onto the mattress. A soft palm brushed a damp lock from my forehead. I closed my eyes, hoping to find the soft pink comfort, the light golden glow, but there was only blackness. I could feel the heat withdrawing from my body. I grew cold. Susie was gone now, and I was getting out of bed, hunting for the key, finding it beneath a stack of linen handkerchiefs … I slept heavily, deeply, and when I opened my eyes it was late afternoon. I was very, very tired. I closed my eyes again, my lids heavy, shutting out the light.

“Jane?”

Her voice was soft, dream-like.

“You've come,” I whispered.

“There was no time to write another letter.”

“Jamintha, he—”

“I know. He came to see me this afternoon. He was upset. I gave him brandy. He drank far too much. He said he was in love with me. He said he had to kill her. She was going to tell you about that night—”

“He told you?”

“The brandy hit him hard. He finally passed out. I left him sprawled out there on the sofa.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Jane—the necklace. He told me about—”

“I don't remember. I
can't
remember—”

“You must.”

“Please don't go away. Don't leave me.”

“You must remember, Jane.”

“Jamintha—”

Light streamed through the window. The furniture cast long black shadows. I sat up in bed, completely awake now. My head was perfectly clear, and there was a hard core of calm inside. It was an icy calm, resolute. I got out of bed and dressed. I sat at the mirror and began to braid my hair. The eyes that stared back at me in the mirror were perfectly level. My face was composed. It had happened during my sleep.

I remembered everything.

I was in her sitting room, waiting for her to come back. I was upset, because I had heard her arguing with Uncle Charles. Neither of them had been aware that I was sitting in the vast armchair in the drawing room when they came in, shouting at each other. I waited now, huddled in the corner of the lemon velvet sofa. I wanted her to read a story to me. I wanted her to tell me everything would be all right. I could hear her footsteps in the hall. She stopped. There were other, heavier footsteps.

“He told you to leave, Charles. He wants you gone by morning. Don't you think you'd better start packing?”

“I'll leave, Jeanne, but I intend to take something with me.”

“What?”

“The necklace. George can have the house. He can have the mill. But I want the necklace.”

“What are you talking about? What necklace—”

“The one you were wearing at dinner tonight. I know all about it.”

“How could you—”

“I couldn't sleep the other night. I picked up a book from George's study.
The de Soissons
. Very interesting, particularly the chapter about Jacques and his flight to England. Tonight, when I saw that necklace around your lovely throat—”

“You think I'd let you have it? You're insane! It belongs to me. It's been in my family for—”

“You're going to give it to me, Jeanne.”

“Why should I? You're stark raving mad—”

“I intend to have it.”

“Get out of my way, Charles. Get out of this house.”

She came hurriedly into the room. She slammed the door behind her and locked it. Her cheeks were flushed a blazing pink, and she looked afraid. I started crying. She held me tightly in her arms and rocked me, and I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew I was in my own bedroom with the gaily striped wallpaper. The dolls were sitting helter-skelter on top of the bureau. I sat up, rubbing my knuckles over sleepy eyes. A lamp was burning. My mother had come into the room. I smiled at her, and then I saw that her face was drawn and pale. She was crying. She had a handful of stars, glittering stars, sparkling bright with all the colors of the rainbow.

“They're fighting—Charles will kill him! He has a gun! Jane, you must take this necklace. You must hide it. Quickly, quickly!”

She thrust the stars into my hands. She was frantic. She rushed out of the room. I tumbled out of bed and hurried across the floor, my long flannel nightgown dragging. She wasn't in the hall. She had vanished. I heard loud, angry voices coming from a distant room. I started to sob. I clutched the heavy glittering beads in my small hand. I couldn't understand what was happening. Mother … she wanted me to hide them. Uncle Charles wanted to steal them. I must hide them well so that he'd never be able to find them …

Calmly, so calm, I wound the braids into a tight coronet and fastened them with pins. Eleven years of amnesia had fallen away, a dark blank spot in my mind had been filled in, and I understood what had done it. When I opened that closet door, when I stared at the hideous sight in front of my eyes, the shock had jolted me, a wall had come tumbling down, and I remembered another hideous sight. The drug had held it in abeyance for a while, opium shrouding my mind with false, feverish serenity. The drug had worn off, but the memory remained.

Cool, objective, I knew that I should be hysterical. I should be weak, but I was strong, stronger than I had ever been before. I should be terrified, but there was no fear. There was no room for anything inside but this singleness of purpose. I would get the necklace. It would serve as proof. I would see to it that Charles Danver was punished, not just for one murder but for three.

Leaving my room, I moved unhurriedly down the back hall. The light was deepening as the sun went down, but there was no need for a lamp. I would have plenty of time to fetch it and return to my room before dark. The huge old wardrobe stood in the hall, almost blocking the passage. I squeezed past it, noting that the enormous doors were still wedged tight. Farther down the hall, Susie's door stood open, but the tiny room was empty. She was probably in the kitchen, I thought, moving on toward the backstairs.

There was a loud creak far behind me, as though someone had placed too much weight on one of the old floorboards. Startled, I turned around and swept the hall with my eyes. Something flickered. It seemed that my heart actually stopped beating for a second as I stared at that dense thickness of shadows. Was someone crouching there? Had someone been following me? Imagination, I decided, scolding myself. I had imagined it all. Still, the incident unnerved me and I felt a curious apprehension.

I found the kitchen empty, too. The deep red tiles gleamed darkly in the fading sunlight. The fireplace was a cavernous black hole. The copper pans shone dully. There was a heavy silence. “Susie,” I called, but there was no answer. Where could she have gone? Why would she have left without coming to my room and telling me? It wasn't like her. Standing in the middle of the room, I frowned, worried by her absence. There was probably some perfectly logical explanation, yet I was disturbed nevertheless. I had been so calm in my room, so resolute, and now … I heard another creak, from the backstairs this time. Someone hovered there, listening. “Susie,” I called again. The word echoed in the silence. No one was there. My nerves were on edge, causing me to imagine things.

I moved through the swinging wooden door. It made a soft swoosh as it swung back into place. I walked down the long, narrow corridor that led into the main hall. The staircase was already becoming the nest of darkness it had been the previous night when I had hesitated to come down it. The house was still, too still. Nothing stirred. Nothing moved. It might have been abandoned for years. The silence was heavy, pressing in on me, broken only by the sound of my breathing.